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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

We were in the pub last night, three of us sitting around a small table cramped by the wall, leaning slightly to the left in order to get a good view of the screen. The crowd noises of the match, it being an away game and being on foreign grounds, meant that it took some concentration to follow what was going on, as you were never distracted from your own chatter by the usual roar that means someone is near someone else’s goal mouth. One of us sat rapt with attention throughout the 90 minutes. The other two spent most of the second half talking about the glory days of university, the drinking, the skipping deadlines, the lack of appreciation of the privilege being handed to us. We all drank beers.

After the match, one of us got up and went to the toilet, leaving the other two sitting and talking absolute rot about nothing. For some reason, it was agreed between the two of us (one lady, one gentleman) that we would most certainly be quite happy to share a bed in the cuddling sense with David Tennant, as he had that certain something. One of us (also a gentleman) returned to the table, catching only the tail end of the conversation and eager to find out who it was that so lit our metaphorical loins on fire that we, a heterosexual lady and a heterosexual gentleman, could be on complete agreement about in the bedroom shenanigans department. David Tennant, we dribbled back.

Oh yeah, he responded, and nodded in quiet agreement.

We three of us nodded, and drank down our beer.

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