I am a violently handsome man. The three phrases I hear most in my day-to-day life are "Hey, put that down", "The authorities have been alerted" and "Jeepers creepers but you are a fine looking gentleman and no mistake". It's a living hell.
You would think that being uniquely, tremendously gorgeous with a fanny pack stuffed full of currency and a wicked fast sports car would make me happy. But it doesn't. I am trapped. Trapped in a fleshy cage of my own loveliness.
It started when I was born. The doctor refused to slap my perfect form and, in a panic, punched my mother instead. I failed to take a breath for several minutes leading to a mild brain aberration and, subsequently, the article you now see before you.
School was hell for me. By the age of seven I distinctly resembled a combination of a Bros twin and a young Lewis Collins. Rather than educating, teachers would just stare upon me with awe. To this day I'm not entirely sure of World War II's outcome and I need help boiling an egg. By the age of nine I was being romantically connected in certain tabloids with the actress Diana Dors.
Eventually I was asked to leave. Each morning, my arrival in the playground replicated the opening scenes of A Hard Day's Night and it was becoming a distraction. Again, the delightfulness of my face and body had been my undoing.
Despite this lack of education and my inability to recognise basic shapes and forms, employment wasn't a problem. I walked into the Job Centre, there was a faint gasp of appreciation and I was told there were only two roles suitable for a man with my physical attributes. Rock star or astronaut. There was the torture. I had little interest in either of these fields. I felt like weeping, but that would have only made me look more handsome and vulnerable.
Eventually, I was recruited into a top secret government programme where I was required to date various Miss Worlds. The reasons for this research were never revealed to me. Sometimes I had to look at the sash just to remind me of which woman I was with. What kind of life is that? It was exhausting.
And I've never been a bridesmaid.
Now I am paid to enter rooms and gaze manfully into the middle-distance. I do this at a wide number of events and council mandated functions. I recently did it at Mark Owen's house. Despite the enormous quantities I am paid to perform this, money gives me no joy. I've recently demanded to be paid in speedboats instead. This has made me feel slightly better.
Yesterday I was mistaken for Ryan Gosling and Denzel Washington in the same branch of Gregg's. And they refused payment for the meat slice. Simply because of my devilish good looks and overwhelming attractiveness. And it's not just Gregg's. This happens in Homebase, Timpson's, Ladbrokes. Everywhere.
The plight of the exceedingly wonderful is often overlooked, even negated. Do you think it's easy being Nick Kamen? No it isn't, it is very hard indeed. Many of us are forced to move to France and marry lusty Gallic charmers. It's the only way out.
So yes, if you see me, feel free to gaze upon me with wonder. That is my gift to the world. But remember there is a human connected to this magnificent set of teeth and thrilling hair. A very, very good looking human being.
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