I'd thrown him in at the deep end, his stupid malevolent smile beaming, like a buck toothed-ginger cat, the thought of the little auburn bastard made my skin crawl, he knew nothing of my world and should my explicit instruction to News International have been followed he would still be sat at home, sat alone with four cans of weak lager and a press pass to the local charity white collar boxing event. (Rhinestone Ricky "The Fist" McAdam pitted against Pucker Luck Kamaran; two overweight 40 year old gentlemen, trapped within the confines of an incredibly dull and conservative suburban life wherein they resigned from what little happiness they could find in order to sit watching Channel Four documentaries on aircraft crashes and occasionally speak to their ageing increasingly unattractive wife.)  Alas, that's photographers for you.

I dont feel the need to express my discontent towards the art anymore than I already have; but you've joined me and my plucky accomplice at what would seem to be an ordinary event, surrounded by two-bit record executives and suited higher-ups; I'd been sent here to cover the release of an album, the name of which escapes my mind but I'm sure I can find this out at a later date;