I was in the queue at WHSmith in the arrivals section of Heathrow when Peter Stringfellow walks past the entire queue and goes to the front to pay for a fucking tabloid newspaper. I was about third in the queue, and as he walked off and sensed people were looking at him in a 'oh, Mr Fucking Celebrity jumps the queue!' way, he looked at me and said something in justification about how he had a car waiting for him outside. It annoyed me a lot, I was killing time so I wasn't even in a rush, but it still bothered me that he didn't feel like he had to queue with the plebs. None of us in the queue were gonna take more than 30 seconds paying for our shit, so fuck knows why the ugly piss-haired sex pest thought his one item that he had the change for was more important than my one item that I had the change for. You're Peter Stringfellow, your driver will fucking wait for you.