Today is lazy day. Today is pyjamas, biscuits and Tumblr'ing day. Today is also watching music channels today. And up pops, in quick succession, Bruno Mars and Paolo Nutini.
Bruno Mars was yeah, amazing song, adorable sentiments, mild melting.
Paolo comes up and like every time I hear his voice I MELT FASTER THAN PRINCE PONDICHERRY'S CASTLE.
Which brings me to The List, an occasional serial in which I drool over fit men who I would sleep with even if they killed a puppy.
As long as it wasn't my puppy.
He has a voice like a God, a face like an angel, and there's basically nothing about him that isn't sex. Except possibly his secret addiction to horse porn or penchant for legwarmers. NOTHING I KNOW ABOUT, ANYWAY. Instead of following up a hit album with more of the same, Paolo makes an album of unintelligible old-man-of-the-woods music, and even though with anyone else we'd be having a WTF moment, with Paolo it does not matter. Anything that comes out of his mouth is sex. Even Ron-style slug vomit.
And on that pleasant note, I leave you. In fact, no, I leave you with this.