“Howard’s in love,” said Vince. “Again.”
“Who’s the lucky girl?” asked Naboo.
“Not a girl. Chris Martin from Coldplay. We met him on the street.”
“I’m not in love,” protested Howard. “It’s just… he has much to teach us. About stirring chord changes, for instance and how they solve global warming. Saving the earth for our children...”
“Your children? Howard, you tart. That was quick.”
“Vince, you don’t understand. Chris and I shared a moment. A joint melting of our ice caps...”
Vince looked like he might be in pain.
“Vince…what… have you something stuffed down there?”
Sometimes Vince wished skintight fashion and pockets were better suited. “Just Chris’s… autograph.”
“Chris gave you his autograph?” Howard was crestfallen. “Oh, of course. You don’t give autographs to your real friends, do you?”
“Sure,” said Vince. “It’s not like I write to you all day long, big love, Vince, xxx.”
“Exactly!” said Howard, reassured.
Anyway, thought Vince, perhaps ‘autograph’ had been an exaggeration.
“Your friend is nuts,” Chris had written. “I mean it. Keep him away or I’ll be too traumatized to record.”
“Yeah, I think Chris really liked you,” said Vince. “So. Want to go see him again tomorrow?”