Nine Months In :: Done With Love

New Life Resolutions, as made here in December 2007 and here in April 2008…

1. Lose 8 Stone in One Year
2. Stop Smoking Completely and Forever on January 1st
3. Do More Things and Meet More People
4. Write This Blog for At Least One Year – Ideally, At Least Once a Week, Chronicling Progress With Other Goals
5. Find Girlfriend
6. Get Paid for Writing Something Heartfelt

So here we are then.

Nine down, three to go. Months, that is. Not resolutions.

It’s been a good year on the whole, and in many ways, things have gone so much better than I ever really imagined they might.

With regard specifically to the resolutions, number one has gone passably well, with a few occasional, predominantly biscuit-based setbacks. I have lost around five stone, which is obviously well on the way to achieving my goal by the end of the year, although I’ll definitely have to step it up for the last quarter.

I can’t say I’ve really succeeded with number two however. I have smoked tobacco occasionally, albeit almost always in joints. But of course that still counts. I have a joint between my fingers right now in fact. Hold on… Mmmmmmm, terminal illness. Although, having said that, I don’t habitually smoke cigarettes anymore. So a partial success at least.

Number three I can tick without reservation. I have definitely done more things and I have definitely met more people. So that’s good.

Number four also. I have no doubts about that. The blog has been a resounding success. I’ve loved it. It’s been good to me. Everything I said in April stands and although I can imagine my life without it, I don’t particularly want to.

Which brings us to number five. And my biggest disappointment. As I said above, in many ways, things have gone great. Who would have thought back in December that by October I would have been the proud pleaser of three magnificent vaginas? Certainly not me. Unfortunately, a vagina does not a girlfriend make. And sex was never really the point.

I’ve been looking for love. But why? What is love anyway? Does anybody love anybody anyway? Seriously though, what’s love got to do with it? With anything? What’s the fucking big deal about love?

Maybe that’s where I was going wrong.

I think it probably was.

And so I’ve decided. Balls to love. To hell with the human heart.

From now on, vaginas are where it’s at.

You know where you stand with a vagina.

You know?

My heart – if that’s what it is – is like an overripe plum, all tender and vulnerable, weeping with aimless emotion. My cock meanwhile – as fit to burst as any runny heart – is like a bludgeon. It has no heart.

I know where I stand with my cock. I need to pay it more respect.

Respect the cock.

I’m rambling, aren’t I? Sod it. If I want to ramble, I will.

Nine months.

Three vaginas.

Patricia was damaged and needy, fingers of fire and teeth eager to cut and cry out. She was the best thing that had happened to me in years. Then there was Sally. Sometimes when Sally would stare into my eyes, stroke my face and slowly lick her silver lips, I would actually feel mentally ill with desire, my insides tumbling like asteroids. It was divine while it lasted.

And then there was Morag.

I had real hope for Morag. Right up till the end. Right up, in fact, till this weekend.

I read your comments to last week’s posts. Thank you all for sharing your thoughts. Well, not all of you. Some of you pissed me off, frankly. But that’s the price I have to pay for putting stuff out there.

There’s no way I can respond to all of the comments. So it’s probably best I don’t respond to any. I certainly don’t feel like it. So I'm not gonna. Some of you took against Morag though, and I think you were wrong to. I think she was straight with me throughout, or at least as straight as she could be, and that was good enough for me. And I’m no paragon of straight-talking when I get all heart-heavy and insecure. But then it’s tough to talk straight when you’re terrified of losing what you have and jeopardizing what you want.

Anyhow – probably nothing to do with what any of you may have said, so don’t feel guilty, Misssy – I drove to Brighton on Saturday.

Eyes thick with pity and knuckles sore with impotent rage, I drove to Brighton to set things straight once and for all. Fantasising as I drove. I am rooted in the me… What took you so long? You had me at hello.

I’d smoked half a joint I found under my bed. I’d drunk at least two glasses of wine. I was definitely over the limit. But apparently I didn’t care. Cool, huh?

Don’t kid yourself that I’m not a thoroughly awful, self-centred man. Because I am. Or at least I can be.

When I was half an hour away, I texted her. ‘Are you at home?’

No reply.

When I was outside of her house, I phoned her.

No reply.

I started to get paranoid. Had she blocked me?

Oh, I felt bad.

It was Saturday night. 8 o’clock. Why wasn’t she at home watching The X Factor? Why wasn’t I?

Actually, maybe she was. I steeled myself and knocked on her front door.

No reply.

Then it suddenly hit me.

‘I’m out of my fucking mind,’ I whispered.

I backed away from Morag’s house like it was on fire and clambered back into my car.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

That was the question I put to the me that was rooted in this undignified adventure, the me that was cowering in the rear view mirror, eyes acidic, ablaze, astringent. His forehead shrugged. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. I pressed him: ‘Are you a proper looney now, is that it?’ A shiny little girl holding her mother’s hand walked past the car, caught sight of me frantically hissing at my own reflection, and looked away.

I started the car, pointed it at London and drove. Fifteen minutes later I changed my mind and turned around. I found a Chinese restaurant three streets away from Morag’s and ordered some food. I sent another text message.

‘I'm not a looney, you know. I just miss you. I want to see you. Just for coffee maybe. Just to talk. xxx’

Why is it only when you press send that you realise how terrible your message sounds? Why don’t you get at least thirty seconds after sending in order to reconsider and cancel if necessary? A silent scream froze itself to my face as I waited for my message to be delivered.

Then I got a reprieve. ‘Message not sent. Retry?’

Thank God for that.

I pressed ‘Retry’.

This time it went through immediately.

I am a looney.

Minutes passed.

No reply.

She was ignoring me.

‘Unbelievable,’ I spat. ‘Fucking cow.’

Someone at the next table looked over at me, then looked away. I was well aware that I was behaving strangely. I poured myself another cup of green tea.

Then my phone beeped and I almost pulled a muscle reaching for it.

It was Keith. The shit.

‘You about?’ it said. I started texting back then got frustrated and rang him.

I told him I was in a Chinese restaurant waiting for dim sum.

‘Are you with Morag?’ he wanted to know.

‘No, I’m not,’ I said. ‘I’m alone.’ I was feeling very melodramatic, very self-pitiful.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Well, I’m starving. I’ll join you if you don’t mind. Are you round the corner?’

‘I’m outside London actually,’ I said.

‘Oh, where are you?’

‘I’m in Brighton.’

I explained what I’d done.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Keith. ‘You’re not having a breakdown, are you?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said, because that’s what you say when someone asks you that. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Why don’t you come home and get wrecked?’ he said. ‘I’ll pop over to Quinn’s.’

I paused for a moment and suddenly felt like I was going to burst into tears. ‘Alright,’ I said. ‘God, that sounds like a good idea. Let’s get some crack.’



Another look from the table next door.

‘Crack it is.’ Keith replied. ‘Get your arse in gear then.’

Suddenly galvanized, I called to the waitress and asked her to put my food in some bags, then I paid for it, got in the car and drove directly back to Morag’s house. I parked outside, got out and knocked abruptly on her front door. No reply. Thank God.

But I’d tried. No one can say I hadn’t tried. I came, I tried, I failed.

Now it was time to go.

Then – naturally, because life is hilarious like that – as I turned to get back in the car, there she was. Off in the distance. Walking toward me. Drifting toward me through lovers’ lamplight, her and someone else. Someone who wasn’t me. Two of them, arms wrapped like scarves against the miserable drizzle, two happy people lazily clumping home for sex. They had just rounded the corner, ten or so houses away. I inched across the pavement and slowly opened the car door. But it was too late. I’d been spotted. Morag stopped walking, disentangled herself. In my mind, I heard her curse. Then she started up again, slowly walking toward me.

I closed the car door, waited, trying desperately to think of a reason to be there that might not sound completely unhinged.

‘Hi,’ I said, as she neared.

‘What are you doing here, Stan?’ She didn’t sound angry. She sounded concerned, which was so much worse.

‘No, nothing, no,’ I shouted, far too jovially. ‘No, I just popped by on the off-chance, to see what you were up to, you know. I’ll be off now… You must be Christ,’ I assumed.

‘Chris,’ said Christ. I leaned toward him with my outstretched hand. He leaned over Morag and shook it. He was tall. Handsome. Young.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said. Then to Morag. ‘I’m really sorry, OK? Have a good night.’

‘Stan,’ she said.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ I insisted, nodding, smiling, moving quickly, gurning from the driver’s seat, taking control, driving away. Bish bash bosh, I was gone and on the London Road in what seemed like minutes. All the way home, Wish by the Nine Inch Nails on repeat, window-rattlingly loud.

I was home by 10.15. By 11 I’d drunk three bottles of San Miguel, smoked a couple of joints and convinced myself that it had all been a dream.

There was no crack by the way, just in case you were wondering. Keith had assumed I was joking.

At ten minutes past midnight I received a text from Morag. ‘Are you OK?’ it said.

And you know what I did? I ignored it.

Ha!

Triumphant! Victorious! Not at all immature!

So, there we are.

Nine months in and I’m done with love. Seriously. As far as I’m concerned, love can go fuck itself. Ziplessly.

I’m done with it.

We used to read Catullus to each other, you know, some nights. That’s how fucking stupid we were.

Ha!

I don’t regret posting the Gchats, because I knew that by the end of them, Morag would come out looking good, at least to me. And I had her express permission. But you should know that I know that the only reason I really did it was because it might enable to us to get back together.

I don’t know much about women.

But I know what I like.

On the other hand, I regret it entirely. What on earth kind of way is that to carry on? Posting private conversations in public is just weird and totally without class. I need to take a long hard look at myself and what I consider acceptable behaviour. At least where other people are involved.

Done with love though. That remains.

After all, there’s only so long you can chase a wild goose. I reckon 30 years is about the limit. If you don’t give up after 30 years, then it shows a distinct lack of respect for the goose. You know? That goose is not for catching. Let it go. Chase something else.

So I’m refocusing my attention. I’ve always been too cerebral anyway. I read the preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray when I was a teenager and I convinced myself I admired it. I reread it just now and hated it. Barely comprehensible pretentious garbage written by a hypocritical phoney who lived his whole life as a lie.

Done with Wilde.

Done with Art.

Done with Beauty.

Done with Truth.

Done with That Sort of Thing.

Done with love.

No more pining and moping and yearning and sighing.

No more putting the spiritual ahead of the physical

No more putting the brain ahead of the body.

And what better time to make that shift than now that I’m under 16 stone for the first time in God knows how many years. Now I need to consolidate with bananas and weights.

Secondly, no more intimacy. Intimacy fucks things up.

No more talking before sex, or indeed afterwards.

No more getting to know potential sex partners.

No more meeting anyone who reads this blog and knows more about me than what they see when they meet me cold: my large elbow-heavy head, my dead-eyed gaze and my increasingly impressive musculature.

No more confusing emotional need with physical lust.

I'm not done with lust. I'm just getting going on that.

I'm just done with love. And so on.

Good.

I’m glad I’ve got that sorted.

So what else is new?

Ah, yes, number six :: Get Paid for Writing Something Heartfelt.

Please. Don’t get me started. I’m beginning to think that finding love – which doesn’t exist – might actually be easier than getting an editor to reply to an email. What fuckers they are. At least I got a sniff, a backstairs whisper of what love might be like, had it existed, and at least when the love thing fell apart, at least the women involved had the good grace and common decency to dump me to my face. More or less.

If you’re an editor of a magazine, answer me this :: where the fuck do you get off not even deigning to answer emails? Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are? How difficult is it to have a standard rejection on hand that you can just send out when you need to? Even a single fucking word would be better – more courteous – than nothing. I don’t care if you're busy with presidential elections and the collapse of Capitalism. It takes seconds to say no. You know? I’m a human being and I deserve some rudimentary respect. Don't ignore me. Otherwise you come across as self-centred, egotistical, heartless shits, the lot of you.

So. There we have it.

Nine down. Three to go.

Obviously, it's not over yet.

But it will be soon.

When I started this blog, my plan was always to stop after a year. I thought that if I hadn’t achieved my goals, then at least I’d have a catalogue of failure to weep over in my dotage. Actually I didn’t. I had no idea what would happen. I just thought, try for a year, then stop. Whether I was still fat or not, whether I was still smoking or not, whether I was still a lonely old freak pleasuring oven gloves behind closed curtains or not, I would stop.

Now I can’t imagine stopping. But the way I feel at the moment, I might stop anyway just to spite myself.

I’m lost.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

I’m thinking I might do a Henry Miller, run away to Paris and whore myself into an early grave. Or a late grave, as it was in his case.

Ironically it was Morag who said I should read some Henry Miller. I say ironically, because reading Tropic of Cancer this week is bringing all kinds of misogynistic urges to the fore, of which Morag, being quite the feminist, would most certainly not approve.

Oh well.

Never mind.

Actually, I’m not convinced these urges are misogynistic. They’re merely misanthropic. Soulless.

This passage for instance, is a good example of the kind of stuff that's really firing me up as I read:

‘…O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris’ chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces…’

Sorry if the language offended you. But not really. I’m not sorry. I love it. Because there’s no love in it, just a cynical rampage through life. Cold, but celebratory. Celebratory, but cold. I approve.

Done with love.

Fuck it.

Do you know what I mean? I mean that my heart has turned to bone. Ossification of the love muscle has been transacted.

I do not believe in love.

Love does not exist.

The stuff my heart has tried and failed to feel with any conviction, the stuff that you people allow to rule and ruin your lives, that is not love - or it may be love but it does not conform to the naïve notion of Romantic Love I had in my ludicrous head. Rather, it’s just some hormonal tick to trick you into staying together and raising children. It’s a genetically modified chemical blindfold. You wear it gladly because you’re hardwired to do so. Good for you.

I really think I might fuck some whores.

This is absolutely fascinating. It’s the oldest profession, you know.

So what else is new?

Well, the ache in my drum has returned. So much so that I've decided I've probably got stomach cancer. I shouldn’t complain though. You’re only as healthy as you feel. You’re only… as healthy… as… you… feel. Anyone?

I’m supposed to be finding somewhere to live too. What happened to that?

And yes, I know this is the most self-indulgent thing I’ve ever written, and I know I’ve written an awful lot of self-indulgent things over the last nine months. So sue me.

And yes, I fully expect to find myself embarrassedly apologising next week for temporarily morphing into the loveless monster you read before you, this polar opposite to everything I’ve ever said, thought or felt. But fuck it, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll take a whore while I'm still in the mood and maybe I'll take to money-fucking like a zipless duck to water. Maybe this is the new me.

And yes, I know that time heals all wounds.

And yes, of course I know that Morag will read this post. Why do you think I'm posting it in the first place? What? You don't think it will work?

Only kidding.

Done with love.

Feedback Friday :: No Hard Feelings

bulk :: 17st 2
alcohol units imbibed :: 20
cigarettes smoked :: 0
runs run :: 2
swims swum :: 2
friendships ruined :: 0
readers disappointed :: quite a few, it seems
regrets :: a few, but then again, too few to mention

So. Now then. A lot of people have voiced their disappointment in me for what recently passed between Patricia and I. A few of you made your feelings clear in comments and a couple of you even took time out to write me an email. This one, for example, which I received from Mark D, who was so furious he could barely think straight:

‘i use to really think you cool man till this. i cant believe it- your best mates got like a fatal disease or something and your sleeping with his girlfiend a wek or two after they splitup??? you really ate a beastman.’

Whoa! Whoa there! I did not eat a beastman! I think we need a little distance here. This is all getting a tiny bit out of hand. Now chill the heck out and let me tell you a story, a story about a boy called Eric…

Eric and the Irresistible Force

Eric had never had much luck with women. He was not what you’d call a good looker. In fact, he was what you’d call a bad looker. He was, in other words, ugly. Very ugly. Because of this fact, he’d only ever slept with two women: one physically disabled, one mentally bereft. Generally, when they caught sight of him, women tended to look away as if their retinas had been scorched, as if Eric were human pepper spray. Even men didn’t particularly enjoy his company, almost as if they thought they themselves might be infected by Eric’s gruesome appearance. But children, once they’d asked their usual guileless questions – ‘What’s wrong with your face?’, ‘Why is your head so big and bumpy?’, ‘Are you Hellboy?’ – loved him.

Something in Eric had never really grown up. It was almost as if the childhood he’d been denied by vicious, loveless parents had been packed away until the time was right. At 17, when he moved into a place of his own with Kevin, his childhood friend, the time was right and Eric’s childhood was finally unleashed. For most of the next five years, he spent almost all of almost every day playing games, giggling till he wet himself and running around the house in his damp, unlovely pants. Furthermore, once it had been unleashed, this infantile vivacity never really left Eric, and children, when they met him, latched onto it and were quickly entranced, invariably wrapped around Eric’s neck within half an hour, like giggling, meaty scarves.

For most of his 20s, Eric didn’t meet any children. Neither did he meet many adults. The constant taunting and cruelty which his ugliness had prompted throughout his childhood had taken its toll. He was fed up with it. He was fed up with being singled out and frowned upon simply because of his appearance, and the only way he knew how to deal with this was to go into hiding. So this is what he did.

However, by the time he was 30, the solitude had quite worn him down. He had become sad and withdrawn. He’d become heavier, both physically and spiritually, and without the light of human companionship, his flesh had become quite pale.

Then there was change. Eric eventually saw what he had become, and he was not best pleased. ‘I have grown into my ugliness,’ he thought. ‘I have allowed my unpleasant exterior to creep inside.’ And so he resolved to do something. He resolved to change, to force himself out into the world, to force himself into the company of other people.

And all went well. Better in fact, than he could ever have expected. Eric found that not only was he accepted, but that his own unique brand of self-deprecation and childlike innocence went over a storm. People really seemed to genuinely like him, split infinitives and all, until one day, when it all went horribly, sickeningly wrong.

…

Kevin had done well for himself since he and Eric were kids. Not only had he found himself a piss-easy, well-paying job in something called ‘the new media’, but he’d also met a wonderful woman called Pamela. Pamela was taller than Kevin, with long black hair which she usually wore in a loose pony tail over her right shoulder, and dark, deep, profoundly seductive eyes. She was bright like a thousand suns and had a great talent for making divine, heart-melting music. Kevin was not alone in thinking that he really wasn’t good enough for her. But Pamela loved him. She loved him because he was charming, funny and, much like Spontaniouse from the 8th cycle of America’s Next Top Model, he was spontaneous. One day he’d send her an enormous bouquet of bluebells, the next there’d be tickets for Billy Elliot hidden inside her All Bran box. One time he even surprised her with a weekend in Paris! Sadly, they couldn’t go on that because it was Pamela’s son’s birthday. Pamela was really sorry. ‘It’s OK,’ said Kevin. ‘I got the tickets free from work anyway. Bloody kids though, eh?’ Pamela smiled. Then looked away.

Pamela’s kids were called Alice and Will and to say they meant the world to Pamela would be to understate the case somewhat. Their father, the love of Pamela’s life, died of cancer when Alice was just three years old and Will was one. Pamela had wanted to die too, and perhaps it was only her love for her kids that pulled her through. But perhaps she would have pulled through anyway.

…

When Eric came back out into the world, he saw quite a lot of Kev and Pam. He was invited over for meals and fashionable soirees. He even spent Christmas with them and when Kev and Pam finally found time to take that weekend in Paris, Eric was happy to look after the kids while they were away. Alice and Will doted on Eric.

Then disaster struck. Kevin got sick. Pamela, afraid that he might go the way of her first husband, drew him closer to her. Kevin meanwhile - splendid in so very many ways, moronic in others - strayed into the arms of another woman. He attempted to justify his betrayal by telling himself that it was fear of death and decay that had prompted him to betrayal. Like in Moonstruck. ‘I must live,’ he thought. ‘How long before even the possibility of a stolen kiss eludes me? I must act now while I can, even if the act is a foul one.’ He confessed his betrayal to Pamela as soon as it had happened in the hope of limiting the damage, in the vain hope that she might understand his fears and forgive him.

When Pamela and Kevin parted, Eric was devastated. He had grown extremely fond of Pamela over the year that she had been with Kevin, and he had grown to love her kids. Consequently, he was furious with Kevin and rashly, he lashed out. Kevin was hurt and confused. He expected support from his childhood friend, not condemnation, but here was Eric drying Pamela’s tears whilst Kevin was left to smoke his lungs sore with dirty drugs and beat himself senseless with a paperweight in the shape of a pyramid.

Meanwhile, Pamela was determined that her kids should not suffer from the break-up, or at least no more than was inevitable. They would miss Kevin, and their mum’s sadness would rub off on them for sure, but there was no need for them to miss their favourite babysitter. So not so very long after the split-up, Pam asked Eric if he’d mind looking after Alice and Will when she went out with friends to eat dinner and drink wine and talk bad about menfolk. Eric jumped at the chance. It felt like months since he’d seen the kids. Although it wasn’t.

And so he passed a thoroughly pleasant evening, playing games, speaking in silly voices and jumping about like a overweight tigger. He put the kids to bed at around 11 and read John Bellairs to them till they slept.

At fifteen minutes past one, Pamela came home. She had the glazed expression and slightly stained teeth of one who had drunk too much red wine, then followed up on the wine with cocktails and dancing.

She ran to the loo when she got in, then tiptoed in to gaze upon her sleeping children for a moment. Returning downstairs, still wearing her short satin dress with no arms and no back, she asked Eric if he’d like a White Russian. Eric liked White Russians and he was in no hurry to leave, so he said yes. He also knew that if he drank a White Russian, then he’d probably be over the limit and wouldn’t be able to drive home. He said yes anyway.

‘I have had a fantastic evening,’ declared Pamela emphatically, slurring only very slightly.

‘Good,’ said Eric. ‘Fantastic. What did you do?’

As she noisily prepared the drinks, Pamela talked him through the three-course dinner at the Italian restaurant and the White Russians and dancing afterwards at some bar in Soho. Then she brought Eric his drink, plonked herself down in an adjacent armchair and said, ‘It’s weird, but all these guys were trying to get into my pants tonight.’

‘You’ve got great pants though, Pam,’ said Eric. ‘I mean, that’s probably not weird at all, really, all things considered. They’re only human.’ He squirmed uncomfortably. He was uncomfortable because this was not an area of conversation he particularly wanted to enter into. Pamela’s pants were not his business.

‘How do you know what my pants are like?’ said Pamela, leering slightly.

Eric couldn’t help himself. ‘Well, you don’t honestly think that when the kids are asleep I just sit here watching television, do you?’

Pamela looked confused for a second, then she understood. ‘Ewwww.’ She laughed. ‘Have you been kippering through my underwear, Eric?’

Eric laughed too. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m joking. Honest. My kippering days are long gone.’ This was true.

Then Pamela changed tack and Eric relaxed. ‘What did you guys get up to tonight then?’

‘What didn’t we get up to more like. We played Jack Sparrow, or Jack Ptarmigan as I was rather cruelly dubbed by Will. Also Jack Frigate and Jack Blue-Footed Boobie. We did a bit of Wii bowling, which Alice won with her left hand and one eye closed. We watched a bit of South Park and we made some cakes.’

Eric then jumped up and fetched a lopsided cake from the kitchen, on top of which Alice had written in green icing sugar ‘We love you, Mummy!’

Pamela was moved. Her eyes became a little moist and her voice cracked as she said how much she adored her cake. She really loved her kids to bits, and alcohol didn’t help matters. Eric put the cake away.

‘How’s Kevin?’

Pamela winced. ‘Let’s erm… we don’t need to talk about Kevin.’ She smiled.

‘OK, sorry.’

‘Alice has got a huge crush on you, you know.’

‘Oh hush, she’s 11 years old.’

Pamela shook her head. ‘What’s your point? She’s been interested in boys since she was seven.’

‘Well, I don’t want to worry you,’ said Eric, ‘but I’ve got a bit of a crush on her too. I do intend to wait until she’s 16 though, before I….’ He faltered, realising that the conversation was perhaps veering toward the unpleasant. ‘I’m joking,’ he said. And of course he was. ‘But if I was 20 years younger, I’d be all over your daughter like plague of toads. She’s a genius. She drew a picture of Will tonight which is eerily good.’

Pamela nodded. ‘She gets that from her dad.’

‘Yeah,’ said Eric. ‘Well, he would be incredibly proud. As proud as you are.’

‘You know what she said this morning? She asked me if we would be seeing more of you now that Kevin’s not coming round anymore.’

‘Eek,’ said Eric. ‘Well, that’s sweet of her.’

‘The way she talks about you, I know she thinks of you….’ She trailed off. ‘She really misses her dad. That’s never going to go away.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Eric, wondering how on earth he could turn the conversation round to something more cheerful. But then Pamela did that for him.

‘Do you know that my breasts swell up something rotten if I don’t have regular sex.’

Eric opened his mouth to speak but for a moment nothing came out. He shook his head slightly. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said. ‘Is that a medical condition or, or…?’

‘One more drink I think,’ said Pamela, standing up, ‘then bed. Come on, knock it back.’ Eric finished his drink and handed over his glass.

While Pam was in the kitchen, Eric stood up, adjusted his erection and paced the living room nervously. He glanced in the large mirror over the fireplace and was reminded of Vincent Vega in Pulp Fiction. He patted his jeans pockets for his heroin, then remembered that he didn’t take heroin. ‘Just one more drink,’ he told himself. ‘Then I’ll go.’

He was still by the mirror chatting to himself when Pamela returned with more White Russians. She handed one to Eric and held up her own glass for clinking. ‘Here’s to being free,’ she said. They clinked, and drank. Eric noticed that Pamela had given him the wrong glass, with traces of her lipstick around the rim. He didn’t say anything.

‘I think I’m going to like being single,’ said Pamela. ‘I’d forgotten about the upsides.’

‘There are upsides?’ said Eric.

‘Loads of upsides,’ said Pamela. ‘You can do what you want when you want; you can go out dancing and flirting and you can let men buy you drinks and stroke your hair if you want them to...’

‘Oh yes,’ said Eric. ‘There’s always that.’

‘You can see your friends whenever you like and you can kiss people who are completely inappropriate.’

At that moment Eric was feeling completely inappropriate and physically very awkward.

‘Come and sit down with me,’ said Pamela.

‘Oh, OK,’ said Eric. ‘Sitting down is good. I can do that.’

Eric sat on the sofa. Pamela sat next to him. Eric took a gulp of his drink. Pamela took his glass off him and placed it on the coffee table in front of them. Eric looked straight ahead of him like a terrified child. Pamela said, ‘I know you find me attractive.’

Eric snapped. ‘Alright, listen, Pam, stop, please. I don’t know what you’re thinking…’

‘You know what I’m thinking.’

‘I don’t think you know what I’m thinking – what you’re thinking I mean. You don’t know what you’re thinking. You’ve had a lot to think, to drink I mean, and you don’t really know what you’re saying. You’re drunk and you’ve probably eaten too much too, and you’re upset over Keith, Kevin I mean, and your breasts are swollen and... and your hand, Pamela, your hand is on my thigh.’ He stopped. ‘Pamela,’ he said sharply, like he was speaking to a dog who looked like it was about to urinate on his stamp collection.

‘I know,’ said Pam, staring at Eric’s face, smiling. ‘I want your cock.’

‘Whoa!’ cried Eric and he jumped up from the sofa and moved back over to the fireplace.

Pamela laughed, then she pretended to be hurt. ‘Do you find me so repulsive?’ she whimpered.

‘Oh stop,’ said Eric. ‘Don’t. Please. You know I think you’re amazing, in every sense, and would give my right arm to… you know, but this is all wrong. You’re drunk for a start, and you’re just trying to get back at Kevin. And it isn’t fair on me, frankly.’ He stopped there, but he was thinking, ‘One kiss is all it’ll take and I’ll fall madly, deeply, irreversibly in love with you.’

Pamela stopped smiling. ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right.’ She shrugged. ‘Come and sit down again.’

‘I’ll sit over here,’ said Eric.

‘Come and sit over here,’ snapped Pamela. ‘Jesus, I’ve said you’re right. I’m not going to rape you, for God’s sake.’ Pamela smiled, patted the sofa next to her. Eric returned, slightly shaken, and sat down. Pamela stood up, moved in front on Eric, facing him, lifted her right leg and climbed into his lap.

‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You’re not taking advantage of me, OK?’ Her hands moved from his shoulders to his neck, to his ears. A shock ran through him, his limbs became a mess of goose bumps. ‘I’m taking advantage of you.’

Eric could feel Pamela’s naked thighs on his legs where her dress had ridden up. He could feel her hands on the sides of his face and then her lips and breath on his neck and ears and part of him wanted to grab hold of her wrists and push her away, to get up from the sofa, grab his coat and storm out of the house, drive home over the limit in an almighty huff, reporting Pamela to the police as he drove. ‘Yes, officer. There’s been an attempted rape. A beautiful woman climbed into my lap and tenderly kissed the side of my face. I want to press charges.’

But another part of him, had it been capable of thinking, would have thought, ‘Hold on a minute. Mate, this is – in many important ways – the best thing that has ever happened to you, bar none. There isn’t a court in the land that would convict you if you just allowed what is already happening to reach its natural conclusion. Even Kevin, once he’s calmed down, will understand. Pamela likes you. She thinks you’re funny and clever and great for her kids, and she just wants someone to ease the swelling in her breasts.’

As it turned out, Eric’s non-thinking part was quite right.

Pamela took Eric to her bed that night and wasn’t so drunk that she regretted what she had done in the morning. Not entirely. In fact, she did it again that same morning, and then carried on doing it again for another week or two. Then she thought it was best to stop. She decided it wasn’t fair on Eric. She could see he was developing feelings for her, despite himself.

No hard feelings. That’s what she said.

No hard feelings.

Eric repeated those words to Kevin when they met a couple of days after it had all blown over.

Kevin shrugged. ‘No hard feelings,’ he said. ‘No feelings at all really.’

They drank a toast to Pamela. ‘To Pamela,’ they said. ‘And all who sail in her,’ added Kevin.

Meanwhile, somewhere in an orchestra chamber on the other side of London, Pamela’s breasts began, imperceptibly, to swell.

I don't know whether you picked on the clues at all, but that story was actually about me and Patricia. And that's pretty much how it happened. All of which is to say, look, for Christ's sake, we all make mistakes. I don’t think that my sleeping with Patricia for the week or so we managed was my finest hour, morally, but I don’t think it was the worst thing anyone’s ever done. Keith’s forgiven me, therefore I shouldn’t really care if a few people I’ve never met before think I’m a shit, but for some reason I do.

Oh, come on. You’re no saint either. Come on, admit it, I dare you. Tell me your most shameful, immoral, regrettable secret and we’ll call it quits.

In the meantime, Keith and I are off to see his dad and stepmum in Newcastle. I’m driving. Keith is smoking grass. It’s for his MS.

Have a great weekend.

Everybody’s Blogging Nowadays

Ah.

His name is not Keith.

Um...

No. I've got absolutely nothing to say.

The End

I received the following email this morning, from Patricia:

Hello Poppet

It would appear that I'm suffering from a terrible inertia today - I can't seem to do anything to its conclusion. The kids are with their nan, I have no work till Wednesday and as a result, I am STILL IN MY PYJAMAS. I keep half-doing things, then making a coffee and wandering round. Plus people keep ringing me. I know lots of people in need at the moment. And it’s good because their needs take my mind of my own.

Anyway, I’ve come to a decision about our mutual friend “Keith”. Basically, I read that blog your friend recommended and I realised that in many ways I’ve had a lucky break. So much of what this stranger wrote rings true - “too much hurt, too many impulsive actions” - and I’ve decided that I’m not going to try and patch things up with “Keith”. He’s never betrayed me with anyone else before, as far as I know, but he has hurt me with his impulsiveness – putting himself before me, always putting himself before me, to such an extent that I don’t really matter. Richard never did that. Richard put me first always. He loved me. He truly loved me. And then he died. Nice one, God. Fair play to you.

When it comes to the way they both treated me at least, “Keith” has nothing on Richard. I do love him, "Keith", but as far as I can see it, he doesn’t know how to love properly. People who know how to love properly don’t sleep around. I think it’s that simple. Maybe they can learn how to love. Maybe “Keith” could learn how to love me. Maybe. But that’s too bad because I’m not going to give him the opportunity. He can learn to love someone else. And I can find someone else who doesn’t find loving me SUCH A FUCKING CHALLENGE.

I’ve told “Keith” this already. He was here all day yesterday trying to convince me that he’s right for me. I want you to post this on your blog because it was your blog that led me to Javaira’s blog and I think if I hadn’t read that, there is every chance I would have forgiven “Keith” and stayed with him. And that would have been the wrong decision. I deserve better than that. I know he’s your best friend so I’ll understand it if you choose not to put this on the internet but I want you to. I want you to finish the story. Because it’s definitely finished.

I know this will hurt “Keith” too, but that’s too bad. Like Javaira said – “If he can still face everyone after this, then he is learning to face himself.” You’d be doing him a favour.

I’m feeling sorry for myself now and I know this will pass. I know that I have to be strong now, when I feel weakest. I have to say no. “Keith” wants me back. I have to say no.

Anyway, howareyou? It's a miracle that I've finished this email. You should be honoured. Hope this find you very happy, nibbling on some delicious unhealthy elevenses.

Mwa!
“Patricia” xx

Ten minutes ago, I received this email from Keith:

Yeah, whatever, I’m really not arsed. I suppose if she wants you to stick it online, it would be churlish of me to stand in her way. I hope it gets you some new readers.

So there it is. I’m going round to see Keith tonight too, so there appears to be no bad feeling. So that’s good. Unless of course, he plans to poison me and bury me under his patio. (If I haven’t blogged again by Friday, please notify the authorities.)

To Blog Or Not To Blog

It’s difficult to know sometimes, what to say, in life. Some things, no matter how difficult, should definitely be aired; others, not. But often it’s not that clear which way to go. Myself, I’ve always been of the ‘when in doubt, blurt it out’ school. Hence yesterday’s post. But as commenter Dan said last night, ‘…I'm not convinced that your blog was the most appropriate way of saying this. You may have decided to put your life out there on the net, but maybe [Keith] hasn't….’ Yes. I agree. I really do. But I also disagree, kind of, and for three important reasons:

a) I didn’t break any confidences. It would have been different if Patricia didn’t know that her boyfriend had cheated on her and there was a chance of her finding out through this blog. But there was no chance of that, because she already knew.

b) All of the people mentioned in this blog are disguised. So Keith isn’t really called Keith, Ange isn’t really called Ange, and Patricia, who isn’t really called Patricia, doesn’t really play the cello. She’s actually called Pam and she plays the viola. I jest, but I must concede, it’s not the most sophisticated of encryption techniques. I’m not Graham Greene after all. But on a tiny little blog that only one of my friends reads, I’m certain it’s enough.

Or it least it was. Till yesterday. Now – I’m not entirely sure why, but I guess it’s for slightly misguided reasons of damage limitation - he’s told Patricia about the blog.



I’m guessing he’s probably mentioned it to Ange too. (I don’t think I’m doing him any massive disservice to presume that breaking a small confidence is beneath him.)

c) …I’ve forgotten what the third thing was. Damn. I think that may have been the clincher too.

But still, I agree that really the point is that people have the right not to have their private lives discussed on a public forum. But for Christ’s sake, this isn’t Perez Hilton or Matt Drudge. I only have - at most - a dozen regular readers.

Sorry. I keep trying to justify myself, and I shouldn’t. The fact is, even if he is a smiling damned villain, even if he is a treacherous, conniving, back-stabbing, adulterous dog, Keith is my friend – my best friend – and he wasn’t best pleased with my virtual washing of his dirty, stinking, love-rat laundry.



So I’m sorry. Genuinely.

And from now on, there shall be no more discussing my friends’ private lives. Which is a shame because there is news. But no…. From now on it’s just me and my sordid forays into weight loss and sexual satisfaction.

Speaking of which, two things:

a) This morning I lay on my back and attempted to lift my legs up in the air – just keeping them straight and raising them, like we used to do at school in the gym. And I could manage five seconds, at most. I felt ashamed. Really ashamed. I have to do more to get rid of this sickening blancmange I have the temerity to call a stomach. I think it might be time to invest in an ab roller. Or even better, a 6 second abs system. Complete with DVD. I love DVDs! Wave goodbye to the aberration of your abs in just six seconds! Six seconds! I can’t get over that. What kind of moron would I have to be to miss this opportunity?

Yeah, well. I love the way it has ‘As seen on TV’ splashed over the packet too, like that’s supposed to give some kind of guarantee of quality. Hey, it's been on TV! It must be good!

More swimming I think, is called for.

b) I feel terribly, terribly libidinous. I think it’s a combination of losing a little weight and starting to feel healthier in general, not filling my body with bad chemicals, nascent spring filling up my nostrils when I go for a run, and - not forgetting - my recent discovery of YouPorn. JesusGod. If this had existed when I was 15, I would NEVER HAVE LEFT THE HOUSE!

Ever.

Oh, and I’m playing tennis again later with Pip. You remember Pip, fitness freak, good-for-nothing and potential dog-murderer. Shit, am I even allowed to say that anymore? Or have I betrayed another confidence?

Jesus.

A guy can’t say nothin’ round here.



Supercool war posters from here.


Afterthought: Do you blog? Course you do. So what's your take on the whole 'tell it like it is' thing? Do you tell it like it is? Or is it just not worth the bother? Do tell.

The Long, Dark Soap Opera of the Soul :: An Open Letter to a Friend

So, as you know, I started keeping this blog so that I could help force myself to pursue a healthy lifestyle and, somewhere along the way, find myself a lady. A lovely lady at that. One with silken skin and leathery skirts. Or vice versa. One who would make me giddy with adoration and fill my nether regions with hot blood and gristle. A lady to laugh with and love with, to have and to hold, to tickle and tether from this day forth, as long as we both shall live. Or at least for a couple of months, till the inevitable withering or betrayal.

Finding such a thing of course requires me opening my heart and telling my tales. It requires me sharing my intimates and spilling my beans. And my beans of course are smothered in the brightly coloured sauce of other people, other things. The occasional colleagues. The pets I’ve known and loved. The women I ogle on buses and the ones who give me hope in parks and online. And my family, I suppose. And my friends. Aaaaaaaaah yes, my friends.

I haven’t really got that many friends, and of those that I do have, only Keith is aware that this blog exists. (As far as I know.) Because I told him. Because I had to tell someone. But now, as of last night, I’m kind of regretting it. Because as of last night, I realise I want to talk about Keith. And not in a good way.

I’ve been struggling with this all day.

But if blogging is like therapy, which it definitely is, I can’t just lie here on this virtual couch staring out of the window or talking about America’s Next Top Model every week. There are things that need to be said. Even if they sting. So I may as well say them directly. And I know I may regret this. I may end up not even posting it. I don’t know. If you’re reading it, it’s probably safe to say I forced myself to click ‘publish’. I hope I don’t regret it…

Dear Keith

I’ve known you a very long time and you’re my oldest and dearest friend in all the world and I love you.

But.

I got a call from Patricia yesterday, your girlfriend of more than a year, the woman you love and want to marry, the woman whose children you have pledged to support and threatened to adopt. She was crying. She said that you’d betrayed her, that you’d slept with someone else on Friday night. She didn’t know the name of the woman you slept with, but of course I do. You slept with Ange.

I’m amazed. I’m disappointed. I’m shocked and hurt and totally bewildered. I don’t know how you could do this. I don't know how you could do this to Patricia. I really can’t get my head around the fact that you’ve gone and jeopardised the very thing you’ve always yearned for, that which you’ve described a million times as the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And for what?

Ange is great, don’t get me wrong. She’s a fabulous woman. She’s warm, witty and wonderful. But she’s hardly the most emotionally mature mental patient on the ward, is she? She said to me sometime last month: ‘I’m not a very good girlfriend. I’m a good fuck, but I’m not a good girlfriend.’ I replied that I thought that’s all most men wanted anyway, was a good fuck. She said: ‘Not the ones I meet. Nine out of ten times they fall for me. Or they think they do. And they want to go out with me. Or they want to take me home to meet their parents. I’m sure the fact that I don’t want any of that is what makes them think that they do… But I really don’t get off on being in a relationship. I like my independence. And I like my friends. And I don’t want kids. So what’s the point? I just happen to have a very high sex drive.’

I’m guessing that’s what swung it for you. The sex. I understand it’s a very powerful force. I hope it was worth it.

I could be wrong of course, and I’m sure I shouldn’t be writing all this without having heard your side of the story. But for now you’re not sharing; and I have to.

In a way I hope I am wrong. I hope Ange is the one for you. I hope you’ve fallen in love with her and you both make each other blissfully happy. But even if that turns out to be the case, you could have handled it a lot better. You didn’t have to hurt Patricia like this. She spent most of last night weeping into my arms, trying not to wake the kids with her sobs, wondering what she’d done wrong, what she'd done to deserve the pain she was in.

I can’t believe it.

I know I shouldn’t because it’s ludicrous, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty for bringing the two of you together. I keep thinking, if only I hadn’t got sick, or if only Ange hadn’t got sick before me, or if only I hadn’t got back in touch with Ange in December, or if only you weren’t such a selfish fucking short-sighted arsehole.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about you and Patricia; it’s about you and Ben and Dina; it’s about you and Ange. And neither you nor Ange are answering your phones tonight. Hopefully you’re round at Patricia’s and you’re going some way to starting to sort this out, one way or the other.

I’m sorry I’m writing this to you in a public forum and not in a private email. But I kind of lied when I said it’s not about me. It is also about me. And this is where I write about me and my life. And this ugly mess you’ve made is now part of my life.

I’m sorry I’m coming across all self-righteous too. Maybe if I had the opportunity, I’d be a treacherous son-of-a-bitch too, and maybe you’d be up here, poncing around on the moral highground, all holier than thou and smug as a Samaritan. Maybe. But I doubt it. You're not as self-righteous as I am. And I'm not as selfish as you are.

Most of all, I’m sorry this has happened. And I hope it can be resolved without too much more pain. I just don’t want to see the people I love hurting each other. I know, I know, me, me, me…

I’m sorry.

Good luck.

Love,


Stan.

In other news, someone pointed me at this dating site, OkCupid, which wipes the floor with loveandfriends. Just as soon as I have a moment, I’m going to beef up my profile and find that woman I’m after, the one with leathery skin and the jasmine-scented undergarments. And when I find her, I swear to God I'll treat her well and never ever be swayed by another woman's leather. Or jasmine. I swear.

Oh, crikey. It really is good. I just had someone message me!

I’m in!

Happy Fat War (Xmas Is Over)

So that was Christmas. And what did I do? Well, I ate an enormous amount of predominantly rather unhealthy food. That’s what I did. I actually decided that I may as well eat as much as I possibly could before I start the diet. A proper blow-out. And in fact, according to my brand new Argos electronic scales, my body mass has grown to the tune of ten pounds. Baby Jesus, had he existed, would have been proud. He would also have been lunch. And it’s not over yet. I intend to continue to eat like a Shetland Pony with a tapeworm until January 1st, when I will quite suddenly revert to small portions of healthy food and large portions of exercise.

Believe it.

I had fun though this Christmas, despite not being able to smoke that much. There is no smoking in Patricia’s house. She is a born again non-smoker. As I shall also be in less than a week. Shit, three days in fact. God, that’s scary. Anyway, as well as copious amounts of food and a fair amount of alcohol, there was also fun and games and much hilarity with the kids, with whom I got on very well. Ben and Dina, 9 and 11. Our getting along famously came in very handy, allowing Keith and Patricia to nip off and canoodle, loudly, in the afternoons. Good luck to them I say, even when they’re banging, yelping and yodelling like not so lonely mountain sex goats all night long. Insensitive swine.

So I got back yesterday and just lay beached on my bed like the proverbial whale. I lay there reading my copy of Men’s Health, which Keith kindly stuffed into my Christmas stocking. Keith knows about my health kick. And he is the only one of my friends who knows about this blog. Although he has yet to visit. But that’s what friends are for.

Men’s Health is hilarious. I’ve never owned a copy before but I’ve chortled many times at the impossible boasts on every single front cover, month after month after month after month, year after year after year. This month for example: ‘Hard Abs Made Easy’, ‘365 Days Of Sex’ and ‘Fat To Flat In 7 Weeks’. But because this edition is the first of the year, it also has the irresistible header, ‘YOUR ESSENTIAL NEW YEAR WEIGHT-LOSS BIBLE!’

Bastards. They must sell more copies in January than in any other month. (Which reminds me, I must join a gym.)

I also spent a good portion of yesterday reading Bridget Jones’ Diary, the success of which I have decided to emulate.

More of which later. Now however, I must sleep. But I leave you with a quick, comforting Men’s Health fact:

‘Cabbage fights more cancer than 100 oncologists’.

Believe it.