Here’s a confession I need to make: I read Cosmopolitan. And by read, I don’t mean browsing through the pictures in the dentist’s waiting room, and shaking my head with mild disapproval. No, I actually go out of my way to spend a precious 2 pounds (or 3.50, depending on the gift) on an issue of Cosmo every single month. Embarassing, I know. I usually buy it along with New Statesman, just to save my face in front of the pretty guys working at WH Smith.
I had plenty of ideas for today’s post – but then I came back to London. As soon as I crossed UK’s border, I was reminded about the biggest news of the
month year decade, at least. No, it’s not Egypt, or Syria, or the Pope. It’s not even K-Stew cheating on R-Patz or Biebs pissing in a bucket anymore. What can be more important than that? You guessed. The Royal Baby.
Remember that time dad forgot your birthday? Or came to your school in a much too tight Led Zeppelin T-shirt? Or all the stupid stories about your childhood he loves to tell? Well, it seems like he deserves a really, really bad Father’s Day gift in return. But forget Winnie the Pooh necktie (he might decide to wear it!), World’s Worst Dad socks (ibid., with sandals) or even a Gillette, given with that meaningful look (spare yourself the horror of seeing it unpacked in the bathroom, and papa’s beard still unshaved.) Instead, get him one of these – and pay with his credit card. As a child of the recession, you don’t have your own money, do you?
Here’s Baz Luhrmann’s recipe for an epic blockbuster: take a literary classic, cut out the highbrow parts, stuff it with special effects, add a handful of glitter, stir it in the rhythm of whatever VIVA plays at the moment, and apply lots of dressing (designer, of course.) Killjoys in unfashionable glasses may complain, but audiences will devour your film like a pile of Nutella pancakes.