Bridget Jones’s Diary

By | 3 February 2024

Bridget Jones’s Diary (2001)

Each time that babe Cleaver walks into the room
Bridget Jones’s Diary must go mad as a bad
Christmas sweater with a gherkin up its arse;
in part because he’s found the elevator that opens
onto every turn-of-the-millennium interior,
only ever enters between parted chrome
in close up; in part again because Kafka’s motorbike
revs so hard at cocktail parties it harmonises
with flutes and postmodern small talk like Rushdie
and the politically incorrect arithmetic
of a 90s hangover, my mid-30s, and a skirt;
in part again ad infinitum because after a certain age
there are always Alsatians waiting at the bottom
of the next bottle . . .

I’d have done it. Shagged him.
I’d have done it and so much more just to replace food
with sex and stop singing each time Céline Dion came on.
I mean, how often does Hugh Grant jump at you,
from his punt, screaming “FUCK ME! I love Keats.”

I’d have done it again and again and again
and then written it all down in Bridget Jones’s Diary.
Because karaoke is more common than snow
and lovers rarely fight on the streets of Soho;
because if he’s not a knobhead without a knob
then he’s my uncle who’s not my uncle
and the only purple passage I’ve ever known
is the prolonged bridge of my mother’s lover’s nose
selling on the telly . . .

I’d have gone mad for Cleaver,
mad as a Human Rights lawyer on St Nick’s
mistaken again for the reindeer. But what are the odds?
My chances are up there with a sequel
or F.R. Leavis calling on the phone.

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