I had this strange dream about Hugh MacLeod last night.  He was drunk, dressed like a frat boy and flinging his business cards out the window of a London cab at shivering homeless people while yelling things about bespoke.

He was sitting on the jump seat talking to the cabby and saying stuff like cor blimey mate, wouldn‘t mind getting a leg over on that dolly bird there in the mac and bloody wellies, not half, innit.

A group of chavs on the corner of Saville Row called him an iron.

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