Okay, so every once in a while I get mistaken for John McEnroe. I have to admit that we do resemble each other in a strange sort of way, and I am tempted to dress as him for Hallowe'en, complete with the head band and white shorts. Anyway, as Linus and I ordered our drinks here at the Wayside, a group of about half a dozen middle-aged Scotsmen were seated across the bar. One exclaimed "It's Jimmy Connors!" His buddy immediately corrected him and said "No, it's McEnroe!" This time I thought I would play along, and once they heard me sheepishly admit "Yes, I'm John McEnroe" in my accent, they started to stand up and get all excited, wanting to shake hands. Linus was silently nose laughing, once again finding humour in this bizarre case of mistaken identity that plagues me from time to time. For a brief moment I considered introducing Linus as Tatum O'Neal's son, or Daniel Radcliffe (he is often told he looks like Harry Potter). Once my fans at the bar started asking me for my autograph, I decided to stop the charade and said "If I sign, you'll know I'm not him, as he was left handed and I am not." The guy at the end then said something like "He played tennis with his left so he could keep his right hand free for this!" and started to mimic masturbating with his right hand. The bartender told him to stop, but that only seemed to encourage him, because he did it again even more emphatically.
The pub itself was okay. It was poker night, and the Olympics were on the telly. There were no cask ales on tap, so we had a
Belhaven Best and a
Tennents.
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