London, Chris Moyles and Christmas

I know this post will be hated by those (many) of you who hate Chris Moyles but anyway.. here’s what happened.

Richy and I spent two days in Central London combining Christmas shopping with a very good hotel deal. In the pub, after a fab meal at Busaba Eathai, I randomly commented that it would be funny if Chris Moyles came in for a drink.

“Why?” asked Richy.
“Cos I’d say hello,” I said.
“Why?” asked Richy.
“Well, he seems that sort of guy. You know, chatty, cheerful, man of the people?”
“You’re mad,” said Richy. “He’d just tell you to fuck off and leave him alone.”
“No way!” I said, “Not Moylesy.”
“Course he would,” said Richy. “Why would he want to be bothered by you?”
“Well if he comes in, we’ll see.”

The following afternoon, we were battling along Regent Street, in the sleet, with a billion or so other last minute shoppers, when Richy, who was ahead of me, made a bizarre, jabby gesture to the left.

“What?’ I said, catching up with him.
“Chris Moyles,” he said.
“Whaddayamean Chris Moyles????”
“Chris Moyles just walked past.”
“NO WAY! Quick, let’s find him. I can ask him if he’d have told me to fuck off in the pub.”

I turned back and looked down Regent Street. A sea of people.  About a million people looked like Chris Moyles from the back. Man of the people and all that.

“Nah, we ain’t gonna find him,” I said, disappointed.  “Next time you see him, let me know a bit sooner.”
“Ok,” said Richy.

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