Melon head

I have a misbehaving face. It is (clearly) not the only part of me that misbehaves, but it is probably the part of me that betrays me the most often. It just won't do what I tell it to. Which, given its football-esque stature and it's proximity to other people's faces in terms of sight-line, is not ideal

. For starters, let's consider the shape of it. Pea-head, melon-head, football-face...all things that I was referred to in my formative years. To be fair, I didn't help myself. When I was 14, it was fashionable to scrape all of your hair back with copious amounts of hairspray, save for two little bits which would hang down at either side of your face. Think Jackie from Hollyoaks, or any teenager in Croydon. Thus the spherical aspect of my bonce was accentuated; an effect which was further enhanced by the massive pair of hooped earrings that I insisted on wearing (again....Jackie).

And then there are my cheeks. I used to boast that I would never drown at sea with the aid of my trusty, built-in floatation devices (other girls got boobs..I got cheeks). I was also quite sure that, in case of nuclear war, I could quickly gobble up and store (hamster-style) enough food to get me through a week in a bunker. But people squeeze them. And it hurts. And having looked around the various members of my family, I know exactly where my cheeks are headed; the same way that those other girls' boobs are headed...South. My grandmother, before she passed away, did an excellent line in impressions of Churchill, the jowly insurance hound. And my Dad is pretty adept at the whole 'oh no,no,no,no,no...'. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will, quite probably, have to prepare myself for a life of jowly misery.

Sagging cheeks and bulbous-shape aside, my inability to control the colour or movements in my face are the real issue at large. An example; ...a few weeks ago I started a new job. And I have a MASSIVE crush on one of my new colleagues. I'm talking EPIC. This crush is all-consumingly, life-ruiningly huge. As a result, I think that my new job is possibly the best job in the world. In fact, if Carslberg made new jobs, this one would be it. Wicked place, wicked location, wicked office, not so bad workload and I get to see the coolest person I can think of every single day.

So his desk is near my desk and I am forced to walk past it every time I send something to the printer. An excellent opportunity, you might think, to showcase my very best masterful, hip-swaying walk and white teethed smile. Not so. Not with this face. I can't seem to walk past without it contorting into some kind of gargoyle-esque clown’s mask. I was ok at the beginning, managing a little smile as I rushed by. But now it has turned into a kind of very quick stare. My eyes sort of bulge out of my head and my nostrils flare as he looks on, slightly bewildered as to why the girl who is perfectly normal at all other times, appears to have some kind of twitch that renders her slightly froglike. It's like my brain is saying 'must look nonchalant and normal' and my face just panics. The same thing happens when he walks past my desk. Can't handle that either. I just sort of 'do a little stare'. Occasionally it is accompanied by raised eyebrows, but mostly, it's just the eye-bulging.

I think my face might also be responsible for my failed career as an actress.... My best friend Mich pointed this out to me the other day. She had just finished telling me a particularly shameful story and I was looking at her with what I thought was a disapproving glare. It wasn't a real disapproving glare, since I think that everything that Mich does is amazing, even the morally ambiguous things. "You're supposed to reproach me when I tell you things like that" she exclaimed (apparently, failing to make her feel bad for her misdemeanours makes me a bad best friend). "I'm giving you my 'disapproving face'" I said "what more do you want?". Apparently the face was not portraying disapproval. "You look like you're constipated" she said.

Mich and I went on to try out a few more of my facial expressions. My 'angry' face looks "like the sun is in your eyes". My attempt at giving her 'daggers' provoked tumultuous laughter (as opposed to inane terror) and my 'looking her up and down in disgust' face caused Mich to ask me if I had lost something. Clearly, I need to work on this if I'm to get my dream-job number 5 (actress on Eastenders). Although, if I can just perfect spontaneous crying, then perhaps I can forgo the need for convincing facial expressions. Works for Adam Woodyatt. Nobody cries like Ian Beale...

Introducing Annelie

This may surprise some of you, but I’ve had writer’s block. I’m quite surprised myself, since, so far my blog has consisted of a lot of inane, shallow and base nonsense about nothing in particular. But you people seem to be lapping it up. I could, I suppose, wait until I think of something good to write about. But I’ve had complaints on Facebook about my lack of blog in the last few weeks, so I guess I should really write something.

One friend, Annelie, has been particularly vocal about my silence. I explained to her that I didn’t have anything to say, to which she replied ‘can’t you just go out at lunchtime and do something stupid, then write about it?’. Her logic isn’t entirely flawed. I have noticed that I get particularly positive feedback when I write about any kind of personal humiliation that I have endured. This positive feedback, however, is limited to my blog. Self-humiliation and self-pity in REAL life don’t seem to be as popular….

…so since I haven’t done anything particularly humiliating recently, and since she is so very keen to read my blog, this week, I will be writing about Annelie.

When I mentioned this to her on ‘Facebook Chat’, all of sudden she wasn’t so enthused about the prospect of my latest instalment. Her reservations stemmed partially from the catalogue of disasters and drunken antics in her life for me to choose from, but also from the fact that I might not necessarily allow her to read it first.

To be fair to her, Annelie does have a small amount of experience in being publicly humiliated in print. A few months ago, Annelie was seeking sponsorship for a cross-Mongolian horse race (did I mention that she’s insane?). Annelie, whose brother is in the army, had agreed (almost definitely under the influence) to race across the wild terrains of Mongolia on horseback in order to raise money for ‘Help the Heroes’. Not content with risking her life (and her mother’s sanity) by partaking in this crazy race, Annelie decided (in a bid to raise more cash) that she should get her kit off in Sport Magazine.

Now…most people would rather crawl across Mongolia in a fur coat laced with itching powder than be photographed in their scanties for a newspaper. Personally, I would prefer to spend a week rubbing sun cream into Ian Beale’s chest, while he smiled at me smugly, than flash my fleshy self in the public domain. Annelie, however, is what might be described as ‘a tidy package ‘ / the most beautiful girl I know, so getting her kit off for the good of our boys was not a problem.

She didn’t even flinch when the photographer suggested that she pose for the photos with her horse. That’s right. WITH HER HORSE. IN HER PANTS. Ha ha ha ha ha ha (the thought still brings me joy).

And even when, during the photo shoot, her wellington boots got stuck and she was forced to lie on her back, in her bikini and wellies, in a paddock (IN A PADDOCK!! LOL!! Ha ha ha) and suffer the humiliation of having her boots wrenched off by a photographer, she still didn’t reconsider the idea.

And when her horse, no doubt bored with watching the make-up artist add shading to Annelie’s arse, decided to run off, forcing Annelie to chase it around the paddock in her bikini (AROUND THE PADDOCK IN HER BIKINI!!), she thought about our boys over in ‘ghan, kept calm and carried on.

The straw that broke the camel’s back (never before has a phrase been more apt) was when the photos were published in the magazine and distributed across the London transport network and beyond. The first photo showed Annelie, in a field, bra-strap off the shoulder, looking sultry. So far, so good. Page 2 and Annelie is suggestively sprawled among the hay…ready to roll around. Not one to show the grandkids, but does the job…..ooops….but what do we have here?….page 3?…photo 3?

Annelie, her horse, her whip, her boots and….oops…

….a camel’s toe.

L

M

F

O

Needless to say, Annelie’s sponsorship campaign was an overnight success and she managed to cross Mongolia in one piece. Annelie’s next challenge for ‘Help the Heroes’ is cycling to Dunkirk. Please sponsor her using the link below….you never know, she might get her kit off again…

Stuff I liked this week

Sponsor Annelie: http://www.justgiving.com/anneliesimmons3/

Switch It Up goes weekly: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=114551668582477&index=1

Dear John….

I was sitting in the pub with my mates last night and my friend Pedro* was complaining to us that, in spite of his worst efforts (i.e. his best efforts at being an atrocious boyfriend), the girl he was dating would not take the hint and dump him (yes, apparently these people really do exist). After much discussion over the pro’s and con’s of Pedro’s approach, we reached the conclusion that he may have to bite the bullet and do the deed himself.

Our conversation then turned to how he might go about doing this. All of my suggestions were dismissed out of hand; primarily because they were mostly cruel and weaned from firsthand experience, but also because I’m not very accepting of the whole ‘dumping’ procedure, have never reacted very well to it (which is a shame because it happens quite frequently) and have probably not, therefore got the answer to the question ‘what’s the best way to dump someone?’.

I can, however, give you a well-researched and comprehensive run-down of how NOT to do it. Here goes:

Post-dumping Post-dumping involves dumping someone post (after) doing something really good or really bad. Post-coital, post-anniversary, post-redundancy, post-birthday or in the post-office are all fairly demeaning ways to dump someone. I was once dumped when bed-ridden after undergoing surgery the previous day (post-operative). My inability to chase the dumper out of the door was the stroke of genius that probably inspired the decision, but seemed a little unfair…

Pre-dumping Similar to ‘post-dumping’, but involving dumping someone pre (before) doing something really good or really bad. I was once dumped pre-moving house (1 week before). This was a double-whammy since it happened post-putting the deposit down on our new flat, and pre-packing for the move. My belongings reached Big Tone’s house in tear-stained, sweat-drenched boxes. On the upside, I managed to steal my ex-boyfriend’s entire DVD collection, since he wasn’t around to pack it. HA.

E-dumping Fairly self-explanatory. The surge in technical communications, personal communications devices and social networking sites have made e-dumping the easy-option in a fast-food world. I don’t recall being e-dumped as yet, but have had some close-call scrapes. To be fair, these could be down to my own ill-advised penchant for texting pre-thinking. I think I might be better built for the stone-age or similar. Perhaps if I had to collect wood, build a fire, rub sticks together and then wave a carpet around for 20 minutes, I might reconsider the vital importance / appropriateness of my communications before sending them out into the ether.

Drunken-dumping Occasionally a necessary evil, but nevertheless, evil. Particularly when the dumpee is drunk. Particularly when the dumpee is me. Particularly when the dumpee is me, and I’m drunk.

Facebook-dumping Could potentially fall under the same category as e-dumping. But the addition of public-humiliation and the potential for the dumpee to be at work when they discover that they are now single, puts this kind of dumping into a category in its own right. The ‘relationship-status’ facility on Facebook should definitely come with warnings. Something along the lines of:

'Are you sure you’re now ‘in a relationship’? Because whilst you may be in a joyous, ethereal state of happiness and contentment at this precise moment, have you considered how horrendous it is going to feel if and when you have to check the ‘single’ box again? You do realise that when you perform this action, Facebook will display a loveheart, for all to see, with a great big fucking rip down the centre of it almost as big as the chasm in your bleeding broken heart? ’

Hopefully Pedro will be able to come up with a solution to his relationship situation that does not involve any of the above. Failing that, he could go for either of the two solutions that our mutual friends came up with: 1. Throw her in the Thames to see if she floats or 2. Get her to read my blog….

*names changed to protect Pete’s identity

Stuff I liked this week

I STILL LIKE THIS: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=104228146274715&ref=ts

Very much!!: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=104228146274715&ref=ts

Beale killed in freak rocket crash

Eastenders has been making me giggle in the past few weeks. Those of you who bother to click on my ‘stuff I liked this week’ links, will know that Easties, or ‘Deadenders’ as I lovingly call it, brings me far more joy than any soap opera should. I mean – I like a soap opera. I watch Hollyoaks and I used to watch Neighbours and Home & Away (until I got a job..). And I’ll watch pretty much any American trash that is put on in front of me (although my increasing lack of tolerance for rich skinny brats is directly proportionate to my swiftly diminishing twenties). But I only watch that stuff because it’s on. Eastenders is one of the few programmes that I will specifically switch on the TV to watch. And it makes me laugh out loud.

When I was on my ‘gap year’, ‘finding myself’ for 8 months with my brother, I would call my Mum up and she would give me a weekly rundown of what was going on. Mum doesn’t usually watch Eastenders, but loves me so much that she took on ‘Deadenders Duty’, watching it in my absence and reporting back during our weekly phone call. ‘Your little brother got drunk yesterday and Mark’s going out with Lisa’ she would say, seamlessly blurring the lines of fiction and reality.

Anyway, Deadies seems to be going through something of a transition period at the moment. With the introduction of an online spinoff (I haven’t seen it yet) and whole gangs of teenagers infiltrating the Square, they appear to be trying to capture the imagination of the Hollyoaks audience whilst retaining their staple audience of housewives, families and anyone sane who is at home at 8pm (7.30pm on Tues/Thurs!). This inclusive approach to their plotlines and cast was beautifully demonstrated a few weeks ago when Whitney, step-daughter of Bianca, went to deepest darkest Balham and was confronted by a heinous gang-bitch. In a scene that wouldn’t have looked out of place in my year 8 drama class, a menacing teenager called Kylie, sporting a Croydon facelift and a hoody, towered over the cowering Whitney before describing her as ‘Butters’. To which Whitney helpfully responded ‘Who you calling ugly?’.

LOL! (as the kids say).

I would love to have been a fly on the wall at the meeting when this script was discussed:

“They’re visiting where? Loughborough Junction? Where’s that? Why don’t we just say they’re in Balham? Everyone knows Balham is dodgy…I mean….it’s in South London for God’s sake……..”

“She calls her what? Butters? I’m sorry, I don’t follow… Blud? What? Have I missed a page? Somebody’s going to have to translate..”.

Brilliant.

Come to think of it, I may just have discovered my new dream-job; Eastenders scriptwriter. Those people must have serious fun. They basically have free-reign to control the lives of 30-40 fictional lives with relatively few limits to their imagination. Implausible, laughable, physically impossible - they’ll find a way. Imagine their meetings: ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if the weediest, post-pubescent character on the square impregnated the fattest, slowest spinster on the square?’ or ‘..and then…she sleeps with his Dad!’ or ‘He accidentally kills her on a rake…!!’. The possibilities are endless. I’d have Ronnie and Roxy committing incest on the allotment, a miraculous makeover for Shirley and Libby, and Dot would accidentally get hooked on Mary Jane (or has she done that already?). Ian Beale would become like Kenny from Southpark, dying in every single episode in the most hideous way possible and Jack would get his kit off all the time for no apparent reason.

Right – I’m off to send my CV to the BBC. Wish me luck.

Stuff I liked this week

LIMITED EDITION is back on Easter Sunday at Jewel Bar. Get yourselves down…: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=104228146274715&ref=ts

Have you ever seen a Blue Peter Presenter with a tattoo?

So according to Nathan and the boys at Urban Elite, spring is here. As per usual, in a masterstroke of marketing prowess, they have attempted to manipulate the ladies of London into wearing less clothing when they attend ‘Switch It Up’ (at Ruby Lo, this Friday!!). Once again, they have taken a random event in the calendar (this month…spring) and tried to persuade us that this is a reason to forgo the advice of our fathers and to leave our thermals at home. In the autumn, they asked us to celebrate the ‘end of the summer’…..by wearing less clothes. In the winter, they asked us to ignore the constraints of the icy weather and liberate ourselves…..by wearing less clothes. And today, on a morning where I could still see my breath in the air as I ran (walked limply) for my train, I received an email from Nathan announcing that it is in fact SPRING, and in celebration of that fact, I should come along to ‘Switch It Up’ (at Ruby Lo, this Friday!!)….wearing less clothes.

Obviously I’m gonna do it.

Now. I feel like I have been a little remiss and have not been updating you properly on the comings and goings in my life. People have been asking after Bookshop Man, Big Tone etc after I introduced them to your lives. So I’ll take the opportunity to fill you in.

Bookshop man has moved bookshops. He is now only in my local branch a couple of days a week. And no amount of stalking can detect a distinct pattern. The purchase of my iPhone has also totally disturbed my reading habits. I quite literally haven’t read a book since I got it. I used to read a book every couple of weeks. Instead, I have been filling my time playing Scrabble, checking my Facebook profile and playing the single most addictive, yet pointless game known to man – ‘Doodlejump’. ‘Doodlejump’ entails tipping ones iPhone from side to side aid the ‘doodle’ in jumping from platform to platform. It doesn’t appear to have any levels (although I could be really rubbish at it). The ‘doodle’ simply jumps up and up until it falls down. And then you start again. Hours. Of. My. Life.

Meanwhile, my Bookshop Man worship has been further disturbed by my love life. I have spent the last 6 months vaguely dating a man who has what can only accurately be described as ‘periods’. Once a month, he dumps me, in a fit of self-doubt and confusion on the seriousness of the whole affair. I am getting seriously tired of his periods (I don’t know how you men put up with them). But I quite like him. Damnit.

Big Tone is fine, thank you very much. He announced at the weekend that he had a ‘spy’ reading my blog and checking that I wasn’t doing him a disservice. Thirty seconds of detective work, revealed that this ‘spy’ was in fact my step-mum Liz (hi Liz!). To be honest, I don’t think anything I’ve written would really offend him. He’s not really that touchy and rarely seems to be surprised by anything I do. A couple of weeks ago, for example, I got a new tattoo on my wrist. You can’t miss it. It’s right there on my arm. But Tone didn’t seem to mind. In fact, when I sheepishly showed it to him the day after I had it done, after checking that I would definitely need a skin graft to get it removed, I could see him genuinely scratching around in this head for something positive to say about it. ‘It’s good’, he kept saying. ‘It’s good’.

In the meantime, I have been having my reservations about it. I love it. It’s exactly what I wanted. But it occurred to me on the train this morning, that I might have unwittingly sabotaged my dream to become a Blue Peter Presenter. This is a serious concern. Might have to look into those skin grafts..

Stuff I liked this week

My new favourite singer. Saw her twice last week, at Ronnie Scotts and at the Soho Theatre. Incredible soulful voice and a wicked sense of humour on stage: www.myspace.com/krystlewarren / www.facebook.com/krystlewarren

Courtesy of my friend Mitton, the latest (scary) internet craze: http://www.chatroulette.com/

1987-1996 = The Glory years: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/classic/bluepeter/

Introducing Ray Winstone as Bitter Lemons

A few weeks ago, a kind friend of mine suggested, after reading my blog, that I should publish it and then have a film made of my life, Carrie-style. Which is obviously something I’m planning on doing. When I can be bothered. She then posed the question as to who would play me in the film. This set me wondering…..

My own suggestions of Beyonce or Eva Mendes were laughed out of town. Frankly, I found this disappointing, since they’re talking about casting a black Bond, so why not a black or Latino Lemons? It’s essentially the same sort of movie… Perhaps, however, the audience wouldn’t be convinced when Eva Mendes looked down at her ample bosom and complained that her boobs weren’t big enough. And, whilst she has some skills, I’m not sure Beyonce is a good enough dancer to portray me in a film. Maybe she could have some lessons?

Clearly unable to make an objective decision, I turned to my friends and family for ideas. A quick bit of research by means of my Facebook status revealed that they think that I should either be played by someone beautiful and French or by Ray Winstone (thanks Chris).

Now. Whilst I can understand the obvious parallels between my own life and that of the serial hard man Winstone, I’m not really seeing the whole Juliette Binoche thing. I mean, sure, she’s a brunette and I’m a brunette. And she’s French, and I’m half French…but that’s really as far as it goes. I mean, I’m half English too. So if the only qualifying factors for playing me in a film are hair colour and nationality, then Winstone trumps Binoche, since I’ve heard he likes Marmalade and watching TV. And I also like Marmalade and watching TV.

The funniest thing about this whole French association, is that when I’m in France, everyone bangs on about how English I look. And truth be told, I don’t look a huge amount like my petite, delicate French mother. In fact, I look exactly like my Dad, Big Tone. Except not bald. Thinking about it again, perhaps Tone is the best man for the job. He hasn’t acted before, but he is pretty amazing at most things, so playing the part of his twenty-something year old daughter in a film shouldn’t pose any problems. He might have to wear a wig and have his legs waxed for the role, but he could leave the chest hair and the jowls. And he was once the North of England Ballroom dancing champion – so we don’t need to worry about him in the big dance numbers.

All of this pondering on who might play me in a film reminded me of the time when, as a teenager, I posed for the village portrait painting class. I sat absolutely still for 6 painful hours (harder than it sounds) and daydreamed about the family heirlooms of the future that were being produced before me. And throughout the sessions, I wasn’t allowed even a glimpse of the paintings. That pleasure was saved for the big ‘reveal’ at the end of the second class, when each of the artists proudly turned their easels around to face me.

Unfortunately, my excitement at seeing myself through other people’s eyes meant that, when I was met with 12 paintings that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Bianca ‘Mrs. Ricky Butcher’ Jackson’s fridge, I failed to disguise my horror. Had I not spent 6 hours sitting in their direct line of view, I might have offered up the same question to the ‘artists’ that Bianca so carefully asks Tiffany every time she is presented with a new ‘family portrait’. ‘WHO the fiddlesticks is THAT?’

The paintings bore about as much of a resemblance to my face as mayo does to salad cream and I wondered whether I had accidently stumbled into a portrait painting class at the RNIB. In one ‘portrait’ I appeared to have had an allergic reaction to shellfish. Another portrayed a woman with a head so small, that Channel 4 would have paid a lot of money to make a documentary about her. A third portrait saddled me with a trout pout and a skin tone that wouldn’t be out of place on The Simpsons.

Maybe my biography should be an animation….? But who would voice my character? Where did I put Beyonce’s number again?

Stuff I liked this week

My favourite line of this biog: “Winstone recalls playing with his friends on bomb sites until "Moors Murderers" Ian Brady and Myra Hindley were arrested for killing three children” : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ray_Winstone

Words cannot describe my excitement before, during and after this momentous occasion: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=coIKTFyn5ow , http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRn00BMve_U, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKmji-H3pJk , http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3eLVSSNPnY4

I want a brand new house on an episode of Cribs

Now….whilst there are a series of things that I could use this blog for (killing time at work, talking about design, settling scores, recommending recipes, scamming people out of their hard-earned-cash, raising the profile of primordial dwarves, discussing London Transport or getting dates for Nathan), I’ve chosen not to, since I don’t think you’d be interested and I’d like to keep it fairly light and low-brow. That isn’t going to stop me, however, from conducting a little market research and using this blog to significantly change my life. I need a platform for my talents and some advice on how to go forward and I think this might well be the place. The thing is, you see, I want to be a pop star.

There are a couple of other career options open to me, which I am still willing to explore. I’d like to, for example, be a journalist and write this kind of nonsense for cash. Or I’d happily be a gangster’s wife. I’m not adverse to chocolate tasting. And I will never, ever, shelve that dream of being a Blue Peter presenter (PLEASE GOD). But if none of that works out. I’d like to be a pop star. Or at least in a REALLY cool band.

Now, before you ask, I’m not entirely unqualified for this career. I can sing. Not like Aretha or Alicia or Beyonce. More like Norah Jones, or a Corr or Snow White. And definitely better than Posh Spice, JEdward or that nasal nightmare Pixie Lott. I’m not necessarily as hot as her though.

So what to do? When I was a teenager, I was in a band. A group of boys at my school had watched ‘The Commitments’ (awesome 90’s film) and decided to form a band exactly like The Commitments. Except not poor, Irish and unemployed, but white, middle class and teenaged. I was playing Dorothy in the school’s production of ‘The Wizard of Oz’ (unprecedented disaster) when my heartfelt, broom-clutching rendition of ‘Somewhere over a Rainbow’ inspired the guitarist in the band to invite me along to be one of their three backing singers.

Needless to say, I bumped the other two off (probably by singing louder than them) and was soon promoted to front woman, alongside front man and Stars in their Eyes runner up, Clinton (who actually is in quite a successful band in Norway these days). And so the glory days began. Five years of Friday and Saturday nights on the Cambridge pub circuit, with occasional trips to the scary Fens, singing covers of soul and funk songs to middle-aged drunks, our parents (not necessarily mutually exclusive entities) and our single groupie, Dale.

When, however, the band reached the difficult second album stage (university called) and artistic differences were causing rifts between the rhythm section and the horns (we couldn’t afford the train fares), the band were forced to split and I was left bereft, with no outlet for my creative juices (drunk in Leeds). Almost ten years on, my talents remain unused and wasted, only to be heard by my bathroom tiles and anyone within a 200m radius of my shower between 7.30 and 7.45am (I know who you are you weirdo).

So I need a plan. I’d welcome suggestions for band names / my stage name in the comments box below, along with any potential routes into the music industry. Likewise, if anyone knows any gangsters who need a wife, Blue Peter bosses I can ‘persuade’ into casting me or someone who edits a national newspaper, let me know…

Stuff I liked this week

Pure, joyous, genius: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A0N2bp-XhS0

The phrase every girl dreams of: “cheap Valentines gifts”: http://www.moneysavingexpert.com/deals/cheap-valentines-gifts