I was apparently pretty jaded in 2002.
Feb 14th: You can tell it’s codding V-day because you can’t move on the tube for people thrusting their ostentatiously-brandished, prickly-stemmed, parasite-baiting, mass-marketed, hurriedly-chosen floral manifestations of vague affection into your nostrils like twelve scarlet, pollen-y reasons why they’re better than you.
To a person, they have the kind of slap-invitingly smug rictus worn only by people who need these overpriced, lacy-ribboned reassurances that their unfortunate partner isn’t going to start some squalid affair with the first sexually available cretin who has the ill-judged inclination to try and lure them away from their clingy paws . Please get your rapidly-wilting icon of coupledom out of my face before I sneeze all over your love.
Some might say that’s a tad bitter, of course, but I say to them, “You don’t fancy coming out for a drink tonight, do you?” But no, of course they have some “meal” to go to at a so-called “restaurant”. They’re not the ones curling up with cheap herbal tea and the “situations vacant” pages and a side of regret tonight, are they? Are they bogroll.
Flowers are, and you can stop your internal dialogue, a terrible gift. For two days they, let’s face it, attract flies and insincere enquiries about the sender, and then it’s petal-strewn decay city all over your carpet and knowingly -minimalist Ikea vase. You’re essentially looking at compost for a week. If someone loved me, I’d want them to prove it by giving me something much more desirable, like Audrey Tatou’s home phone number, say, or three bottles of expensive gin. I'd say how love is just this bourgeois concept but then it just looks like I'm opposing ideological oppression because I'm not getting laid.
Which is obviously not true. I mean...obviously.
Feb 14th: You can tell it’s codding V-day because you can’t move on the tube for people thrusting their ostentatiously-brandished, prickly-stemmed, parasite-baiting, mass-marketed, hurriedly-chosen floral manifestations of vague affection into your nostrils like twelve scarlet, pollen-y reasons why they’re better than you.
To a person, they have the kind of slap-invitingly smug rictus worn only by people who need these overpriced, lacy-ribboned reassurances that their unfortunate partner isn’t going to start some squalid affair with the first sexually available cretin who has the ill-judged inclination to try and lure them away from their clingy paws . Please get your rapidly-wilting icon of coupledom out of my face before I sneeze all over your love.
Some might say that’s a tad bitter, of course, but I say to them, “You don’t fancy coming out for a drink tonight, do you?” But no, of course they have some “meal” to go to at a so-called “restaurant”. They’re not the ones curling up with cheap herbal tea and the “situations vacant” pages and a side of regret tonight, are they? Are they bogroll.
Flowers are, and you can stop your internal dialogue, a terrible gift. For two days they, let’s face it, attract flies and insincere enquiries about the sender, and then it’s petal-strewn decay city all over your carpet and knowingly -minimalist Ikea vase. You’re essentially looking at compost for a week. If someone loved me, I’d want them to prove it by giving me something much more desirable, like Audrey Tatou’s home phone number, say, or three bottles of expensive gin. I'd say how love is just this bourgeois concept but then it just looks like I'm opposing ideological oppression because I'm not getting laid.
Which is obviously not true. I mean...obviously.
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