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Whether you're like, fuck Valentine's Day or not, we've got you (a ):
was born in a skip in Islington in 1986 and grew up wild in the back-alleys of London’s bourgeois ghetto, surviving only on mouldy paninis and half-eaten pots of hummous fished out of bins and sleeping in rolled-up copies of The Observer Review. After a dispute with a notorious urban fox gang, she fled to Brighton Beach, and was taken in by a radical seagull collective and weaned on mulched-up, regurgitated back-issues of Spare Rib and Red Rag. Eventually she was offered a scholarship to Brighton College Sixth Form, where she edited a student newspaper and never learned to wear a tie. She went to Wadham College, Oxford, and later moved back to London to work in a shop in Camden Market, where being a scuzzy, mohawked Brighton feminist was part of the job description. It didn’t stick, and she rapidly turned to a life of journalism, having discovered that she was unsuited to any other employment by virtue of being weird and difficult. Now she has long hair, a semi-regular income, and zooms around trying to put the world to rights. She can still talk to seagulls.
In French, the phrase is 'Carrément dans le rouge,' meaning 'squarely in debt.' That’s why hundreds of thousands of students and union members involved in Quebec’s education strike have taken to pinning little red squares of cloth to their clothes.