October 20, 2008 | Leave a comment I could have been a writer, a fighter, a go-on-all-nighter, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. I could have been a genius, a "do you think he’s seen us?", a known face, a leading light in the space race, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. I would still be married, all my sex would be unhurried, I’d still have my cat, I wouldn’t be so fat, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. My plans would have become reality, my path would not be insanity, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. I would have been good at maths, I would have made far less gaffs, I’d be admired, and liked and people would laugh like their drinks were spiked, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. My hair would be thicker, my thoughts would be quicker, I’d have a full-on tango-man perma-tan, but my mother never gave me a hug when I was a boy. Share on Facebook