Never wake your sleeping hero
because he’s probably dream-drooling over the hottie he’s with in Gala, coconut oiling her bum cheeks, and judging by his twitches it’s the explicit bit, which makes you want to hammer the glass window because it’s not your arse. But there’s a £1000 fine for misuse and that’s money better spent on getting out of this hellhole. Now what would it feel like to sit next to him, inhale his Yves Saint Laurent, twist your head a touch closer and sense the tailwind of his breath on your cheek? Would your mam loathe you or love you for this? Would she listen when you tell her he’s more chiseled than on the album covers, that his eyelashes are bloody dashing, that there’s dandruff on his collar or maybe it’s eczema due to the strain of being on tour, signing autographs, plucking his Gibson Les Paul? And so you splay your fingers gently on his, nestle against his shoulder, pretend to drift off to the clickety-clacks. Were he to wake up from the click of your selfies, what would you utter, what question would you ask to stand out from the others who say so, where do you get your inspiration from? And when he says what the! you find his voice is nothing like his singing voice and he has enclaves of eye goop.