The April issue of New Woman (purchased recently while in a mood for temporary aberration) informs us all that this season’s must-have accessory is a bloke best friend (BBF). This is splendid – for once in my life, not only am I in fashion but I’m quite sure I trump most of the fashionistas because I’ve actually anticipated this trend by two years.
What’s even better, of course, is that Russ is an extremely affordable and hassle-free BBF compared to what the article posits. I don’t need to keep buying him booze or suffer through endless conversations about the footie. I enjoy numerous perks such as company on marathon walks through London, Paris and Amsterdam (he also navigates), escort services to and from clubs complete with protection from dodgy men while within (it also helps that he tends to be the best dancer in the room and carries our bottle of water most of the time), lastly, much spoilage and indulgence but also brutal honesty when needed.
My point, and I do have one, is that BBFs are great, and I’ve got one of those classic ones that’ll be worth millions in years to come. A vintage Chanel, or Vivienne Westwood, if you will. (Russ proceeds to disown Michelle as best friend and sue for libel.) So rush out and get yours if you haven’t got one, girls, and you can only steal mine if you deserve him.
Elsewhere in frivolity, my pop tart of a boyfriend is better acquainted with Gareth’s and Will’s videos than I am. This is most vexing and I think a serious clarification of our respective roles in this relationship should be undertaken, pronto.
Other areas of concern are that he treats the proper cooking of a spatchcock as a matter of import on which worlds will begin and end. This perversion, at least, is mitigated by the dreadful joke he makes later involving the replacement of the “p” in “spatch” with an “n”, which reassures me that he is indeed base and vulgar the way a Real Man should be.