Alice Bell Mourning for Mark Darcy
If you haven't heard the spoiler for the new Bridget Jones book, read away now.
Everyone else, come and join me around a newly engraved gravestone for the charming, the gallant and utterly implausible Mark Darcy. Because he was, wasn't he? Implausible.
I mean, I've just come from a university full of junior Bridget Joneses, each one as much of an emotional screw-up as the last, myself included, and so far none of us have been introduced to any rich, handsome and, in a complete oxymoron to the first two points, truly decent suitors.
In fact, my old uni pal Vicky, having been in a self-satisfied relationship with a self-serving bounder for most of the degree, has now found herself suddenly single.
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So she is on the market again and, much like a house with a poor view and no mobile phone signal, she's desperate for buyers.
She, like me, works in the "entertainment" industry which, my granddad believes, is full of perverts. (Ironically, he's desperate for me to get a job with the BBC instead.)
I'm not sure about the perverts but there's no doubt that men with big egos generally have big appetites, particularly for women and occasionally other men, depending on their orientation or, in some cases, the day of the week.
Unfortunately, Vicky says even the office flirt has been scared off by her advances.
Apparently she's been prostrating herself at his feet for a month now and he just looks at her like a man trying to work out how to best stuff a Christmas turkey.
It's either a sad indictment on my friend or this bloke is a rubbish womaniser, because I don't know many Russell Brand types that would act like a Tibetan monk when there's fresh meat about.
Vicky says he's also just split up with his girlfriend, which makes her even more annoyed, as she compares him to a dehydrated man whinging about being thirsty when he's sitting in a pub.
Maybe so, but even a thirsty man might refuse a pint of beer if he doesn't like the taste.
Vicky and I work for separate companies but the other day she invited me on one of her office outings so I could meet this man.
He didn't seem like a rubbish womaniser.
The best way of describing him would be to compare him to Jaws.
He spent the evening circling women like a shark out for blood.
Every time he came near me I felt like the "Dun-dun! Dun-dun! Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-da-na-na" theme tune was about to play. It was like Jaws meets Love Actually. In fact, he made Bridget's Daniel Cleaver look like a complete pussy-cat.