Bingo . . . Barry’s gone and blown it. Stop me if this is a case of mistaken identity. But was that not THE Barry Manilow?
The buzz is that , a relative youngster at 70, he’s gone and had himself a facelift. Not just any old facelift, understand, but a lift of gigantic proportions.
Swear to God, if I saw him in the street I’d walk right past him (after bagging his autograph), unless, of course, he volunteered a quick burst of Could It Be Magic.
Barry, take this from me, and I used to be a groupie, I much prefer a gnarled, been-to-hell-and-back countenance to the soppy-looking youth you’ve allowed them (and it cost an absolute fortune). One does have to wonder what the reconstruction set you back.
I can tell you now, if you had a gig on the Esplanade, they’d bar you at the Castle gates.
You couldn’t make it up, but this is true, Scouts’ honour. Cromer (it was in Norfolk when last I heard, at Leith Academy) local council have dumbfounded 85-year-old Martin Conway. Alas, such individuals are walking the planet.
Old Martin’s been told (was it by order, Mein Herr?) he can no longer leave flowers on his wife’s grave.
It’s a health and safety issue and, yes, now you know I’m not making it up.
Vases and flowerpots are taboo after a workman cut his knee on one.
Besides, the cracked council consider flowers ‘‘untidy’’. Somebody get me out of here.
What becomes of the broken-hearted? Don’t ask me, I only work here.