MAN who cannot believe his fucking luck Tom Booker, aged 34, finds himself going on a date with Margot Robbie. She’s a married celebrity and he’s a nobody. Will it work?
Tom on Margot Robbie
First impression
Fuck me, she looks amazingly like Margot Robbie. And I should know because I’ve studied her work extensively, particularly that specific scene from The Wolf of Wall Street. And she sounds like Margot Robbie. She’s telling me she is Margot Robbie? Fuck.
How was the conversation?
I did my best. However the life of a single man living in a two-bed apartment and working for the passport office doesn’t seem enthralling when compared to that of a Hollywood star, and she’s so ravishing I found it hard to speak. She ignored my slurred, guttural moans and kept the conversation going.
Memorable moments?
Mm, could it be our shared love of Bullet For My Valentine or the moment our spoons clinked together over the shared dessert… no, I think sitting opposite Margot fucking Robbie trumps all those.
Favourite thing about Margot Robbie?
You mean apart from her divine good looks, endearing smile, millions of pounds, movie career and goofy yet approachable personality? That at one point she touched my hand.
A capsule description?
A complete nobody spends a couple of hours gawking at this freakish oversight from the laws of the universe.
Was there a spark?
I have no idea. My senses left my body when she batted her eyelashes at me and said we should go Dutch. Was that a lustful come-on or a polite way of saying ‘in your fucking dreams, you fat wanker’?
What happened afterwards?
I popped to the nearest pub toilet, sank three doubles, splashed my face with tap water and said ‘no way that just fucking happened.’
What would you change about the evening?
I wish that everyone I have ever known was sitting on the table next to us, because there’s no fucking way they’re going to believe me. Even with the selfie.
Will you see each other again?
I will see her in the cinema but she won’t see me. Normality will be resumed.
Margot Robbie on Tom
First impression
This was clearly some sort of Make-A-Wish celebrity prom date bullshit, so I was planning 45 minutes politeness before getting the fuck out of there. Until I met the man of my dreams.
How was the conversation?
He must have been allergic to the prawn starter because his tongue swelled up. He powered through, bless him, and still managed to keep up compelling conversation. That’s when I fell for him.
Memorable moments?
The whole evening was a dizzying whirlwind of sparkling conversation, amorous glances, and electric flirtation. When he accidentally kicked my shin with his shoe under the table, I came a little.
Favourite thing about Tom?
He didn’t ask me a single fucking question about fucking Harley Quinn. Do you know how rare that is for me? I could have jumped him there and then.
A capsule description?
Hollywood star is bowled over by charming, handsome stranger who mysteriously vanishes into the night.
Was there a spark?
You could have powered the whole of Queensland with the sexual tension crackling between us. Or was it a one-way thing with me giving off all the vibes? I hope he fancied me too, but perhaps I’m kidding myself.
What happened afterwards?
Tragedy struck. I was whisked off to promote this terrible movie I’m in called Babylon and we were ripped asunder before we could exchange contact details. I spent the rest of the evening drifting up and down Soho searching and lamenting like a ghost bride.
What would you change about the evening?
That I could have at least got his surname so I could trace Tom down via social media. I’d already texted my husband saying ‘you’re chucked mate’. Now I have no option but to pretend that’s a joke and suffer my previous, miserable existence.
Will you see each other again?
Yes. If it takes me my whole life I will find him. He is my life now. My obsession. I cannot be happy until I am in his arms.
