It amazes me how women have friends they just don't like. Last summer a close friend of mine asked me to be her +1 at the wedding of her lifelong best friend who, she admits when pushed, she doesn't really enjoy spending time with and has let her down more times than she can count.
The Hampshire venue was one of those majestic stately piles, a neo-gothic book mark serving as a reminder of how gloriously wealthy and decadent the past was when fortunes equalled dresses in their vastness and even 'the help' had staff. Sadly time moved on and if the in-bred Lord hadn't blown his ancestors copper fortune on rent-boys, opium and the kind of parties that would leave even 'One Night in Paris' blushing, Harcourt's 1894 introduction of death duties and the 1st World War would ensure these grand houses fell out of private hands, becoming a country curiosity enabling the normal folk to play aristocrat for the day.
Thanks to it being pay day and to make a weekend of it we decided to stay the night expecting a good party and entertaining night fuelled by a complimentary bar. Once booked into the Windsor Suite, outfits tweaked and hair freshly fluffed, a short drive followed by three large G&T's we faced the village church with suitable gusto. Threats of eternal damnation, promises of faithfulness and donations for the roof made and purgatory was over. Hallelujah! An entertaining drive down country lanes avoiding pheasants, following a dated silver Golf crammed with pink-clad bridesmaids and we arrived back at the oak panelled pile. Polite conversation, escapes attempted, seating plan read and finally food was served whilst the harpist frantically plucked away.
Mumm was quickly replaced with sparkling wine and so once again Gordon's stepped in with a little assistance from tonic. As the evening began to fade a well watered bridezilla thundered towards us, mascara streaming, and through the tears announced that her wedding was 'an utter disaster,' '...a total and utter nightmare!' All in earshot of her father who was at least £35,000 worse off thanks to his charming princess and her apparently unfulfilled demands. Our retreat was quickly accomplished and we hurtled back to our Laura Ashley draped four poster to evaluate the day, my companion admitting that she couldn't stand her best friend. However, and this is the bit I'll never understand, she would still send her a quick text later in the week to organise post-honeymoon catch up drinks. This was quickly followed by 'she can't help being a spoilt cow.'
In contrast to this us boys only have mates who we actually like. Most of our conversation circles around things which come with LCDs/LEDs/STDs and legs, cars which go faster 0-60 than my attention span during a party political broadcast and how ugly Nick's new girlfriend is. We enjoy being with like-minded souls who won't cry over lunch or give you a look of utter disgust when you suggest 'just one more - for the road.'
Women however seem to have carefully selected and regularly audited groups of friends many of whom they don't really like but still meet up with for catch-up sessions noisily bursting with delight over iced tea from Long Island and gossiping about the latest 'facts' in low lit, high priced bars. They then go home wondering why they just blew a months pay on drinks with people they wouldn't save from a burning building.
I don't believe even they know why this is, I'm certainly not brave enough to ask, but the whole girl friendship thing has always puzzled me.
To be honest I've always had a bit of an issue with the concept of 'friends.' Don't get the wrong idea, there's no Tommy-no-mates story here, I have accumulated a respectfully sized group of them over the years and regard a number as close. If Facebook is to believed I have collected over 150 to date and, thanks to my rule of only accepting people who I have actually met in person, I know more than just their email address and IM tag.
Myspace, the breading ground of bands which will never quite make it, passed me by thanks to a real life and I successfully avoided 'people-you-hoped-you-would-never-see-again - now reunited' the thought of which filled me with dread. There are reasons I chose not to keep in touch with someone who remembers a 15 year old me with bleached orange hair and a regularly squeezed crop of pimples.
Thankfully I also never felt the desire, or had the need, to join an online dating site. A colleague, who had at the time over 12 profiles and a fiancee in Brazil, reliably informed me that these were for those looking for a no-strings shag rather than a deep, meaningful relationship. Those searching for that someone special to sit in front of roaring log fires with whilst sipping Chateau Neuf De Pap and gobbling a combination of milk tray and each others faces, the image the dating websites like to portray rather than the quick fix shagfest actually on offer, best look elsewhere.
Whilst the occasional urge for some no-strings release sourced via the lap-top and a monthly deduction discreetly appearing on my credit card statement sounds like fun I have always been of the opinion that god created clubs and bars to enable people to pull and that it was only natural to view a potential conquest in this habitat. The abundance of confidence in liquid form encapsulated in a one inch glass, two centimetres for those of you not of a metric disposition, also eases the process and improves the chances of a successful kill for both parties. There are exceptions to this rule which I am sure to cover another time but for now I'll stick to my conclusion that when dating 'real' is always better than 'virtual.'
However with the cyber-birth of the blue logo'd Facebook I was dragged into the fold by a select group of converts claiming I'm not actually real until my innermost thoughts are accessible through a click on that little blue icon. I therefore now have a Facebook 'presence' which, after initially being hesitant to trust, is now teeming with all that is Me. Memories via my daily updated gallery, hourly status and links to my 'significant other' profile telling anyone accepted that yes I have a boyfriend and yes I was very happily married for 6 years to a girl.
In the majority of cases this revelation has not shocked those invited or accepted into the blue icon guarded inner sanctum of my virtual Facebook world giving them a gentle introduction into how I tick. So I'm now straddling both worlds, virtual and real, thankfully finding a pleasant middle ground, blogging is yet another affirmation of my virtual online self balancing out the real.
As the train hurtles back to Euston, the relief that I've escaped after a week held captive in a soulless cement clad conference centre on the edge of a rainy, gray, overcoat shrouded Manchester. Soho and all it can offer beckons and I can't wait...
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Monday, 19 October 2009
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
Just as a father says to his son after being given his ‘C’ filled end of year report...
Just as a father says to his son after being given his ‘C’ filled end of year report and reading that his prodigy ‘talks during class’ and 'must try harder' I too am disappointed.
I'm disappointed but not surprised, a once familiar feeling now only cropping up on occasions such as birthdays and anniversaries. Paired with the work thing which relentlessly and rudely intrudes into my day, living life has once again got in the way. It's been four months since my first well intentioned 'blog' in which time I've painted the flat, endeavoured to attach a monstrously large TV to a 19th century wall covered in 19th century plaster, not something I would recommend to a close friend, and once again fallen foul to Ikea's gloss, attempting to replicate page 232 in the living room, page 342 in the bathroom and page 421 in the bedroom. Returning home is now like the scene in Fight Club featuring Tyler's apartment, pre-destruction, thankfully without the Schizophrenia and hopefully less allegiance to bare knuckle fighting.
Having put the house in the country to bed after a succession of weekend house parties fuelled by a combination of Tesco Cava, M&S Finest grabbed from Cambridge station on a Friday evening and blissful pints of cider sat besides the River Cam, I’ve headed back to the City to resume a normal service of rain, grime and Greek Street. Gone are the summer BBQ’s subjecting guests to test their friendship as they tuck into a charred stick which only a few moments ago, they're assured, was a succulent pork and apple sausage.
Cambridge to Liverpool Street, King’s Cross is down as it’s a Sunday due to never ending engineering works. Liverpool Street to Tottenham Court Road care of a thankfully calm and almost tourist free Central Line and then the game of dodgems down Charring Cross Road, Shaftsbury Avenue, the warm neon greeting of Ed’s Diner and home. Door, stairs followed by another door, more stairs, door, sofa, shoes off and lap-top open. A curtain of yellow Post-It notes brushed away from the window reveals Soho in all its finest.
It’s wet and full of the usual crowds of lost tourists looking for the Central Line or Les Miserables, drunks and media types. The latter two mostly combine to create splashes of colour standing loudly outside bars frantically puffing away, sauvignon blanc in one hand, duty free cigarette in the other.
Nothing much has changed from the summer months; city-people are much the same whatever the season. Thankfully the death of summer brings with it less sweat, sadly it also results in less flesh on show which is never a good thing. General grubbiness prevails and thanks to autumn bringing with it more frequent bouts of rain and fallen leaves from Soho Square the grub has become a mud-slush hybrid sticking to everything. Amongst all this the orange clad Krishna, fingers still tinging with suppressed insanity peering out from behind his eyes, stands under the canopy of the theatre opposite and I can’t help wonder why I left my country idle for this cornucopia of...well…everything a city can offer. I guess that’s precisely why.
My job mainly revolves around meeting people, eating with people and listening to people. Soho seems the natural habitat for such a creature, someone who gets to meet the great and the good, the not so good and the utterly dodgy. As someone who deals on a daily basis with a mix of lawyers, accountants, bankers and brokers developing relationships to make rich people richer and do deals with deal doers I’ve been feeling less and less willing to be a people person as the months roll by. With the sad death of a long term relationship behind me and the birth and toddler steps of an exciting and fulfilling one starting up I have been finding it increasingly hard to care about things not directly related to me.
An example of this took place just a few days ago. Soho House full of its Groucho rejects sparkling just a little too much were partying late into the night, a school night, and after an extremely early start and an insanely busy day I put my best Victor Meldrew head on and called Joe the manager to ask if the music could be turned down as the sound of bongos was keeping me up. My request was politely fulfilled and apologies made. After some time mulling over what had happened I decided I should know my rights on what time really is ‘too late’ to be making such a noise. Therefore I opted to call Westminster Council 1st thing in the morning.
Unlike the pile of paperwork sat on my desk all marked urgent, morning came and went and as early afternoon cropped up along with the feeling of hunger I remembered my nightime resolution and picked up the phone. Westminster Council's service team picked up and I was greeted by an utter numpty of a woman. She found it difficult to pronounce her own name and so, having a somewhat exotic surname, I opted to keep things informal and stick to a first name basis. This utterly threw her and kicked off what became one of the most bizarre conversations I’ve ever been involved in.
We finally, mutually, decided on ending the call. It was at this point I realised I just didn't really care anymore. I, the guy who used to look forward to getting a parking ticket just so I could argue my case, explore the joys of NCP's customer service and revel in Paula/Sharon or Mark's utter incompetence as I strive to have my ticket quashed, just couldn't be bothered. Life really was too short and so I put the phone down, abandoning my quest to penetrate deep into the workings of the council's services team and went out for lunch.
I'm disappointed but not surprised, a once familiar feeling now only cropping up on occasions such as birthdays and anniversaries. Paired with the work thing which relentlessly and rudely intrudes into my day, living life has once again got in the way. It's been four months since my first well intentioned 'blog' in which time I've painted the flat, endeavoured to attach a monstrously large TV to a 19th century wall covered in 19th century plaster, not something I would recommend to a close friend, and once again fallen foul to Ikea's gloss, attempting to replicate page 232 in the living room, page 342 in the bathroom and page 421 in the bedroom. Returning home is now like the scene in Fight Club featuring Tyler's apartment, pre-destruction, thankfully without the Schizophrenia and hopefully less allegiance to bare knuckle fighting.
Having put the house in the country to bed after a succession of weekend house parties fuelled by a combination of Tesco Cava, M&S Finest grabbed from Cambridge station on a Friday evening and blissful pints of cider sat besides the River Cam, I’ve headed back to the City to resume a normal service of rain, grime and Greek Street. Gone are the summer BBQ’s subjecting guests to test their friendship as they tuck into a charred stick which only a few moments ago, they're assured, was a succulent pork and apple sausage.
Cambridge to Liverpool Street, King’s Cross is down as it’s a Sunday due to never ending engineering works. Liverpool Street to Tottenham Court Road care of a thankfully calm and almost tourist free Central Line and then the game of dodgems down Charring Cross Road, Shaftsbury Avenue, the warm neon greeting of Ed’s Diner and home. Door, stairs followed by another door, more stairs, door, sofa, shoes off and lap-top open. A curtain of yellow Post-It notes brushed away from the window reveals Soho in all its finest.
It’s wet and full of the usual crowds of lost tourists looking for the Central Line or Les Miserables, drunks and media types. The latter two mostly combine to create splashes of colour standing loudly outside bars frantically puffing away, sauvignon blanc in one hand, duty free cigarette in the other.
Nothing much has changed from the summer months; city-people are much the same whatever the season. Thankfully the death of summer brings with it less sweat, sadly it also results in less flesh on show which is never a good thing. General grubbiness prevails and thanks to autumn bringing with it more frequent bouts of rain and fallen leaves from Soho Square the grub has become a mud-slush hybrid sticking to everything. Amongst all this the orange clad Krishna, fingers still tinging with suppressed insanity peering out from behind his eyes, stands under the canopy of the theatre opposite and I can’t help wonder why I left my country idle for this cornucopia of...well…everything a city can offer. I guess that’s precisely why.
My job mainly revolves around meeting people, eating with people and listening to people. Soho seems the natural habitat for such a creature, someone who gets to meet the great and the good, the not so good and the utterly dodgy. As someone who deals on a daily basis with a mix of lawyers, accountants, bankers and brokers developing relationships to make rich people richer and do deals with deal doers I’ve been feeling less and less willing to be a people person as the months roll by. With the sad death of a long term relationship behind me and the birth and toddler steps of an exciting and fulfilling one starting up I have been finding it increasingly hard to care about things not directly related to me.
An example of this took place just a few days ago. Soho House full of its Groucho rejects sparkling just a little too much were partying late into the night, a school night, and after an extremely early start and an insanely busy day I put my best Victor Meldrew head on and called Joe the manager to ask if the music could be turned down as the sound of bongos was keeping me up. My request was politely fulfilled and apologies made. After some time mulling over what had happened I decided I should know my rights on what time really is ‘too late’ to be making such a noise. Therefore I opted to call Westminster Council 1st thing in the morning.
Unlike the pile of paperwork sat on my desk all marked urgent, morning came and went and as early afternoon cropped up along with the feeling of hunger I remembered my nightime resolution and picked up the phone. Westminster Council's service team picked up and I was greeted by an utter numpty of a woman. She found it difficult to pronounce her own name and so, having a somewhat exotic surname, I opted to keep things informal and stick to a first name basis. This utterly threw her and kicked off what became one of the most bizarre conversations I’ve ever been involved in.
We finally, mutually, decided on ending the call. It was at this point I realised I just didn't really care anymore. I, the guy who used to look forward to getting a parking ticket just so I could argue my case, explore the joys of NCP's customer service and revel in Paula/Sharon or Mark's utter incompetence as I strive to have my ticket quashed, just couldn't be bothered. Life really was too short and so I put the phone down, abandoning my quest to penetrate deep into the workings of the council's services team and went out for lunch.
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