"Be downstairs at the brewery at 10:30am. We're gonna get some photos of you."
This happens from time to time.
Photos of some kind of new beer, or a new shirt... "sure, see you there".
Low and behold, good buddy Tom Wilkinson had set up a photoshoot in the brewery, with myself alongside Ginger Taylor and Scotty Dubya. The artists behind Young Henrys.
"...you're gonna be featured in Virgin Magazine".
Haha. Amazing. Virgin Magazine. My brain flooded with jokes as if a dam had exploded. This was my first time in Virgin Magazine. Should I be nervous? Was this going to hurt? Was this the right magazine for me? And so on and so forth.
So the three of us sat there, talking shit having a couple of breakfast tinnies while Tom snapped away. From memory, I recall we swapped a series of fucked up jokes and I went on to explain that I'd recently replaced all of my coat-hangers (a remarkably uninteresting story). Although the reason for it was that the metal ones take up less space on the rail and mean I can hang more shirts in my wardrobe, So, slightly educational. And I've somehow told this story a second time... I'll never learn.
Next thing you know I'm coming home from a weekend of work in Melbourne. Tired. Bleary-eyed.
Flipping through the pages of Virgin Airline's in-flight magazine (aptly titled Voyeur).
Found it. Bloody found it. There we are. Page 102.
Smiling and joking around about coat-hangers and how to explain to our pals that Virgin Magazine isn't what it sounds like.