Roses
"Abandon ye all hope who enter here" should be writ on the front of a box of f***ing Roses. Bacause if ever a f***ing man-made creation followed the highs and lows of the human condition, t'were a box of Roses. From elation to decimation, all level of emotion could be felt with one wrong hasty decision as the hand entered that soulless roundy tin. The only f***ing redeeming feature being the blue ones. If it were blue... it would be, at the very least a tolerable brazil nut dealy, but more likely a purplesque hazelnut/caramel thing, or better yet, a Dairy Milk. That was Den, the Dairy milk. With the box in front of you; all eyes on your limp, sweating soul, and panic in your veins, you could always hit the Dairy Milk option (Not Bourneville - Dairy Milk). Safety!
A cruel fate would be to pluck from random sugary mediocrity, a dark, twisted coffee one – one from whose image hell was created. Those were dark days: But not without great risk, comes great glory.
And then a strange thing happened. An occurence as rare as sunlight in this miserable Land. For the sun did rise, with the economy (and all those posh, pretentious outdoor cafés), and suddenly Cadbury's Roses became flush with the Ambrosia of wealth and contentment and debt. We dined on luxurious Pralines, we feasted on Orange Crunches, we salivated over the little square things in the silver wrappers....
But then! as soon as you could say, fcuk me with a box of quality street, we were dipped, heartlessly, relentlessly, into the mire of mere caramel, toffee, and a bit of f***ing nut..... with not even the relative thrill of rebellion (the coffee fellas) to soothe our emptied souls....
Screw you Roses!!!!
