separated at birth?

So there I was in the fast check-out queue at my local M&S when the young chap on the till pauses from swiping the bar codes on my goods and tells me how much he enjoys the programme and asks whether I still get to watch my local rugby club what with all the filming and all that. Er… He catches the look of slight befuddlement on my face, mouths the word ‘Masterchef?’ in that questioning sort of way. Ah it dawns on me that he thinks I’m that great-looking chef John Torode from the very popular TV foodie programme. The talented slim one with lots of hair. Then instantly I realise he’s actually confusing me with the fat bald one. The greengrocer. What? Me a lookie-likey for Gregg Wallace? Jeez. I smiled the Gregg smile and thought seriously about replying that it’s almost impossible now to get to the rugby because that gaylord JT is such a coke fiend that we have to re-shoot every scene 25 times until we get his bit in the can. But I didn’t. I simply said  ‘of course’ and winked the Gregg wink at him and his attractive female colleague. I know, I know.

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