Chris Martin's meat dream

AND I think we both know this is the end.

Your eyes, previously so full of life and laughter, are now dull, defeated and sunken – the way I always imagined they might have looked inside Kevin Spacey’s box at the end of Se7en.

And you ask me, after all that we’ve been through, do I still believe in magic? Oh, yes I do! Because what else could explain your remarkable meat hat?

How, if magic did not exist, could two minutes ago your hair and head have been that of a normal woman’s, but now from nowhere a generous fistful of steak tartare has appeared there, topped with a raw egg whose yolk is all yellow, yes, like the stars.

I ask you how you’ve done this. Was it from LK Bennet or perhaps River Island? But you now seem more upset than ever, your mouth opens wide and you cry like your heart is slashed. But inside your mouth is an entire black pudding supper, every tear rolling down your cheek, a 8lb joint of gammon. What witchcraft is this?

I’m in a daze, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. The room spins, I hear ringing in my ears and everything seems so far away. I stagger to the door, lost, broken, severely anaemic.

I get on my Segway and ride ’til my knuckles bleed and I start to get seasick, all the way to my best friend Madonna’s house. She offers me a table upon which I can perform ashtanga yoda to soothe my aching soul. I take the snooker, she takes the fooseball. I ask her what a man’s to do. No doubt her words to me are wise, but though her lips move, I cannot hear her voice. She is doing the crab, exposing each of her fascinating chakras. But her seven centres of spiritual power have been replaced with huge beefburgers. Mesmerised, I look closer and see that someone, probably a health professional, has drawn big purple arrows pointing to them, each one is surrounded with exclamation marks like halos of pure chagrin.

And if you were to ask me, after all that we’ve been through.

Do I still believe in magic? Oh yes, yes I do.

Because I’ve been to B & Q. And I bought this barbecue.

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Sol Campbell autobiography to focus on his previous lives

SOL Campbell’s autobiography focuses on his experiences as a handmaiden to Queen Elizabeth I in a previous life. 

The book glosses over his time as Arsenal captain, his acrimonious departure from Spurs and his 73 England caps, choosing instead to give an in-depth insider’s account of life at the court of the Virgin Queen, where he served as a lady-in-waiting between 1559 and 1603.

Campbell writes: “I was a trusted gentlewoman of the privy chamber, and regularly advised the Queen on matters ranging from contemporary theatre to inter-religious conflict.

“Truly, the years I spent at court were the happiest of my lives.”

His recollection that Elizabeth enjoyed Monster Munch and Subbuteo is likely to prove controversial, though the former Portsmouth man insists that any of his historical claims can be verified simply by asking him.

Campbell records that he also enjoyed spells as a Roman centurion, a buccaneer on the high seas, and a gin smuggler in Prohibition-era Illinois.

The book is to be published by Random House after Campbell walked out on rival publishers Simon & Schuster because they lacked ambition.