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Give Me a Rose Now

We’re going to be honest with you here, readers. When we conceived of this whole thing we had some near-great ideas.

“It’s inherently funny to treat such a vulgar cultural product with sincerity,” Joe said, as Obikwa crept out the corner of his mouth.

“I just want it to be cine-literate,” George replied, prostrate on the floor, well into his second bottle of Whale Point.

One thing we agreed upon was that our tone would be self-consciously Marxist. We had the young Hegelians in our sights.

After agonising for ~3 hours, we fired off what seemed at the time a brilliant email to our long-suffering editor. When our friends assured us that we had written something completely unintelligible (but succinct, they admitted) we settled back into our own filth and waited. Sam was obviously scraping the bottom of the barrel because we received a tentative “if you want” and we were away.

Unfortunately, our eyes were bigger than our stomachs. Ten minutes into the odious opening special, we were already regretting our decision. The enormity of our task began to dawn on us. We sobered up quickly.

Our silly narrative fiddling required the existence of a narrative, and Puru made it abundantly clear that plot would be hard to come by. “What are we going to do with this neoliberal filth?” sneered George, red-eyed the following day. “We could take a couple of those English teaching jobs in Nepal,” replied Joe, nursing a Gregg’s. But we’re nothing if not stubborn. And here we are with our first installment: “Loosely Inspired (by The Bachelor)”.

We like to imagine we’ll drift slowly and serenely away from The Bachelor, like a lily on a mill pond, but for now here’s what happened:

On Tuesday, Puru flew Art and someone down to Blenheim I guess, there was a group date at one of those trampoline nightmare places, and Art was double-bouncing everyone like a drunken uncle. One of the contestants was lucky enough not to get a rose and was returned to her family.

Wednesday showed us that Puru was fast running out of ideas (you’re not the only one Mike), as this time the gang simply went to the pool and watched a guffawing Art do clumsy bombs and splash about in the shallow end. It was a rare pleasure to see how underwhelmed Natalie was on her individual date aboard Michael Hill’s ridiculous yacht HMS Wealth.

“Did you ever think you’d get to go on a date on a super-yacht?” stammered our bumbling hero.

“The cogs in this hell-ship’s engine room are oiled with the blood of the workers,” declared comrade Natalia, revealing a refreshing commitment to socialism. “All property is theft.”

After poor Natalie’s excursion, another lucky contestant went home. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief as the credits rolled. Six days of sweet, sweet freedom until we have to do it all over again.

One thing we never expected The Bachelor to give us was transgressive post-modern poetry, but boy were we wrong! Because, dear readers, it emerged this week that Matilda is an exceptionally gifted lyricist. We have a bard in our midst!

After a clearly impatient Matilda was finally able to explain to Art the concept of a Haiku, she gave us this:

This tropical storm
Makes my heart go boom for you
Give me a rose now

“What?” George looked up from his cold Mi Goreng, grubby fork halfway to his mouth. Joe stood transfixed, fiddling absent-mindedly with the ratty cord of his dressing gown. We weren’t ready for this. If you’ll allow us a moment of honesty, we missed the rest of the episode as Joe scrambled about for a pen, and George put the kettle on. It was time for an exegesis!

We came up cold. It’s been a long time since Joe’s Merit in “Unfamiliar Texts” at Level 2. And even then Mrs Cumming and a series of tutors had to hold his hand all the way through. George had been silent for the better part of two hours and all he’d produced was a runny nose.

Maybe we’ll go better next week. We really are trying.


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