Will 2025 be the year you batch-cook healthy meals at the weekend, stop drinking alcohol or run an entirely unnecessary 42k?
Yes, you heard me – and I’ll say it louder for the people at the back. DELULU. It’s essentially choosing to live a life fuelled by delusion, the art of freeing yourself from the shackles of “facts”.
Delulu is not just an abbreviation for delusion. We’re all familiar with her, and that old girl has a tendency to get depressing fast. Delusion’s shtick is all unrequited romantic obsession and misplaced self-confidence. By contrast, being delulu is like being delusional, but camp. It’s a party. It’s a parade. It’s saying buh-bye to the drudgery of cold, bleak reality and hello to living out your hottest, funnest fantasies.
I dare you to give delulu a try. The evidence, your critics, and the computer might all say no – but could you get your convictions to shout “YES” louder? Maybe you can commit to journalling, or run club, or a weekly catch-up with that parent you’ve been neglecting. Maybe the job you applied for really was insanely competitive and they really will be keeping you in mind for future roles. Perhaps that beautiful barista with the kind eyes was actually into you (don’t bother them though, they’re at work!).
Every time I flick on the windscreen wipers instead of the indicator, every time I take slightly too long to turn for the liking of the hothead behind me, every time I can’t figure out which button is the parking brake, instead of berating myself for being a useless failure with no right to be on the road, I remind myself of my delulu belief: “I’m an amazing driver.” And you know what? It calms me down, helps me lock in, and I keep myself and everyone else safer as a result. Penelope Pitstop, eat your heart out.
£100 for a Hawaiian pizza? It’s exactly what the British people deserve
Read MoreI hear you. It’s hard to maintain unbridled optimism when our nation’s top politician is Sir Keir Starmer, a man with the vibe of an AI-generated substitute teacher. The humans in our lives can be exhausting and unreliable. Seasonal Affective Disorder and ADHD self-diagnoses are rampant. Not even a new season of The Traitors can distract from the fact that life, for many of us, is varying degrees of difficult – and there’s no one-step quick-fix that will change that.
In 2024, when I voiced my intention to boycott a festival due to the sponsor financing and profiting from the production of weaponry used to enact what the UN has described as genocide, I was told in no uncertain terms that I was immature and an idealist – that I would be replaced, and the sponsor would remain regardless.
Don’t get it twisted – delulu isn’t about popping on rose-tinted spectacles and choosing to entirely ignore all life’s issues, personal and political. Yes, sand can be inviting, but sticking your head in it often creates more problems than it cures.
Delulu’s about challenging the status quo and going into battle armed with the impossible – humour and hope. The outlook is bleak, but we don’t have to be. Facts are facts, until they aren’t.
This week I have been…
Lusting… Tail end of January. The days are grey. The nights start at 2.45pm. The single-digit Celsius weather forecasts feel like a specific and very personal eff-you to anyone with melanin. Everything and everyone is unappealing, which is why it makes perfect sense that I’m the horniest I’ve ever been. There’s absolutely zero chance of me taking my clothes off in front of a fellow over-tired, under-muscled, over-nourished human – but this month I’m more than happy hypothetically lusting away.
Anything can set me off. Ncuti Gatwa piano-riffing then winking at the camera in the trailer for the National Theatre production of The Importance of Being Earnest. The posh boy from The Traitors weaponising rationality. An Instagram reel of two girls in Arsenal shirts. My electric blanket. I went to see Nosferatu and roughly 95 per cent of the film shows Lily Rose-Depp convulsing on a mattress, mewing and moaning as she’s possessed by demonic passion. You and me both, babe.
Reading… Remember books? Remember libraries? Books were like tweets, but longer, and libraries were like X, but less nakedly evil and much better organised. A former worm, I relapsed into reading this Christmas and can confirm – it’s a pretty magical pastime.
So far this month I’ve smashed through a Yomi Adegoke and indulged in some light escapism by getting stuck into Frankie Boyle and Charlie Skelton’s intimidatingly hilarious book about apocalypse. For dessert a range of non-fiction titles lie in wait for me – notably Outrage by Ellen Jones and Ruby Rare’s The Non-Monogamy Playbook (because if you’re not really having sex right now, you might as well not have it with multiple people).
Fuming… Nice guys have a lot to answer for at the minute, cause some of the allegations emerging about men we’d assumed to be allies are absolutely abhorrent. The list of shits just keeps getting longer. Bullies continue to make money, continue to have careers, and occasionally even get inaugurated. Not all men obviously, never ALL men – but new predators keep popping up every day who other men could easily have called out. Cis dudes! Get your boys in order – because some of you are clearly slipping.
Sophie Duker‘s But Daddy I Love Her is on tour in the UK and Ireland until 27 February
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