For all of you who will be celebrating the death of a quasi-fictional, god-bothering soppy bastard tomorrow, may I remind you that February 14th is also the anniversary of the death of P G Wodehouse, a man who could bring more joy in a few words than a warehouse full of crap verses hawked by the avaricious to the gullible.
So don't waste your money on rip-off meals and chemical laden flora, perambulate merrily in the general direction of your library and pick up an improving novel.
"He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say 'when!'"
