I know, I know. I shouldn’t be giving interviews and I’m aware of it. But the bloke who approached me, Cole Moron or whatever his name is, had just published that great interview with Frank Lampard, one of my favourite soccer players.
So I guess I saw myself already in the Mail, wearing a spiffy suit and being portrayed as the billionaire bachelor.
And what do I get? This. Mind you, I even made the prat promise to let me have a look before publishing. And he did. Let me have a look, I mean. But when I said, forget it you’re not going to hit the presses with that, he had the nerve to tell me ‘Promise kept. You had your look, didn’t you?’ and went ahead anyway.
It was supposed to be a civilised conversation about the new season. It starts out all right, with the ‘Formula 1 supremo with nerves of steel’ bit. But it degenerates quickly after that. I should’ve known better. These journos are slick. It comes with the profession. I’m still not sure how we got there but after an innocent remark about Max (Yes I miss him. I miss Frank Sinatra too. Doesn’t mean his time isn’t over.) we’re right into Slavica, bless her soul, and money. Do I still love her? Yes, with all my heart. (Trust me, if I’d say anything else I’d be pushing up daisies before long.)
Did I give all my money to her? Another dodgeball. Yes of course I did. Long story short, I come out like a dork. And then, when you think you’ve had it all, of course he has to bring up Hitler again. Now what I don’t understand is how this can be news. I mean, I said sorry, didn’t I? What the bloke did was disgusting and unnecessary. How much clearer can I be? Except of course that he did build those nice straight roads for motoring enthousiasts. But he did upset a lot of people, and that ain’t right. Can I go now?
Bloody journos. Always out to get you. Unless you’re a soccer player in a suit.