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Sorry Jonathan's birthday meal, I'm afraid you no longer make the cut. With my newfound duties as one of his handpicked cultural curators, I simply can't take up precious space in Drake's internal mood board with trash like this. I have a responsibility to someone more important than Jonathan now, and I can guarantee that that person couldn't give six shits about Jonathan and his delicious cake. See those balloons with Jonathan's face on? Drake doesn't care about Jonathan's balloons or Jonathan's face. Jonathan's cake was very nice, but Drake's probably used better cakes as ashtrays. Why would Drake want to see what Jonathan did for his birthday? Drake doesn't know who Jonathan is. But now, thanks to our new Canadian friend, I can't afford to be so reckless. Two weeks ago, I would have happily shared either of these without a second thought. How could my drab, goes-out-maybe-twice-on-a-good-week existence possibly interest a man who's done it with Rihanna? The idea that Drake could feasibly scroll through to a blurry photo of me coming second at a pub's trivia night is terrifying. What I did know, however, was the paralyzing social-media stage fright that quickly sets in once you realize that you now have the power to expose your favorite rapper to your spectacularly unremarkable life.

I mean, it's probably because I have a hand in a Drake-centric club night, imaginatively called "Drake Night," and I'd tagged him in some of the photos from it, but we'll never know for sure. Or that the photos of my friends gawking drunk into the camera while swigging a Meantime Pale Ale told him something about the vacuous sense of self-loathing that comes from metropolitan hedonism? Could be.

How had I, a lowly peon, toiling away in London's media industry like an absolute wanker, with barely 500 followers to my name, so undeservedly received the 6 God's blessing? Did he think my #tbts were a nostalgic celebration of South London circa '91.