Marmite

With apologies to Daphne du Maurier. Also, apologies if my controversial satirical blog sounds more like Bridget Jones’s Diary these days. I mean, really, really sorry. I went off BJD when I read somewhere that Colin Firth’s character was based on TTK when he was Director of Public Prosecutions before he came out as Big Brother’s evil twin and Lord Alli’s favourite. That and Hugh Grant remoaning all the time. Enough to put you off your Weetabix. TTK is so loathsome that I’m finding political commentary increasingly nauseating. I need a break. Having said I was beginning to sound like BJD, what follows is not exactly a diary of problematic romances but a romanticised diary of problems. 

I loved Friends , the American TV comedy series about, well, friends. Each show had a memorable moment, like the one about Rachel losing her engagement ring, and the one about Chandler flirting in a bank’s ATM foyer. Inevitably, the phrase ‘the one about’ became synonymous with the show. Part of its charm was its relatability; the protagonists were always falling out with each other or having a larff at each other’s expense or hugging or crying or being plain stupid.

I don’t like people being rude and hurtful but sometimes it’s unintentional, and that takes the edge off their ‘sin’. I have to caveat my opening sentence because I’ve been known to put my foot in my mouth without thinking, often when trying to be witty or playful. In fact, ‘Riddles’ was my nickname (one of many) at school because of my propensity to try and say something funny about almost anything, and not because of a physical resemblance to the Batman character. If the latter were the case, then one of my friends should have been called ‘Penguin’. There I go again.