2 years ago I put up Dan - then an impoverished minstrel - after he supported a rock band in London. I left Dan in my flat when I went to work the next day. When I returned, my dog was pregnant.
Quick work, right? I'm not suggesting Dan "interfered" with my dog. You see, even then, before Dan strode the world like a rock love god, he had a magical sexual power that could impregnate animals just by looking at them.
Dan said sorry tonight, again, about my dog. It was a long time ago. I'm over it. I can't speak for the dog, but she seems ok. I was surprised that Dan said my dog was now dead. I suppose it was what she would have wanted. Had she been asked.
There's no moral here. On the way out of the venue tonight, someone asked me what I'd done to Dan's dog. This is how rumours start. There's a chance that if this blog post isn't published, I may be thought of as someone who messed around with a rock star's dog. I didn't.
It's worth concluding with the fact that I don't have a dog. I never have done. Not even an imaginary one. But this long-running joke, or shaggy-dog story if you like, is in danger of ruining the reputation of either a kick-ass rock love god (Dan) or a mithering indie milksop (me).
"There are more questions than answers".
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