A post valentines’ reading in Clerkenwell this week … an event full of live dumpings-by-text, songs of heartbreak and Dear John letters. Here’s mine …
We need to talk
dear John Cusack.
This relationship has crashed and burned. It’s dead in a ditch
dear John Malkovitch.
I’m not giving you another chance to blow
dear John Galliano.
Tell me why you’ve got two phones
dear John Paul Jones.
So I’m jealous. Jealousy’s not my fault, d’you hear
dear John Paul Gaultier?
The flower said ‘he loves me not’ when I picked off all the petals
dear John Nettles.
I’ve seen backs less hairy
dear John Terry
I’m bored of you. There are other boys I’d like to see, other blokes
dear John Noakes.
I’ve bundled up all your back issues of Classic and Sports Car and left them in a bin bag on the back step
dear Johnny Depp.
There’s absolutely nothing I can say to you now
dear John Cougar Mellencamp.
In every comic novel of the 1930s, there’s a stock flighty female character with red lips and long beads who leaves her husband before the ink is dry on the marriage certificate and she’s always known as The Bolter. That’s me
dear John Travolta.
That thing you do, that’s not okay
I cheat, you cheat, he cheats, she cheats
dear John Keats.
You don’t like my manners. Sorry
dear John Stammers.
Your silent sulks give murder rage
dear John Cage.
I can’t stand another evening listening to you banging on about your best mate, do you get the jist
dear John the Baptist?
This is going to hurt
dear John Hurt.
One of us has to go
dear Jon Snow.
It’s not you, it’s me
dear John C Reilly.
Dear John Woo
It’s not me, it’s you.