The New Year Incident

“10, 9, 8, 7….”

“It’s not you, it’s me. I’ve changed”

“6, 5, 4…..”

“I still love you, just not in the same way”

“3, 2, 1……”

“I’m leaving you”

“HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!”

00:14 January 1st 2016

Fifteen minutes ago, I was in love.

Now? I don’t know what this is. Love Limbo? I’m a relationship refugee. I was securely docked as Captain of the good ship Boyfriend at the harbour of content and happiness and now I’ve been cast off into the murky but familiar ocean of rejection and loneliness, torpedoed by the enemy submarine named Cruel and Heartless. Like all successful submarine stealth attacks, I never saw it coming.

Now, I’m sunk, drowning in reactionary anger, dodging and weaving the London New Year revellers, ducking my head into my chest trying to avoid the driving, icy rain and replaying over and over in my head what just happened? What the fuck just happened?

It doesn’t help when a drunk Elvis, the classic white jumpsuit, big sunglasses, slicked-back hair Elvis steps into my path and with an outstretched finger and sings Heartbreak Hotel in my direction and a gaggle of lads and lad-ettes lap it up like it’s the 1968 comeback special. I am everyone’s punchline tonight. I must reek of the rejection.

Guy didn’t even look like Elvis. I could have settled for a decent Elvis mimic with a pitch-perfect rendition of Heartbreak Hotel that made me feel melancholy and reflective of my situation instead of hearing “It’s down at the end of loser street, at ….Heartbreak Hotel” in a monotone lad chant that came right of the stands at Stamford Bridge. 

I can’t argue with the lads’ fortuity of finding the perfect setup for his rudeness, mistaken as friendly banter. I am firmly checked in and tucked up in bed at the Heartbreak Hotel.

“How long will you be staying sir?”

“If I could just have the room forever, that would be great. Please also lock the door and throw away the key, it’s unlikely I will ever be able to love again”

Too much? I’ve never been here before, I’ve never been dumped, and certainly have never been cast aside so callously before. This could be a medical shock I’m experiencing. Shallow breathing, cold clammy skin, a rapid, weak pulse. Many people who know me may argue that the large time I’ve spent indoors watching movies and playing video games lends itself to those conditions. 

And on a technicality, and if we are splitting hairs here, I’ve never had a girlfriend before to be dumped. I’ve never been able to convince a girl to spend their time exclusively with me until these last three months. This is new emotional territory for me. I’m in an impassioned no-man's-land and I’m processing it like the only way I know-how. Like a love-struck, lonely, rejected thirty-year-old teenager going through puberty. 

You didn’t steal my heart, Lori; it turns out you hijacked it and held it for ransom for three months before you sucker-punched me when I was setting up for the knockout. My one-two combination of asking you to move your worldly possessions into my home (you were living with me rent-free anyway you might as well stay free permanently) followed by an unexpected uppercut of “Will you Marry Me?” would have floored you and sent the crowd wild. 

But I was showboating to the crowd, standing there with my one hundred pound shirt and you on my arm, announcing to the people, “look at me people, this girl is here with me. We are at a party and she’s standing with me! Not you handsome, successful bastards, but little funny looking, socially awkward me. How much was this shirt, you ask? A hundred, no big deal, Lori picked it. It’s a designer, so it’s worth the money. It’s New Year, after all. I thought I’d make the effort. I can’t eat next week, and it’s a little tight around the back, but at least tonight I’m uncomfortably fitting in. Did I mention this girl in the tight, blue dress and blonde hair with all the sex appeal is with me? I didn’t? Well, she is” 

It would turn out this was false pride. Like showing off a trophy I had bought online, not won.

Then you hit me with a cheap but devastating low blow, Lori, robbing me of my dignity in front of all your friends. Sucker punched me like a coward in a safe environment.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, you made me buy this stupid fucking shirt. Why didn’t I stand my ground when we were shopping? When you made me go shopping. 

“But it’s a little pink, don’t you think?” I said it with a cutesy tone, you know, to acknowledge the little rhyme I made up.

“Its Salmon, and it really suits you. Its designer, so it’s worth the money. And It’s New Year, make the effort”

The most expensive piece of clothing I owned before this ridiculous hundred-pound salmon shirt is a £49.95 collector’s edition Han Solo tee from Empire Strikes Back and it came from the states, across I don’t know how many miles of treacherous Atlantic ocean. I'm aware it was on a safe, cargo plane, but it still made the trip.

That included postage and packing and they threw in a free R2D2 keyring that I still use to this day. Listen, its makes the bee boop bee boop noises.

It’s not even a hipster cool t-shirt, I know why I own it. I know who Han Solo is. There is no irony here, I genuinely love the guy. I’m not some 14-year-old walking down the street in a Ramones t-shirt they bought from some supermarket pretending I know who the fuck the Ramones are. Do you know who Han Solo is, Lori? Do you know what Han solo achieved? He took on an empire and won in the fastest hunk o junk in the Galaxy and did the Kessler run in 12 parsecs. You didn’t know that? No, because you’ve never seen Star Wars. If I had allowed my head, taste and decency to rule my horn-mones I would have walked away from you and inevitable heartbreak at the moment that piece of evidence came up in conversation.

And Salmon? When did salmon become inducted in the sensible description guide for colours? Who describes anything other than a physical salmon, as salmon?

“I was thinking about painting the room trout, but not sure it will match the exposition clementine feature wall,”

In reality, I took little convincing. A girl took me shopping. She could have sold me a black bin bag with hole cut for my head and I would have bought it.

“It’s an important party. You get to meet my friends, finally, and you need to look good. I want to show you off”.

It would turn out this was fake pride. Like showing of trophy you had stolen, not won.

00:01 January 1st 2016

Flashback warning - remember the I'm leaving you bit?

I watched her unflinching face. I can’t say anything in reply. I heard what she said. I understand what she said but my expression says “You’re joking right?”. 

I’m looking at Lori for the first ten seconds, as if she’s about to drop her head, laughing at her big joke. Or maybe a camera crew will burst out of the bedroom with the over-enthusiastic, pint-sized television presenters, pointing their microphones at me, declaring all these people are actors and you’ve just won a holiday to space! 

Fucking space! I’ve always wanted to go there!

Then beaming with excitement, Lori declares “your face was so funny, I got you. I spent two months setting this up” 

“And that’s not all. Your mum and dad have flown in from Spain, and your eight months pregnant sister has uncomfortably travelled all the way from Australia just to be with you here tonight!” 

Huey Lewis and the News “Back in Time” comes on the sound system, everyone around us starts eighties dancing before Lori plants a long, passionate New Year kiss on me and telling me she loves me, that she loved me from the moment she met me, I’m the only man she ever wants to be with and just then, in that perfect surrounding, the photographer catches us in a freeze frame moment and that’s the picture that ends the movie before the titles roll.

But none of that happens. Of course none of that fucking happens. Lori just stares at me with no real hint of emotion. I haven’t seen this side to her yet; I realise. There have been no arguments, no disagreements in anger, no storming out moments, none of that. All we’ve done for three months is laugh, go out, talk, eat, watch movies, watch TV, drink, cuddle, kiss. Laugh. We’ve laughed so much. Her face suddenly looks different, like she’s a different person, not someone I recognise. This is a stranger’s reaction. 

A bright flash stuns me for a second and I have a moment’s montage of all the women that ever rejected my advancements of intimacy throughout my life, set to a soundtrack of “The Sound of Silence” by Simon and Garfunkel. 

“Hello darkness my old friend…..”

Amy Thompson, age 4 - “Your house smells funny”

Claire Kelly - Age 12 - “Your hair looks stupid”

Kerry Russo - Age 19 - “Ew, get away from me you fucking Nerd.”

It’s a short montage. My romantic history ladies and gentlemen. 

I spin back into the room. Lori looks deadly serious. I’m still in disbelief. I widen my eyes and my expression to the “you’re fucking joking, right?” position. 

But nothing changes and she rubs my arm and screws her face up a little, like you do when your friend’s pet dies.

“I’m sorry Mr Whiskers is dead, but you, my friend, are the only person who actually gave a fuck about that miserable cat, despite it getting 80 likes on Instagram every time you posted it. I would attend the burial but I’ve got this free tall Latte coupon from Starbucks and its expires in a week and I’m not sure when I can even next get to a Starbucks - and normal people don't have funerals for cats"

Lori nods her head slightly, to say she’s sorry, but more to reinforce what she’s just said, making sure I got the message and she was being serious.

I realise to her at this point it’s like telling a child Santa isn’t real at Christmas. It was fun to lie to you while it lasted, but now you’re ten years old it’s time to grow up. 

“But Lori, I….” She grabs my arm tighter and at the same time her own expression tightens a little to say Don’t make a scene, these are my friends, this is their house, this is their New Year’s party. Don’t fucking ruin it by creating a scene. You wouldn’t like me in a scene. You haven’t seen me in a scene. I am dangerous in a scene. We outnumber you in this scene. Look around you.

With that, I realise that I’m surrounded by strangers. I only met these people twenty minutes ago. They’re all wrapped up in the moment, all wishing each other happy new year, all basking in the ridiculous, unwarranted euphoria of one minute past midnight in the darkest, coldest time of the year. No one notices us.

Dave, who owns the flat, is in a 4 way huddle bouncing up and down to Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now. He’s the only other person here who’s name I know, and who I only met when Lori introduced me to him as “Disco Dave” when we walked into his flat. His only memory of me at his party will be “Who was that guy Lori brought?”

He’s a young professional, clean cut, expensive jeans, neat haircut, brown leather shows, normal, un-salmon, coloured shirt, and too me, he instantly comes across as a bit of a pint swallowing, rugby playing, cock size comparing douche hole. 

“Hey call me Disco Dave, the beer is only a fiver each, just kidding, it’s free, I can afford it,” Dave had said when we appeared at the door.

Lori lapped it up, with a Barbara Windsor Carry On style cackle I’ve never seen or heard before that made me internally question who is this girl? But I let it go in the moment. Maybe she was nervous to show me off.

Dave is the type of guy who probably picked his own nickname just because one night he was out dancing and a couple of his drunk mates thought it was funny. Where in the world are all the Salsa Daves? You don’t choose your nickname, they chose your nickname for you. I went to school with a guy called “Pie”. Do you think he wanted to be called Pie? No, he fucking didn’t. He was called Dave, and he was good at dancing, but he didn’t get to pick his own fucking nickname.

“Well I can’t leave without my Jacket” I say as if this will make her change her mind. 

What answer was I expecting? Oh sorry, I didn’t realise you didn’t have you your jacket, let’s spend the rest of our lives together.

She hasn’t asked me to leave yet, not with words anyway. I’m no mind reader either but it feels her face is saying “fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off, fuck off you little shit”

“It’s in the bedroom,” she says, a little too quick. “But you don’t have to leave now, stay and have a drink, it’s New Year” The insincerity in her voice is indisputable to both her and I and we share a moment of real awkward, squeaky bum cramping silence. 

I don’t even like New Year. In fact, I fucking hate it, like most sensible people. I only came because you wanted me to come, Lori. This was your fucking idea. Or was this some kind of sick plan? A sting? Is everyone else in on it? Or what happened in the last 10 minutes that made you realise you hated me? 

New Year. Organised fun where the parties are usually arranged by enthusiastic people that read and post mantras on Facebook because they “love life”. “Love Life to the fullest because it only happens once” or some obvious shit like that, written in swirly writing layered onto a picture of a waterfall in South America they’ve never heard of before. 

Human cattle herded into spaces too small to watch a giant clock countdown to ten miserable minutes of lazy fireworks displays followed by a few hours of lonely regret from the things you didn’t achieve the previous year. 

Why didn’t I exercise, why didn’t eat healthy, why didn’t I phone my friends more, why didn’t I get a new job, how many of those important, life changing philosophical books did I read from the list I made last January? None. How many trips did I make to those “must see exotic places”? None. How much money did I waste on Lonely Planet travel books for Australia, New Zealand, South America, Southeast Asia, then spent a week highlighting all the places I was going to visit? Alot. I told myself I’d visit all those amazing cities on weekend breaks, one a month for the whole of the year. Amsterdam, Berlin, Barcelona, Madrid, Venice, Paris, Rome, Florence (I’ve always wanted to go there!!). 

I’d try off the beaten track like Reykjavik and Dubrovnik, Moscow!! Then I’d realise I’m still scared of Moscow and Russia for reasons presented to me in American movies and I’d stick to all the other main tourist destinations so I don’t get kidnapped or killed. 

I’d finish up at Christmas in New York, shopping in the snowfall and ice skating on the big ice rink I’m sure I’ve seen in the movies, the one in front of that big hotel. 

I’ll meet exotic new foreign friends and we’ll joke on Facebook about the places we ate and the crazy all nighters we had only hours before we had to rush for our flight home, not before we’d all agree a meetup next month in Ibiza. “Marie-Claire (from France) tagged you and 18 others on a photo. Closing parties in Ibiza, summer 2015”. 

In reality, this year my travel consisted only going to Manchester for a conference on web analytics and to Bristol for my friend Batesy’s stag night and wedding, and even for the latter if felt like they had only invited me to make up the numbers. I sat in the corner of the strip club all night with his neighbour Andrew, who from what I could gather was only invited as Batesy had lost the drill he borrowed from him six months earlier. 

Queen finishes and Disco Dave and his troop are replaced on the designated dance area by a group of floppy haired girls and Taylor Swift’s “We are never getting back together” starts playing on the sound system. Lori can’t help a smile and in a heart stopping moment it dawns on me like the morning sun that we were never a serious couple.

Where did I get it so drastically wrong?