Yes. I decided to do one of those tabloid headlines that will get you reading, but this is not a story about Will Young grappling in the ring so to speak, oh no, its two separate stories tantalisingly linked by the gift of the English language.
So... Last week, I was in a meeting in Manchester, and as my train pulled in I walked to the end to get on my carriage and Will Young jumps out. We briefly clock each other, him admiring my hair, me horrified at his awful bucket hat.
Remember this bit, I'll come back to it. This is indeed a sad "I saw a celeb" story, but not as sad as what I just wrote.
So this weekend, on Sunday, after the Arsenal, I agreed to meet up with Des and Mel, over from Ireland, who were celebrating their engagement. Also, Martin would be there, a quiet, quick witted, engaging and observationally astute chap who seems to know some amazing places to visit in London, like the flamencgo tapas bar he took us to at 3am just off oxford street one night I've never rediscoved, like it was some sort of beer mirage....
We all went to a little french place on the Essex Road. And Martin had us captivated, apparantley there is a restaurant in Clerkenwell where you are led through progressively darker rooms draped in thick black curtains to get you used to the darkness, until you come to a final room.... which is pitch black.
The waiters and waitresses are apparantley blind, and this restaurant is supposed to enhance the eating experience and your sensory perception (other than sight of course - durrr!) i.e smell, touch, taste, hearing (does food make noise? If alive I guess... or is it because there is a killer in the room who whispers something grim in your ear as you sneakily nick a spring roll from your neighbours plate?).
Anyhow, we discussed "What is the point?". Apparantley there is the middle class reason on sensory deprivation/enhancement, yeah yeah, but also its meant to be a good laugh. If I want to live as a Morlock I'd just sell my house and pitch up in a sewer trapping rats to be honest, not for me I'm afraid.
So, "What is the point?" - I don't know is the answer, I don't know if this place even exists. And I probably wouldn't go there as I'd be kicked out for bringing in a torch and shining it under my chin and screaming "woooooooooooaaaaaaaaarrrrrrghhhhhhh!!!" to make the other diners jump.
Des, being a pragmatic miserable Irishman was equally bemused by the concept, as was his fiance Mel, who is a french lady, not a miserable pragmatic irishman.
So anyway, then Martin mentioned that his old flatmate asked him whether he wanted to go "Mexican Wrestling" with him a couple of weeks before. I have to say it sounds brilliant. Not to compete, to watch. You get a discount if you go dressed as a superhero or something unusual and the place is full of tattoo's, piercings, burlesque dancers with swirly tassells on their nibs, PVC, glam and cyber-goths.
Is anyone up for an evening of Mexican mayhem? Get a group together.... a superhero group... yeah!
So anyway, after the French restaurant, we went to the theatre bar in Islington, another little London gem offered by Martin, a rythym and blues band were tuning up in the corner, it had a homely ambience and one of those old fashioned ornate mechanical tills. If I was an eccentric millionaire, I would buy one! The pub was full of all ages, old locals with rollies, young dapper 60's throwbacks, and a bunch of people there for the beer and music.
We perched ourselves near the fireplace to dry our wet clothes (for it was raining outside) and lo and behold... Will Young squeezes past me to get to the bar. He was wearing a trilby this time, much nicerer than the abomination he had on his head the week before. He clocked me again, and my hair, I clocked him, I nudged the other three who were visibly unimpressed, especially Des, and then we all went out separate ways after finishing our drinks.
And if I had a mexican superhero wrestler costume, it should have a gap for the head to allow my mane to flow when I'm gliding effortlessly through the streets to catch villains. Oh and a cape, I must have a cape, and boots. With knives that come out of the front. And a fake six pack.
That is all. I'm off to Grenada next week to put on a stone and a half. I've mentioned to Deb that if Will Young is in our hotel, then clearly our destinies are somehow entwined. She has been warned.... but she didnt seem that bothered about losing me to a pop star.
Adios from this Mexican Wrestler.
El Fatso Diablo, the Dashing Blade