Status: Finished, but never forgotten.
Live Forever
I won’t kill myself trying to stay in your life. I’ve got no distance left to run.
I’m part of the queue. Soon I’ll know if it’s all over or not. Is it the end? Could this be it? The end of an era? I don’t know what to expect. Blur have already ditched Britpop... will Oasis do the same?
There’s a huge mass of people outside the record store; it’s the busiest I’ve ever seen it. We’ve all been waiting just under two years for this. It’s weird to think that everything major in my life seems to happen in August. Blur v Oasis, Lyla, Knebworth, Results Days (I managed to do well in enough retakes to get a place at Glasgow... the birthplace of Oasis’s record contract. Purely coincidentally, of course), the release of Be Here Now... I wonder if she’ll buy it. The new album. Or maybe its association with me is too much... I wonder. I always wonder how she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with. Since that diabolical day, I’ve only seen her once – she never came to the door when I came over with letters of apology (one even included the lyrics of Wonderwall... what was I thinking?), and eventually her dad threatened to call the police if I waited outside their house any longer – and that was in town, with another guy. Who looked like an utter dick. She dragged him in the opposite direction as soon as she saw me, and I couldn’t chase her. It would’ve been too desperate. Not that I’m not desperate to make things up, but I can’t spend the rest of my life chasing her around, hoping that she’ll forgive me for being a tosser. Nearly a year for ten minutes of madness with a crazy bitch. What’s wrong with me? Correct answer; everything. It’s always on my mind.
And it’s made me the prime target of hatred for all the women in my life; I was slapped by Stella, Linda and even Mum (which is the first time that my mother and stepmother have had anything in common, apart from getting with Dad), all of them telling me what an arsehole I was. Then there’s Daisy herself. She never slapped me, she just laughed and laughed when Lyla ran off.
“What’s so funny?” I’d asked. Maybe shouted. I’m not sure, that afternoon is a bit of a blur... no pun intended. She looked at me in this bizarre way.
“Lyla and Stella don’t like me.” Understatement of the century, that was. “It’s not my fault that I’m bad. Well, at least this gives them a reason to hate me.” I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; I don’t understand girls. Their logic is crazy, their heads are full of ridiculous scores to settle and they’re as irrational as pi (I might have a D in Advanced Subsidiary Maths, but I can still make mathematical similes).
“Why don’t they like you?” I thought I’d at least try and get a handle on her reasoning, if there was one. Which there wasn’t.
“How should I know? I used to give Stella’s Barbies tattoos, I don’t think she liked it. Maybe that’s it. Maybe not. Did she never tell you? Ha, ha, ha. Maybe it was the funeral. I don’t know.” I heard footsteps, which could never have been good news.
“The funeral...?” Unfortunately, the tale was never related to me, as Stella stormed in and slapped me. It wasn’t difficult to work out what had happened, as she’d probably encountered Lyla on her way out, and there was lipstick on my face. Oh, and Daisy had undone a few of the buttons on her blouse... slut. Stella screamed abuse at me, refused to pass on my sincerest regret to Lyla, and then disowned Daisy. So I tried and tried to get Lyla to forgive me, and she never replied, and I deserved it because I’m a cheating arsehole. Or I was. I wouldn’t do it again. Too many un-English, effeminate tears shed, too much hassle, too many life-changing, heart-stealing girls lost... she always brings out the daft romantic in me. And those are my thoughts as I’m ushered into the music shop along with countless other middle-of-the-road types who quite liked Wonderwall.
There it is – a whole stand is dedicated to it. Everyone’s snatching, arms grabbing all around me (not at me, at the CDs. Could’ve sounded wrong otherwise), and then one’s fallen into my hands and I’m giving the till girl (still the same grumpy Goth from the Country House/Roll With It debacle from oh-so-long-ago) the money, and then it’s in a bag, and I try and keep it from view of the hungry shoppers as I force myself through the door. And it’s almost a cliché, because the moment I emerge from the human flood, she’s there in the sunshine, looking... well, perfect and carefree, just for a second, before she sees my awful, unfaithful face gazing at her in wonder, and then she looks more like a pissed-off Mona Lisa. She came to buy it. I knew she would... but now she’s leaving, walking off into the sun again, but this time I won’t wait around in shock. I’ll tell her myself – tell her what I haven’t for so long, and even though it’s been a year, I’ve never stopped thinking about her. Loving her.
Dean, one of my London ‘crew’, used to constantly say that love didn’t exist, and even if it did, it didn’t until we were in our mid-twenties and were – I quote – “bored of wanking”. Real charmer, Deano. But he’s wrong. Love occasionally kicks you in the nuts ‘til they’re numb, whether you like it or not, whether you want to admit it or not, whether you understand it or not. Even if you do something stupid (read: Daisy), it doesn’t mean you don’t love them, it just means you’re a cock who takes stuff (read: Lyla) for granted and karma’s a bitch, it bites you hard afterwards. So when she starts running...
“LYLA!” I bellow, chasing her like some sort of lovestruck stalker. She turns round with an incomprehensible look on her face; half angry, half anguished, half stressed – that’s too many halves, but it sums up her expression. I catch up with her and grab her naked arm – she’s wearing some charity shop dress, as per usual. The sort that a granny would have donated, but in a good way. She makes it look good, I mean. “Wait, wait, you don’t have to leave because of me...”
“Yes, I do. I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone,” she hisses. She obviously doesn’t like being manhandled by crazed ex-boyfriends. And crazed is what I am at this moment in time because I lead into a massive, rambling speech which makes me look like a nutter in front of various confused Mancs.
“No, no, no – I’ve tried to leave you alone – I can’t. I can’t do this anymore! I’ve tried to cool off, but it’s impossible. Don’t you get it? I love you! I love you and Daisy never meant anything, it was craziness, I don’t care about her. You were the best thing in my life! Even better than Colombia or Champagne Supernova. And... and it’s been a year and I still can’t think of anything except you. I’m always torturing myself. Don’t you think I’ve been through enough? Don’t you think that you can forgive me, even now? Maybe it was unforgivable. But, in the words of Blur, you’re so great and-”
“Don’t say it,” she begs, recognising the lyrics, face crumpling, shivering even though it’s the height of summer, “Please don’t- I can’t-“
“I love you.” Even to my own ears I’m sounding as earnest and sincere as anyone since... well, has anyone ever sounded so true? And I don’t care that I look like a love-stoned berk, which I definitely do.
“Yeah, yeah, well, I loved you too.” Past tense... shit. I bump back down to earth, but not before I’ve done the ultimate oversexed stalker move and stolen one last kiss from her. If she ever tells Stella about this, I expect she’ll make it sound like it was totally one-sided, but I felt it – just for a moment, she was as lost as I was in the embrace, her tears wet on my face. That is, before she pushes me away with a violence that suggests she’s been taking out her Daisy-rage at a gym and wipes her eyes furiously. “No! You think you’ve had a hard time of it? First she fucks my brother, on the day of our mother’s funeral – oh, what, she didn’t tell you that that’s why I want to break her face on her stupid Prodigy CDs? – and then she gets you as well? I don’t care how fucking angry you were, you have absolutely no idea how it felt. Torture yourself more, you bastard. You brought it on yourself. It’s not my fault. I’m not going to blame myself. You sealed your fate with your own stupid lips.” Well, I suppose the saying is that the truth hurts. Understatement of the century. I guess at least I now understand Daisy’s funeral reference, anyway. Daisy really is officially repulsive. From my little cloud of self-loathing, I’m aware of her about to speak once more. The words are probably the last I’ll ever hear from her, so I make sure I’m listening carefully in case this is the last time I ever hear her accent... “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to buy the new Radiohead album.”
That does it. The choked up feeling makes itself known on the outside... The thought of her giving royalties to Thom Yorke, king of the dull-as-shit, dreary-voiced navel-gazers, makes a solitary, very un-British tear roll down one cheek as she floats away into the crowd.
There’s a huge mass of people outside the record store; it’s the busiest I’ve ever seen it. We’ve all been waiting just under two years for this. It’s weird to think that everything major in my life seems to happen in August. Blur v Oasis, Lyla, Knebworth, Results Days (I managed to do well in enough retakes to get a place at Glasgow... the birthplace of Oasis’s record contract. Purely coincidentally, of course), the release of Be Here Now... I wonder if she’ll buy it. The new album. Or maybe its association with me is too much... I wonder. I always wonder how she is, what she’s doing, who she’s with. Since that diabolical day, I’ve only seen her once – she never came to the door when I came over with letters of apology (one even included the lyrics of Wonderwall... what was I thinking?), and eventually her dad threatened to call the police if I waited outside their house any longer – and that was in town, with another guy. Who looked like an utter dick. She dragged him in the opposite direction as soon as she saw me, and I couldn’t chase her. It would’ve been too desperate. Not that I’m not desperate to make things up, but I can’t spend the rest of my life chasing her around, hoping that she’ll forgive me for being a tosser. Nearly a year for ten minutes of madness with a crazy bitch. What’s wrong with me? Correct answer; everything. It’s always on my mind.
And it’s made me the prime target of hatred for all the women in my life; I was slapped by Stella, Linda and even Mum (which is the first time that my mother and stepmother have had anything in common, apart from getting with Dad), all of them telling me what an arsehole I was. Then there’s Daisy herself. She never slapped me, she just laughed and laughed when Lyla ran off.
“What’s so funny?” I’d asked. Maybe shouted. I’m not sure, that afternoon is a bit of a blur... no pun intended. She looked at me in this bizarre way.
“Lyla and Stella don’t like me.” Understatement of the century, that was. “It’s not my fault that I’m bad. Well, at least this gives them a reason to hate me.” I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; I don’t understand girls. Their logic is crazy, their heads are full of ridiculous scores to settle and they’re as irrational as pi (I might have a D in Advanced Subsidiary Maths, but I can still make mathematical similes).
“Why don’t they like you?” I thought I’d at least try and get a handle on her reasoning, if there was one. Which there wasn’t.
“How should I know? I used to give Stella’s Barbies tattoos, I don’t think she liked it. Maybe that’s it. Maybe not. Did she never tell you? Ha, ha, ha. Maybe it was the funeral. I don’t know.” I heard footsteps, which could never have been good news.
“The funeral...?” Unfortunately, the tale was never related to me, as Stella stormed in and slapped me. It wasn’t difficult to work out what had happened, as she’d probably encountered Lyla on her way out, and there was lipstick on my face. Oh, and Daisy had undone a few of the buttons on her blouse... slut. Stella screamed abuse at me, refused to pass on my sincerest regret to Lyla, and then disowned Daisy. So I tried and tried to get Lyla to forgive me, and she never replied, and I deserved it because I’m a cheating arsehole. Or I was. I wouldn’t do it again. Too many un-English, effeminate tears shed, too much hassle, too many life-changing, heart-stealing girls lost... she always brings out the daft romantic in me. And those are my thoughts as I’m ushered into the music shop along with countless other middle-of-the-road types who quite liked Wonderwall.
There it is – a whole stand is dedicated to it. Everyone’s snatching, arms grabbing all around me (not at me, at the CDs. Could’ve sounded wrong otherwise), and then one’s fallen into my hands and I’m giving the till girl (still the same grumpy Goth from the Country House/Roll With It debacle from oh-so-long-ago) the money, and then it’s in a bag, and I try and keep it from view of the hungry shoppers as I force myself through the door. And it’s almost a cliché, because the moment I emerge from the human flood, she’s there in the sunshine, looking... well, perfect and carefree, just for a second, before she sees my awful, unfaithful face gazing at her in wonder, and then she looks more like a pissed-off Mona Lisa. She came to buy it. I knew she would... but now she’s leaving, walking off into the sun again, but this time I won’t wait around in shock. I’ll tell her myself – tell her what I haven’t for so long, and even though it’s been a year, I’ve never stopped thinking about her. Loving her.
Dean, one of my London ‘crew’, used to constantly say that love didn’t exist, and even if it did, it didn’t until we were in our mid-twenties and were – I quote – “bored of wanking”. Real charmer, Deano. But he’s wrong. Love occasionally kicks you in the nuts ‘til they’re numb, whether you like it or not, whether you want to admit it or not, whether you understand it or not. Even if you do something stupid (read: Daisy), it doesn’t mean you don’t love them, it just means you’re a cock who takes stuff (read: Lyla) for granted and karma’s a bitch, it bites you hard afterwards. So when she starts running...
“LYLA!” I bellow, chasing her like some sort of lovestruck stalker. She turns round with an incomprehensible look on her face; half angry, half anguished, half stressed – that’s too many halves, but it sums up her expression. I catch up with her and grab her naked arm – she’s wearing some charity shop dress, as per usual. The sort that a granny would have donated, but in a good way. She makes it look good, I mean. “Wait, wait, you don’t have to leave because of me...”
“Yes, I do. I don’t want to talk to you. Leave me alone,” she hisses. She obviously doesn’t like being manhandled by crazed ex-boyfriends. And crazed is what I am at this moment in time because I lead into a massive, rambling speech which makes me look like a nutter in front of various confused Mancs.
“No, no, no – I’ve tried to leave you alone – I can’t. I can’t do this anymore! I’ve tried to cool off, but it’s impossible. Don’t you get it? I love you! I love you and Daisy never meant anything, it was craziness, I don’t care about her. You were the best thing in my life! Even better than Colombia or Champagne Supernova. And... and it’s been a year and I still can’t think of anything except you. I’m always torturing myself. Don’t you think I’ve been through enough? Don’t you think that you can forgive me, even now? Maybe it was unforgivable. But, in the words of Blur, you’re so great and-”
“Don’t say it,” she begs, recognising the lyrics, face crumpling, shivering even though it’s the height of summer, “Please don’t- I can’t-“
“I love you.” Even to my own ears I’m sounding as earnest and sincere as anyone since... well, has anyone ever sounded so true? And I don’t care that I look like a love-stoned berk, which I definitely do.
“Yeah, yeah, well, I loved you too.” Past tense... shit. I bump back down to earth, but not before I’ve done the ultimate oversexed stalker move and stolen one last kiss from her. If she ever tells Stella about this, I expect she’ll make it sound like it was totally one-sided, but I felt it – just for a moment, she was as lost as I was in the embrace, her tears wet on my face. That is, before she pushes me away with a violence that suggests she’s been taking out her Daisy-rage at a gym and wipes her eyes furiously. “No! You think you’ve had a hard time of it? First she fucks my brother, on the day of our mother’s funeral – oh, what, she didn’t tell you that that’s why I want to break her face on her stupid Prodigy CDs? – and then she gets you as well? I don’t care how fucking angry you were, you have absolutely no idea how it felt. Torture yourself more, you bastard. You brought it on yourself. It’s not my fault. I’m not going to blame myself. You sealed your fate with your own stupid lips.” Well, I suppose the saying is that the truth hurts. Understatement of the century. I guess at least I now understand Daisy’s funeral reference, anyway. Daisy really is officially repulsive. From my little cloud of self-loathing, I’m aware of her about to speak once more. The words are probably the last I’ll ever hear from her, so I make sure I’m listening carefully in case this is the last time I ever hear her accent... “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to buy the new Radiohead album.”
That does it. The choked up feeling makes itself known on the outside... The thought of her giving royalties to Thom Yorke, king of the dull-as-shit, dreary-voiced navel-gazers, makes a solitary, very un-British tear roll down one cheek as she floats away into the crowd.
♠ ♠ ♠
:'(