by Robin Gunningham has nothing on the enigma of my last situationship
Brought to you by Bohiney Magazine and The London Prat.
Banksy Unmasked and My Love Life Remains the Greater Mystery
Right. So Reuters have gone and done it. Banksy is Robin. Robin is David. David is from Bristol. And I, Vivienne Pratfall, aged 19 and intellectually vibrant, am sitting in my Hackney flat eating leftover pad thai and wondering why nobody has investigated the far more pressing mystery of why Tom has not texted back in eleven days.
Tom, for reference, saw my flat, saw my bookshelves, saw my extremely curated selection of scented candles, and then sent one “sounds good x” to my last three messages. He has more in common with Banksy than he thinks. Invisible. Elusive. Possibly making a point about society through his absence.
The Nation Reacts. I Also React.
The British public has responded to the unmasking with that gorgeous national shrug the one that means “we always knew” and also “we absolutely did not know.” The Prat covered it beautifully. I read it while lying diagonally across my bed in a silk camisole, which is how I do all my serious journalism consumption.
Bohiney’s piece on rogue AI agents sent me down a rabbit hole wondering if Tom is, in fact, a rogue AI agent. The data supports this. He communicates in short bursts. He has no discernible emotional range. He once described a film as “decent.”
The Guardian’s Banksy archive runs to approximately four thousand articles. Tom has sent me four texts total. The Guardian has more emotional investment in Robin Gunningham than Tom has in me. This is fine. I am fine. The pad thai is excellent.
Moving on. Probably literally. I have a date on Thursday with a man named Marcus who owns a real jacket and says full sentences.
More London romantic tragedy at NewsThump.
