"Hang on... OK it's a woman. Phew! For one second I thought that was an old man with a pony... Oh my god, it is! It's a dude! ... Jesus Christ that's revolting..."
"Shit, he's coming this way! He's coming, he's coming, he's coming! ... Oh my god, what if it touches me?! ..."
"OK, he's gone... And I think I've just been sick in my mouth."
Because there's just no point in trying to keep it a secret. OK, you can probably hide the fact that you're a really amazing guitarist for the first couple of dates, but then what?
There she is, in a relationship with some bloke who she thinks is just a nice, ordinary, average guy then BANG -- six months down the line she finds out that, actually, he can play the solo from 'Free Bird' without even looking down at his fingers.
That's just not fair.
I'm happy to exchange small talk with my doctor. Really not a problem. It's just, if it's all the same to him, I'd rather do it when I had my pants on, when there wasn't a spotlight burning onto my nutsack, and when he's very much not firmly rubbing my testicles between his thumb and forefinger.
Because to be honest, there's just something about trying to describe Nicholas Lyndhurst while another man cradles your balls that feels quite weird.
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