Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A couple of my colleagues went to the Appy Awards, which was attended and hosted by a list of B Rated celebrities.
My favourite kind.
I had the option to attend, but never ended up going. And now am crying big crocodile tears, after hearing the host was none other than my dreamboat, Richard Hammond.
The second time I have come that close to meeting my Ultimate Fantasy Man. The 5'8 ft hamster that I think is adorable.
I would've talked to him, apparently, he was sitting one down from our table.
Nonetheless, the most disappointing thing of all was this:
"Peas, bad news."
"He had more coke in him than Bolivia."
Peas: Hammond? My Hammond? He wouldn't. He's a family man.
"He was sweating like a glazed ham."
Peas: Maybe he was just warm?
"His eyes were darting everywhere. He was higher than a giraffe's ass."
I don't know what I'm more sad about. Not meeting him for the SECOND time (I was meant to meet him - no really - in Cape Town two years ago), or the fact that he'd allegedly shnarfed something.
Deeply sad. And hoping that they are wrong.