Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Vic Reeves.
I was meeting my boss, as we were travelling to London together for a couple of meetings with clients. We're not rent boys, by the way. Just wanted to clear that up. Anyway, I met my boss at Sheffield station, and he was on the phone. After he'd finished speaking and bade me a good morning, he asked if I'd seen Vic Reeves, as he was apparently in the vicinity. I told him I had not, but did tell him that I'd been invited to a talk by that very self-same man the evening before with some friends - an invitation I'd had to turn down with thanks as I didn't want to be hungover to go to London for my meetings. Which, as I might already have pointed out, were with clients, but not that kind of clients - we're not rent boys or any kind of escorts/male prostitutes. No.

So, my boss decided to go into Marks and Spencer to purchase a middle-class breakfast of yoghurt with granola. I didn't want to stand in the queue with him, looking for all the world like some kind of yoghurt-eater, so went outside - whereupon I saw Mr Vic Reeves stood outside Marks and Spencer idly thumbing through what looked like The Telegraph.

Seizing my chance, I approached him and delightedly addressed him: "Mr Reeves! What a pleasure to meet you!" We shook hands, which is when I became aware of how large his grasp was. We then spoke a little about his comedy; I asked him if he and Mr Mortimer were ever going to make another comedy series, and he said 'what, Shooting Stars?'

I replied that I meant more like another series of Bang Bang, and he said that they'd dearly love to do one, but that the BBC were unwilling to commission one. I promised to write several stern letters (the phrase 'stern letters' seemed to delight him) to the BBC to aid his cause.

I then asked him if I could take a photo, and he was only too pleased - and pulled a silly face for it too. I bade him farewell and good luck, and he reminded me to write stern letters. And with that, he was gone.

Well, to the train, anyway. He was walking in front of us with his wife Nancy Sorrell, trying to find the correct platform. He found the train, and that was the last I saw of him. We went to London, and met our clients. We're not rent boys. I don't know if I'd mentioned that before.

So who else is up for a stern letter?
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Tue 13 Oct 2009, 14:30, 6 replies)

Are you a rent boy per chance?

( Laird Dave Draws Now charges to take off his clothes., Tue 13 Oct 2009, 15:31, closed)

Are you a male prostitute?
Just wondering.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 13 Oct 2009, 15:38, closed)

huh?
what the devil gives you that idea?

No. I'm not a rent boy, and neither is my boss.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Tue 13 Oct 2009, 15:40, closed)

Pfffft
and fnar. "Stern" letters and rent boys in the same story. Hurhur.
(porkylips looks better as the sun goes down., Tue 13 Oct 2009, 15:48, closed)

I just wrote a letter to Stern
My German's pretty dodgy though, and they probably don't have much influence over the BBC either.
(Vice Admiral Sir Charles Cockbrush KCB MBE DSO, who is finding it increasingly difficult to log into b3ta.com wants to duck your aunt and kick your puppy, Tue 13 Oct 2009, 16:27, closed)

Vic Reeves lives in the next town over
near to my supervisor. I'm quite impressed that he was so nice to you because when he ventures into town here people give him a wide berth since apparently he's a miserable fucker...
( Maladicta, Wed 14 Oct 2009, 16:58, closed)