Last night was excrutiating. When I got in from work Hot Baby Roy and Wino Jo sat me down and told me to be honest about their rendition of the Anfield Rap.
Instead of a backing track they took turns at human beatbox while the other rapped. It was pants, they looked as awkward as any X-factor finalist and wore expressions of "please say this is shit to get me out of doing this".
I didn't want to be the bad guy who spoiled their dreams of being cool fly rappers who get the leotard girls. I also thought that maybe if I let them make dicks out of themselves it might make me look a bit cooler and then I could be sensitive and pull. In the end I had to tell them.
"Listen lads," I said. "I think you need more practise."
"But is it going to work?" Hot Baby Roy asked, he kept rolling his hands waiting for me to elaborate.
"No," I said after a while. "I don't think it will."
They looked crestfallen.
"You know you can both sing," I said. This is half true, Wino Jo can sing, Hot Baby Roy, while not being awful, is only tolerable for one song. "Why don't we get them a Kareoke game or something, then you can both croon at them."
Hot Baby Roy went up to his room and started smashing things. A single salty tear rang down Wino Jo's face and he licked it off and whispered:
"Salty," without looking at me.
