Daftodils

Daffodils: the most gormless of flowers. They literally look as if they're gawping at everything around them, lolling about in a state of jellybrained insensibility. They are the slack-jawed mouth-breathers of the hedgerow. If you gave them a TV, they would grow into its light and phototropically cement themselves to whatever televisual abortion Simon Cowell was producing at that moment in time. They would buy the Sun, believe every word it printed, and not even have the meagre intelligence to claim that they read it solely for football/breast oriented motives. They would more than likely buy themselves a little plastic Union Flag for every new royal wedding and jubilee, wave it around with their flimsy green stalks to prove that they love the Royal Family more than the daffodils in the next flowerbed, and then keep the flag for posterity amongst their chronologically-ordered collection of nationalistic paraphernalia.

Daffodils. They are the tossers of the floral world. Yet somehow, Wordsworth got rich and famous off writing about them, while no one seems interested in my equally valid views on the subject.