Being 20 flying hours away sucks when you’re faced with this first thing in the morning (courtesy of AnneM on the forum):
Dearest gawd. Sex on legs. No question about it.
And he was only signing autographs for christsakes!
At a recent performance, one lucky Tobette was apparently sitting so close to the stage that she could have reached out and touched their (meaning Toby’s and Sam West’s), erm, rear.
I’d be happy to get within 1,000 miles of the theatre. Now I find out that he’s about to play a 16th Century philander. Bare-chested.
I think I need to lie down now.