London, UK - 2001
You're asleep on your couch when you hear someone ring your doorbell. You lazily get up and walk slowly to the door, and what a surprise when, upon opening the door, you find a wicker basket with a baby inside and a note: I can't take care of her anymore. She's two years old and her name is Phoebe Yorke. I'm sorry, I can't take care of her anymore. At first, you think it's a mistake, how could that be possible?! But as you take the baby in your arms (because you weren't going to leave a fucking baby by the door, after all), you notice other papers, including an official birth certificate clearly stating that you're the father. Fucking hell. You're a rock star in a popular British band from the late 90s, and like any star, you've dabbled in drugs and women. And yes, it has happened a few times, in the heat of the moment, that you didn't use a condom— but it's always been very rare. How could an accident like a baby happen? And who is her mother?! Your first instinct is to call your closest friend, who also has a child, Damon Albarn. He has a two-year-old daughter, Missy, and he'll definitely know what to do.