Dear Danny

Dear Danny

So you think you were good. Ho fucking ho, my friend.

Let’s take a look. Daily gym workouts, religiously. No carbs after 6. No porn. And you studiously went down on Debs at least every fortnight. Heck, you even went to church. Gotta admit, you tried hard.

Here’s your problem, Danny boy. You bought the ticket for the wrong draw. You already got your prize. The neat six-pack, the bespoke jeans, the never-sullied fingernails… that was what you angled for, and that’s what you got.

But there comes a point when good becomes… invisible. Me, I’ve got a body like a walrus, and I’m old enough to be your father. (Sorry to rub it in.) But sooner or later girls like Debbie want to head out into snowripped tundra with a man who knows how to strip a steak from reindeer carcass. For whom ‘axe’ means a tool for splitting wood, not for masking body odour.

Better luck next year.

P.S. You’re the one still writing letters to Santa. And it comes as a surprise that you got dumped?

View this story's 3 comments.