How's it going Sam?
I can’t complain, really. I thought I’d developed a touch of psoriasis across the vast expanse of my inner thighs, but I was actually developing and marking new tactical innovations with my trusty red biro as I slept. Not even being in a naturally recurring state characterized by reduced or absent consciousness, relatively suspended sensory activity, and inactivity of nearly all voluntary muscles can stop Big Sam.
Any style tips for Esquire readers?
Yes. If you leave the house wearing espadrilles, three-quarter length trousers and no socks, then you deserve every last thrash of violence that comes your way.
What music do you think we should be listening to?
The debut album by Scottish band Chvrches is a delight. I’ve had it in my tape-deck all week. I’ve also been rediscovering some of my favourite hip-hop artists such as The Pharcyde, Snow and Stakka Bo. Big Sam opens up the veins of curiosity, and injects with the very syringe of musical eclecticism.
Any book recommendations?
American Psycho is a bloody hoot. Really gave me the horn in certain parts, too.
Do I look like Barry f**king Norman?
Not really. Any romance in the air for you at the moment?
Big Sam is a happily married man, and has been for a very long time now. Such a long time. So very long.
Did you have a happy childhood?
I had a childhood, pal. That was enough. Look at Michael Jackson. He never had a bloody childhood and look what happened to him. He’s bloody dead. Buried with a face like Skeletor. Accusations dripping from him like gravy off a pie. I’m okay by comparison. I’m alive. I breathe. I am.
Who is the worst person you have ever met?
Either Steve Kean or Maxwell Caulfied. Just a right pair of bastards.
Who is your biggest hero?
Eh, hello? Where have you been? Sir Alex is part of me. He’s the sidecar to my Triumph. I’d kill every swan in Britain if he asked.
If you could go out for a pint with anyone, past or present, who would it be?
Got to be Gaddafi. I mean, he was an absolute rotter at times, but there’s no way a man that dresses like that wouldn’t be fun with a capital ‘F’. A night with Colonel G. A steak and kidney, a six pack of Punk IPA and down to Passing Clouds to dance the night away. Pure class.
…And if you could spend the night with any lady?
There’s no point being coy about it; I’ve plunged my fingers into a vast array of celebrity pies. One I’ve never conquered, however, is Rantzen. Imagine Rantzen draped over my chaise lounge. Purring. Panting. Wanting.
What does the future hold for you?
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