So my dad’s friend sells old jukeboxes in england and he talked about how he had sold some to really shifty people, and one day he got a call from a client. She had asked for a jukebox but he said that the way she talked was just really suspicious and all hush hush kinda thing. So he heads over to install it and it’s a well guarded house and he gets sent in. He’s just setting it up and then his assistant says to him…“Do you know who’s house this is?” He said no, on the paper it only said Ramsay, G. She says “I think this is Gordon Ramsay’s house…Look at the walls.” Sure enough the walls were covered with his pictures, HE HADN’T EVEN REALIZED WHO’S HOUSE! They continue to install it and then it friggin breaks. At the exact moment he heard the woman (Gordon’s wife) yell “He’s home!”
Well, can you imagine having to install Gordon’s birthday present from his wife and then breaking it? I’ll tell you what Gordon did.
He invited my dad’s friend to a cup of tea and they chatted about things, Gordon didn’t swear at all. And he met his kids and all that good stuff and then my dad’s friend asked
When I was sixteen, I was a heroin addict, and when I was eighteen I went to a treatment center. And one of the exercises they get you to do in there-hopefully none of you get to find out for yourselves, but, one of the exercises they get you to do is they get you to write a love letter to your drug to show you how important it has become to you; to show you how fucked up it’s all become. I took mine and I wrote it into a song, and it’s called ‘Lover Dearest’.