‘Sometimes the hand goes missing in the glove’*

*…only to be found down Macauley Culkin’s trousers

*…only to be found down Macauley Culkin’s trousers

Our week started well enough at Twonkeys in London but ended in abject poverty.

MONDAY: Twonkey took Soho by storm, including a brand new song. And Mother Shipton is another Vickers classic that we hope will also make its debut on disc this summer. The song ends enigmatically with Twonkey’s latest piece of philosophy just hanging in the London air… ‘sometimes the hand goes missing in the glove’. Wow. What did it mean? It sounded both deep and mysterious and we knew we could use it to look smarter than we are. All week.

TUESDAY: Team Playboys find ourselves down the pub where everyone is spouting the latest theories on still-missing Malaysian Flight MH370. We’re finally asked if we can contribute our likely explanation. ‘Well’, we say, ‘sometimes the hand just goes missing in the glove.’ If the atmosphere could talk, it would have screamed ‘Fuck!‘ All our mates look at each other as if to say ‘Someone must share this theory with the Malaysian government. And quickly!’

WEDNESDAY: The Budget. George Osbourne’s Big Day. Team Playboys find ourselves shmoozing in a pub down Fleet Street with a bunch of pricks who all earn £80,000+ a year, but pretend they’re ‘street’ coz they support Crystal Palace and refuse to pay any child maintenance. ‘So’, one of them goes, ‘doesn’t cutting the tax on beer and bingo show true colours, vis-à-vis the  Tory condescension of the working classes?’ ‘Well’, we said, ‘We think that sometimes the hand goes missing in the glove’. Stunned silence. We think they’re still mulling it over.

THURSDAY: Down some ‘muso’ boozer for a CD release party for some talentless fucks. We get talking to some NME dickhead. He asks if Damon Albarn can pull off his solo record after ’25 years hiding behind a gang mentality?’ ‘Hmmm,’ we said. ‘It’s definitely a factor that, you know, sometimes the hand can go missing in the glove.’ The fucker looked at us like he’d never review another CD in his miserable life.

FRIDAY: We had to skip an hour’s drinking time to go down the DHSS office to sign on. We knew we had done bugger all to look for a job. And so did they. ‘So, Mr Hunchbacks, you haven’t applied for any jobs or done fuck all in the last month. How do you expect to finally find work, hmmm?’ ‘Well,’ we said, ‘Sometimes the hand…’ We stopped ourselves just in time and racked our brains through the Twonkey songbook for a better response. Ah! ‘I don’t like cakes. But I know someone that bakes. And maybe this baker boy could, um,… bake me a new job?’

The bitch stopped our money.

We went back down the pub.

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