Want to hear a true story about how Hannah and I fucked Madonna?

“Yeah, RIGHT!” you’re saying, “In your dreams, pal.” And, I don’t blame you one iota for doubting such a preposterous claim. I sometimes find it hard to believe myself. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve rolled over in bed, waking from a half-dream, and gazed deep into my pretty Californian wife’s blue blue eyes and she’s just smirked back ’cause she’s known what I’m going to ask before I even ask it. I guess I must just have this bemused “Did I really just win 6 million pounds on the lottery?” expression plastered over my face. “What is it, honey?” she’ll ask, humouring me as she playfully twists strands of silky red hair around her finger. (Hannah’s always playing with her hair – not in a nervous way, you understand. It’s just this cute little habit she has.) “Have you forgotten how to speak, is that it? Has your tongue run off to London to see the…

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