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Dear Darby , ‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ Mama warned me a few weeks before Christmas. ‘You and Calum won’t live in the same place for much longer, so drink up every minute while you can.’ Oh, Darby, I’ve been trying -- so very, very much. I haven’t written to you since last October , and that’s probably because I’ve been doing as I was told – exploiting your time and making you travel for an hour and a half at a time to my new house in Zone 3, so that I can roll around in your jokes, and we can do silly voices together, and talk about when I live in California and you edit Vogue. I moved in with my friend Amy recently, and even though I live here too now you still refer to it as “Amy’s House”. ‘DON’T MAKE ME COME ALL THE WAY TO AMY’S HOUSE,’ you say to me, as I tell you to bring glitter glue and some card because this is Christmas Crafternoon , bitch. Your insisting on calling it “Amy’s House” is kind of like how, every time you Tweet lyrics to your favourite songs, which are normally a...

Darby I didn’t realise how much I’d missed you until you were lay out on my bed, spitting remnants of Cadbury Whisper as you yelled at me for picking a shit, depressing film with no plot , drunk on a bottle and a half of rose wine. I just has this moment of, God you’re my favourite. You’re my favourite even though you shaved off all your hair for charity and are bald . As you met me from work that day, coming around the corner in a hat that revealed no hair line, just scalp, I thought crikey. That’s. Hmmmm. You’re not cute anymore. And that’s not being mean that’s just true. A bit like when I had you take my photo with the picture of Naomi Watts dressed as the Princess of Wales when we went to see Diana and I got cross that you couldn’t take a decent picture of me , and ended up snapping PHOTOGRAPHY JUST ISN’T ONE OF YOUR SKILLS, OKAY? That’s true, too. We went back to your place and lathered up your head to get the bits you’d missed around your ears and down the back of your neck, an...

Darby & Joan are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of Scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby & Joan are, in fact, @calummcswiggan and me. Read the Darby & Joan back catalogue here .  Darby, Shit the motherfuckin’ bed: you’re moving to London! This is a sweet, beautiful moment. For so long I have wished for us to reside in the same town. For an age I’ve daydreamed. I’ve written letter after letter to the universe, positively visualising our reunited embrace, and now, two years since our last magical time down the road from one another, it’s all coming true. You’re moving here.  I could not be happier. I knew things would be different for you when you got back from Thailand. But, I didn’t know what was appropriate to say. And maybe that sounds douche-y and ridiculous because WE’RE BEST FRIENDS. Nothing should be in appropriate. Otherwise what’s the point? I know we exist to make each better, an...

Darby & Joan  are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact,  @calummcswiggan  and me. Read the Darby and Joan back catalogue  here . Dear Darby, This past six weeks is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking, and it’s killing me softly. You called me almost a year back, when I lived in Rome - which is to say a lifetime ago- and said, Hiya, will you be a reference on my application to work at a tiger sanctuary run by monks in Thailand? Sure, I said. What do I have to do? Just say that it’s true I’ve helped birth lambs on rural Derbyshire farms for the past six seasons, you responded. You know. If they ask. Now you’re out there, hidden away in Thai hills and bottle-feeding cubs, and there’s probably some really pissed off shaven-haired man swathed in orange, wondering who on earth vouched for your ability to deal with amniotic flui...

Darby & Joan  are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact,  @calummcswiggan  and me. Read the Darby and Joan back catalogue  here . Dear Darby, So, I was reading back through our emails yesterday, because after Beyonce is Sad our Facebook thread is my favourite thing on the Internet. Third is your blog, obvs, especially after I met a stranger at a dinner two weeks ago and he said ‘ Eat Gay Love ? I love that site!’ and I got to say that you’re my friend and it was like knowing somebody famous. SOMEBODY FAMOUS WHO I’VE HEARD VOMIT AFTER TOO MANY WHITE WINE SPRITZERS. Anyway, I’m obsessed with you, and I love looking through our messages to one another because, despite the fact that you are 1,476.6 miles away, or maybe because you’re 1,476.6 miles away, I like to know what you’re having for your tea and if you are keeping regular. Luck...

Darby & Joan  are the quintessential middle-aged British couple, characterised by knitwear, hours of scrabble, and a penchant for staying in on Saturday nights. Darby and Joan are, in fact,  @calummcswiggan  and me. Read the Darby and Joan back catalogue  here . Dear Darby, As I write this I’m supping an overpriced Chianti at the airport and waiting for my gate number to come up on the departure board. I’m flying out to Rome for the weekend. And I mean, woah , it’s my first trip back since I lived there so YUP. ALL THE EMOTIONS. But also? All the emotions because you’re a fuckhead and sitting here I’m just getting more and more frustrated at what a nob you are, when I should planning how to best eat all the rice balls without losing room for all the blue cheese gnocchi. You’re really ruining my appetite. Just kidding. Nothing ruins my appetite. But you’re still a shit. As I type and drink (and eat a Cadbury’s Cream Egg because HI EASTER TREATS IN FEBRUARY!) wait...