It's around 1am on Saturday night and I'm behind the reception desk with one of the desk phones glued to my ear as a guest is exlaining how her whole weekend has been ruined because she didn't recieve fresh towels that day.
I mean.
Get a fucking grip.
Somewhere in the world children are dying.
I'm a very LUCKY MAN to be able to spend my Saturday nights in this fashion.
I have a pounding headache and I had popped some pills but THE DRUGS DON'T WORK.
As I listen to the diatribe my attention is caught by the painfully skinny guy in front of me with a mass of lank black hair hanging down over prominent cheekbones.
A big guy stands next to him.
Unfortunately not big sexy.
Just big.
Ignoring the phone that I am clearly holding he begins to talk.
''Do you have a pen so that Mr Ashcroft can sign an autograph for a fan?''
Without breaking my flow I apologise to the guest on the phone (again) and find a pen and pass it to the rock superstar standing before me.
He doesn't even look up.
He sign's an empty fag packet and hands the pen back.
He mumbles ''Thanks , man'' and heads back to the bar.
It was a BITTERSWEET moment only dulled by SYMPHONY of grievances being sung into my ear.
I know, I know, the puns are crap, but the story is true.
True! I tells Ya!
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