August 4, 2017 in Category Scarlett Life...

The Real Deal

“David Dickinson is sat behind you.”

“Shut up?! …Who’s David Dickinson?”

“The orange one from Dickinson’s Real Deal.”

-frantic Googling-

“Oh shit, so he is. Go ask him for his autograph.”

“Fuck off! …you go and ask.”

This back and forth carried on well into mine and Vik’s second bottle of prosecco of the night. It’s amazing how alcohol can turn a pretty mediocre celeb sighting into a quite the Thursday night event.

dickinsons real deal

Eventually, after a series of questionably subtle selfies and some drunk “DAT U DAVE?” tweets to the TV show’s account, the poor fella got up to leave. This was it, the last chance to get some sort of evidence that we did in fact bump shoulders with some guy my little Nan once said had a lovely head of hair on him.

Panic stations. I grabbed the Wetherspoons Spring/Summer magazine (which I have a few questions about, mainly, why does it exist?) and a pack of the free crayons they give to kids to shut them up and braced myself.

“Are you the… REAL DEAL?” I shouted at him, far too loud, just before he reached the door.

“Excuse me?”

“Errrr, haha – ahem. Dickinson’s real deal, are you?” 

“Oh… I HATE THE FELLA, he’s a crook you know.” – in the broadest scouse accent I’ve ever heard.

So it wasn’t him. Mortified. But that was the start of what turned out to be Lemony Snickett’s week of embarrassing events…

Until next time… x

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