I would travel back in time to visit the parents of the guy who wrote the script to the adverts on this very webpage, who has inadvertently made me type and retype what I’d do four times because the adware keeps breaking my browser and I’d say “Mr and Mrs Bastard; your child is going to one day do something awful. Make sure they avoid having any future career in IT”.
Actually, back in the day I was quite the gentleman (actually, I was effin’ clueless). I had a steady stream of eligible ladies in and out the door who I treated as my mates – some of whom are mates to this very day. Now one or two made very, very blatant passes at me and I was too dense to realise.
Only last week I realised that Susan McLaren (name changed) had something in mind when she invited me back to her place after an evening out with friends. I eventually ended up on another lasses’ sofa and everyone duly assumed – including the lovely Susan – that something had happened, when it hadn’t.
A year later, a very lovely Melanie Jones – whom I hadn’t seen in four years – walked up to me in the middle of a nightclub, pressed her phonenumber into my hand, kissed me on the cheek and asked me to call her as she was home from uni and wanted to “get together”.
Give me a TARDIS, I’d go back twenty years and kick myself up the arse.
