I know how Walter Wolfgang feels. I’ve also just had a few hours cooling my heels in custody after a little incident at a North London coffee shop.
I sat there dipping my Biscotti for twenty minutes minding my own business. I pretended not to notice the staff sniggering as they cued up Jamie Cullum, James Blunt, and Norah Jones.
But then they put The Scissor Sisters on and they all looked over to my table.
The Constabulary were called, but I knew they’d have to release me in the end. I don’t care how much it will cost them to replace their poxy windows. No proletarian jury would convict me and they couldn’t arrange to have the trial switched to Windsor or Hampstead.
I better get an apology or I’ll to write a bloody letter to The Guardian about this.