When he was young and impressionable he read in one of his many books about Eric Clapton that the lethargic racist axeman loved Chili Con Carne. Determined to ape his idol he pestered his mother one day in a pub until she stopped saying, "you won't like it, it's really hot." Sweaty and nearly in tears he persevered with the hot meaty bowl of his dreams and potential future. Exciting new worlds lay all around him, out there somewhere Worlds in which people stole each other's wives, scrabbled feverishly around on the floor hunting for lost grains of cocaine and played gigs in smokey low ceilinged clubs in a place called Soho.
She loved Die Hard, precisely, she loved Bruce Willis. The rest is self explanatory.
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