Okay, so I missed Mancandy Monday. I forgot, all right? Can't you forgive me, Bertha?
What do you mean, no-one could forgive the absence of Clive? Oh, okay. I see what you mean:
Check him out. Just check him. Look at his swirling massive eyeballs of lust, swirling you into doing things you shouldn't. He's the kind of man who persuades you into having it off in a Marks and Sparks changing room, and then runs off with your underwear. He's the kind of man who would have sex with his sister (Close My Eyes) or a lactating hooker (Shoot 'Em Up). He looks like he'd start every filthy story with: so, I was in the middle of a girl sandwich, when...
He's just that bad, and craggy, and horny. Oh, Clive. I didn't love you until Closer, but then I understood. You might not be smooth and perfect and rippling with muscles, but your gun metal voice and your eyes like pale pools that somehow smolder at the same time get me every time.