Live Forever

Both Euro ‘96 and exams have been and gone. England fell at the penultimate hurdle; on penalties to the bloody Germans in the semis. And Lyla’s convinced she’s failed everything – especially History – and I seem to have blocked it all out. I can barely remember what subjects I take, let alone how the exams did. Though I think I failed my first Maths paper, seeing as I only did half the questions. But what I definitely remember is this: exams are the worst thing for a budding young couple’s relationship, especially when one is intent on revision and the other on procrastination.
For example, here’s sample phone conversation:

Me: Hey, Lyla! How’s revision going?
Her: Fine, until you called me.
Me: Oh. Sorry. What are you doing?
Her: Politics revision. Fun. You?
Me: Uh, I’ve been playing on the computer. Solitaire. Great game, you know...
Her: Is this going to take long? I need to revise. My exam’s in four days.
Me: Sorry, I’m bored.
Her: So am I. Work through it.
Me: What are you doing after your exam?
Her: Revising for the next one.
Me: But you need to take a break!
Her: [sighing] I do take breaks. I take breaks when England have matches.
Me: Why don’t you come round to mine to watch the matches?
Her: I can’t be bothered. I’m so tired from revising that I’m half asleep during the matches. Daaaaan! I need to work. You’re distracting me. Go do some of your own revision. Your chemistry exam’s tomorrow, isn’t it?
Me: Yeah, but I lost my textbook.

At this point, the conversation disintegrated into her snapping at me for being stupid and not caring about my future, and I got pissed off and hung up on her. The nine/ten-month blues have set in; the fascination is beginning to go stale, and we’re finding flaws in each other. Gaping holes in personalities, manners and even looks (yes, I’m shallow, but Daisy was right – Lyla’s knees are weird and bulgy) are beginning to emerge, and when we meet up, there’s something not quite right. It doesn’t help that at Stella’s mini-disco at her house, Daisy and I had another conversation. Lyla went beserk when I confessed to finding her a) nice and b) fairly attractive (even with the whore-red lipstick), but she refused to confess why she despises her so. Stella’s slightly more forthcoming on the subject, saying that it was something to do with Colin and another guy before Colin and Tony, but wouldn’t tell me the full story. Apparently it’s “top secret”. Stella’s too loyal. I wish I had a friend like that... well, a friend like that that was in Manchester. The London lot would’ve done that.
Despite being at loggerheads over virtually everything, we’re still very much together: off to Knebworth we go on August 11th, driven by Dad and with What’s The Story on the stereo, blaring loudly. I’m sure it will all be fine, eventually.

***

Well, we’d read in the paper that four million people applied for tickets, but we’d just laughed and said, “Thank God we were one of the quarter of a million who did!” But a quarter of a million is starting to seem like a lot of people, judging by the queues for the toilets: we’ve been waiting an hour and ten minutes for one lousy Portaloo so far, and the support acts are beginning to wrap up. Oasis will be on soon, and I can’t miss them. Not that I’ll miss them at any rate: we’re so far back in the crowd that we’re probably closer to Jupiter than the Gallagher brothers at the moment, and we’re going to have to watch the spectacle on giant TV screens anyway. I’m starting to wish I’d bought Lyla the rare Country Side second copy, or a blow-up doll of Brett Anderson from Suede, or something small or stupid that she would have liked. She doesn’t seem to be liking the loo-queue experience, and she’s sniping. Obviously the wells of gratitude have dried up in County Lyla.
“I’m hungry!” “I’m bored!” “I’m so thirsty, and no, I don’t want a beer, I hate beer!” “My feet hurt!” Perhaps it’s that time of the month (not that I’d ever say this to her face; she’d slap me), but she’s sounding like a really annoying toddler on a mission to drive its mother to homicide by virtue of moaning. I try to keep my cool, I try my absolute best, but my smile is beginning to strain. Where’s the kick-ass girl with the lip-biting that took my breath away? Has she been abducted by aliens? Perhaps the aliens looked like Graham Coxon. Maybe that was it. I wonder what planet she’s been taken to... then realise I’m being ridiculous. So I attempt to resolve the situation.
“Oh, for God’s sake, everyone else is having to deal with it too...” I sigh. “Why are you being so weird at the moment?” She moans and buries her head in my Oasis t-shirt.
“Argh.” That’s what it sounds like her muffled voice is saying. “Exams. I hate this waiting. It’s killing me slowly. I didn’t revise much last time, this time I have, I deserve good grades but I’ve so failed History... argh. Argh.”
“Hey, hey, it’s fine! You’re predicted Bs anyway, don’t worry about it! It’s not like you’re applying to Oxford, so-”
“What, so because I don’t want to be a poncy, boat-racing prick you think it’s ok to begrudge me success?” Her tone goes from childish to uber-bitch in ten seconds flat. Such is the curse of female hormonal mood swings (I should know – Linda frequently goes from being mellow and hippyish to neurotic and screechy in seconds. She can be heard shouting about the lottery being rigged from three rooms away when Oasis are on full blast).
“That’s not what I said, you know it’s not-”
“Just because you don’t give a damn what you do with your life!” People are starting to stare. A shrieking Mancunian girl in a toilet queue isn’t something you see every day.
“Well, what do you want to do with your life? You said you didn’t want to grow up, now it’s all about your future-”
“Oh, is this because I wouldn’t have sex with you?” People are gawping now. We’ve got an audience. Obviously being sunburnt in a field isn’t as exciting as her throwing out relationship details to strangers. “You’re pissed off about it? Well, I’m sorry that I don’t want to be some slutty cliché – hey, why don’t you go and find Daisy? I’m sure she’d put out for you, if that’s all you care about! Fuck you, Dan! And, in case you were wondering, I want to write for NME, and I’m pretty sure you have to go to uni to get a job with them.” Some fat ‘lad’ throws a beer over me for no apparent reason. Waste of two quid, that. I’m now sticky, a walking wasp trap.
“Oi, stop ‘oldin’ up the line, I’m dyin’ fer a piss! Take yer problems some other place! Feckin’ kids.” Lyla stomps into the Portaloo, which reeks at twenty paces, let alone up close and personal. I’m reeling – we’ve never had that big an argument face-to-face. The beer bloke thumps me on the shoulder in a faux-friendly manner. “She’s prob’ly gaggin’ fer it, son. Tha’s why she’s all pissy, like. Give ‘er a good thrustin’ an’ she’ll be all chilled, kiddo. They love a bitta the ol’ thrust. Makes ‘em chill ev’ry time. Means they stop wailin’ and get on with makin’ the dinner and doin’ the ironing... ha, ha, ha.” I’m slightly repulsed, but wonder if it’s true. The door bangs open, and one sour-faced girlfriend/harpy (delete where applicable) emerges from the foul hovel. I’m about to go boldly in, when my new “mate” rushes in there, clutching himself. Expensive beer obviously takes its toll after a while.
“Feeling better?” I ask, sweetly.
“I fear my nostrils may never be the same again. But I’ll just have to live with it. Like you’ll have to live with being covered in beer. What’s that noise?” She refers to the screaming of thousands of people. Maybe someone’s been killed in a punch-up – my inebriated “mate” wasn’t alone in his girth or beer-swigging, and thousands of blokes who are practically identical to him are roaming the fields. And then it dawns on us both – Oasis are starting up. We rush in the direction of the main field, bored of our Portaloo annex, and find ourselves lost in a sea of drunken middle-aged men, watching a screen with Oasis on it. It wasn’t exactly the Haҫienda.

***

Things remain tense, and will do until half nine this morning. It’s Results Day. Once the dreaded letters have come through, we’ll be fine. We can leave those stresses behind us...
But in the car to school. Dad’s playing the new R.E.M album in the car and talking excitedly about how he was sure it would all be fine, how I’d get into a top uni, how I’d be successful and marry a model. I don’t feel stressed – I feel numbed. And all too soon, the gates are looming and finally it hits me. I know I’ve failed. Who were the school kidding when they predicted three As and a B? I suppose they thought that my being quiet in class, fluked brilliance at GCSE and not talking to anyone equated to being ridiculously clever, but it’s really just been me thinking about Lyla. Thinking about music. Thinking about Mum. Who were they kidding?
But I still feel nauseous when I open the envelope to an A, two Cs and a D.

***

“Oh,” is everyone’s belated response. The worst conversation is with Lyla.
“So, Genius-Boy, what did you get? Straight As? Or, horror of horrors, a stray B in Maths?” From the upbeat voice, I know she’s done well. It’s the happiest she’s sounded in a while. “’Cos if so, me too! A in Politics, English and History! And a B in French, but French is a shit language anyway. You can’t speak it when you’re from Manchester. Fuck that. So yeah. Results? Fire away.”
“I didn’t get any Bs.”
“Sorry, Einstein, I knew you were allergic to Bs-”
“I got an A, two Cs and a D.”
Silence.
"Well, at least you got an-"
I hang up, furious with myself – with her – with myself for losing it all for her – and, regardless of retakes, I’ve failed myself. Relaxed Dan is nowhere to be seen as I want to lash out at everything. I tear up the Damon Cocky Albarn poster; posh public school git, did he ever fail his exams? I bet he didn’t. Kicking stuff around, swearing aimlessly and finally just sitting in the middle of all the mess, I realise that there’s only one person I can talk to. Someone else who has been known to fail. And Lyla’s not going to like it, but it’s not her life, is it?
I visit Daisy.