Last week, we made a throwaway joke about Lasse Lund, the man that users on X have dubbed “the White Indian,” and he called us “r******d” then sent us this photo of himself as a kid:
POV: You’re at any post-pub afterparty in Hackney 2014-2019, the borough now an interzone of chizzed-out box-T deep-house Essex boys and bewildered international students who came for the classes and stayed for the ketamine, gyrating in haunted rooms with the lights down and the curtains drawn and conversation as spasmodic as the “dancing.” The rapport’s down to crumbs that dissolve on your fingers and the sun is coming up as the traffic outside gets louder. Work started two hours ago. Do you answer your boss’s call and let the real world win? Or just one more round of “fuck, marry, kill”?
Russel Crowe knows how to deal with rabid vultures who swarm him for an autograph.
"Don't fucking push in on me. As soon as somebody's a dick, I'm gone. I'll come to you. Clear??"
After waking on Friday morning, I’d managed the rare achievement of going one full hour without checking my phone. When I eventually did, I was disturbed to find a message from my editor asking what I thought of “the new Drake.”