Andy G was broke.
Times were tough, he couldn’t pay the bills, he hadn’t been out for a beer in months, he simply couldn’t afford it.
He needed to get a job, but what job?
He didn’t really have any talents. He was terrible at DIY, he wasn’t good with computers. He wasn’t very physcial so manual labour was out of the question.
He certainly could speak a lot of shite tho.
That’s what he spent most of his time doing. He had hours upon hours of ridiculous debates with people about pointless things, like who would win in a fight, Han Solo or Indiana Jones.
He had countless stories to tell, he’d been on many drunken adventures, then it came to him, he could write a book!
Brilliant!
He’d write down all his stories, people would pay a fortune to hear about the incredibly stupid things he got up to.
He sat down at his computer and started writing some notes. But it was then the sense of self doubt set in.
He couldn’t write a book, that was stupid, what kind of a moron would read anything written written by Andy G?