When I gaze at my elusive beauty in the glass, I find it hard to imagine that there are as many Manny doppelgangers as there are: one in Keighley, breaking local lasses' hearts (I got slapped by one in a pub once), One in Eastern Europe, making 'thumbs up' gestures as other parts of his anatomy than his thumbs go up; and now a commuting gnome.  Perhaps God felt it was unfair for Yorkshire to hog me and made some spares.

I later realised that he couldn't be you when he not only crossed his legs but then wound the upper one under the other. There's no way that you could do that with your tackle in the way.

Obviously he was only your doppelgänger in terms of fizzog. Poor fucker.

Cheeky twat.  My celebrity mask sells by the ones.