I’ve had a little bit too much to drink.
‘That’s beside the point. It’s not all about sex, you know, Jack. You men are only after one thing.’
‘That’s absolutely not true. That’s a nasty little stereotype propagated by girly magazines. We men also want someone to hold, to cuddle, to snuggle, to wake up with on Sunday mornings and read the papers with on Sunday afternoons. We’re just too embarrassed to admit it openly.’
Leila looks at me a little strangely.
‘Listen, Jack,’ she continues. ‘You’re my friend. A very good friend. One of my best, in fact. And, as one of your best friends, I urge you to get out on the dating scene as soon as possible. It’s a lot of fun. Perhaps you’ll find your purpose there.’
I really, really, want to shag her.
Wednesday 15th June
‘What’s your purpose in life, Fred?’ I ask.
For once, he’s not too busy writing to talk to me.
‘I don’t know, Jack. I just don’t know. I used to think it was to write this screenplay, but I’m beginning to wonder whether it’s really worth it. I mean, what’s the point? No one publishes it, and I look like a moron. Someone publishes it, so no one goes to watch it. It’s a rip-roaring success — I have to come up with another idea, and I think I’ve only got one in me.’
‘Oh, come on Fred. It’s an awesome idea. Romeo and Juliet updated into a modern university setting. Everyone’s going to love it. What else is bothering you?’
He looks down at his feet.
‘I haven’t been laid for ten months.’
‘Ten months? That is a long time.’
‘Yep, two more and I’m a technical virgin again. It’s also been seventy-five days and seventeen hours since my last non-solo orgasm.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. You know that everyone fancies you.’
‘Do they? Well, I don’t fancy everyone. Perhaps that’s my problem.’
Perhaps it’s everyone’s problem, I mused. This always strikes me as bizarre in the UK. The media prattles on about how much sexual action we twentysomethings are getting. But in my experience we’re all mouth and no trousers. All fart; no poo. Close; no cigar.
While people in relationships have a great deal of sex, male singletons just spend their entire time thinking about it.
Shall I buy a new pair of jeans? Yes, it will give me more chance of pulling at the weekend. Shall I get a haircut? Yes, ditto. What should I do as a career? Barrister is a sexier profession than an accountant, but less secure. Journalists get paid less than bankers but they’re more interesting. Firemen get laid the entire time, but what would I tell my parents? Shall I make my bed and dim the lights in my room before I go out tonight? Yes, it will impress any girl I bring back. If I buy this aftershave/mobile phone/digital camera/DVD player/designer coffee cup, am I going to get more sex? No, but I’ll try it anyway. If I spend half my weekend jogging around Hyde Park with my iPod and a look of absolute agony on my face, am I going to impress the ladies? No, never. If I join the gym and do fifty sit-ups three times a week, are girls going to notice my six-pack through my shirt and fling themselves uncontrollably at me in clubs? Well, it would be nice
Our hormones run us, and our hormones ruin us. While our every subconscious move is designed to get us one step closer to the bedroom, we rarely put our best-laid preparations into best-laid action. We spend too much time setting the scene and too little treading the boards.
Sometimes one longs for a far-off day in the 2040s when we can think logically with our real brains. I am rather looking forward to hanging up my slippers by the fireside, my seed sown, my genes appeased, my hormones sated and basking in the importance of being impotent.
Or, as Flatmate Fred puts it, ‘Octogenarians should count themselves lucky. It’s only when you’ve got no ink left in your pen that you can start working out what really matters in life.’
Friday 17th June
Decided that Leila could shove her dating advice. I’m a man and I want to do manly things like boys’ nights out in cheap, cheesy clubs. This is my purpose in life.
It was the old crowd again — Flatmate Fred, Jasper, Rick and me. No Buddy — he has been relegated to the rank of former friend. Lucy Poett had gone home to the country to visit Mr and Mrs Poett.
We were lazing around, quaffing £7 bottled beers in a corner of Mad Barry’s and watching lithe beauties walking about. It actually hurt how attractive they were. The prospect of never getting near to any of them hurt even more.
But then one in particular caught my eye. I had to go up to her. I simply had to. She was even fitter than Miss P. M. Gilmour. I would regret it for the rest of my life if I didn’t.
‘Sorry, er, I wouldn’t normally do this, but you are literally the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life. I just wanted to tell you.’
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That’s sweet of you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ I say and sit back down again with the others.
Five minutes later and she walks past again, beckoning me over with her finger.
‘Come up and see me and make me smile,’ I can see her miming in time to the music.
I go over and see her, and do my best to make her smile. It appears to be working. Twenty minutes later, we’re twirling around the dance floor. Twenty-five minutes later, I’m kissing her. Forty minutes later, we’re sitting down in the corner and still kissing. I can see Jasper and Flatmate Fred dancing either side of a girl to ‘Karma Chameleon’ out of the corner of my eye. I hope Jasper backs off and lets Flatmate Fred get laid before his celibate year is up.
Fifty-five minutes later, and Iona (Must remember her name this time, must remember her name Iona, Iona, Iona) asks me to walk her home.
‘Cadogan Gardens — just round the corner.’
Wahey, wahey, wahey.
‘That’s a pretty cool place to live.’
‘Yeah, it’s my mum’s, but don’t worry — she’s away.’
Her voice goes up at the end of every sentence. She looks and sounds very different outside the club.
‘You don’t mind living with your mum still?’
‘No, it’s just until I finish school.’
‘Sorry, finish school? Like art school?’
‘No, durr-brain, just normal old boring school. Doing my AS levels next year. I’m predicted ten A stars for my GCSEs when results come out in August. And then, after my A levels, I’m going to study Law at Oxford, and then I’m going to be a barrister, and then I’m going to be a judge.’
There’s no doubt that she’s very clever. There’s also no doubt that she’s very young and very annoying.
‘Congratulations, that’s brilliant. Well done you.’
‘And how about you, Jack? You didn’t tell me which school you’re at?’
Can I? Should I? I shouldn’t. But God, she’s fit.
Fortunately, I was saved any more moral dilemmas at this point, as I tripped over her pashmina and rolled into the gutter. A definite low point of my life — in the gutter while a sixteen-year-old fittie looked down pitifully on me. I couldn’t even pretend to be Oscar Wilde — this was London, and there were no stars to look at.
Fortunately Iona took this as a cue that I was absolutely poleaxed and helped me back to hers, where I gratefully went to bed alone in her mum’s room.
Saturday 18th June
Iona, Iona, Iona were my first three thoughts upon waking up in a strange room.
My fourth thought was, That’s Norah Jones playing ‘Don’t Know Why I Didn’t Come’.
My fifth thought was, I know exactly why I didn’t come last night. I walked a barely legal girl home, got moral pangs about her age and then fell into a gutter.
My sixth thought was, Who is this (very attractive) woman in her early forties looking at me as if I’m something the cat dragged in?
It was Iona’s mum. Iona appeared behind her, wearing pyjamas with Winnie the Poohs on them.
‘Mum
sies, this is Jack. He very kindly walked me home last night because I was a little bit tipsy-wipsy.’
Thank god I didn’t sleep with her.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Mrs Iona,’ I say, stretching out my right hand and trying to keep myself decent with my left.
‘Oh, the pleasure’s all ours,’ purrs Mrs Iona, apparently won over to the tale of the knight in shining armour. ‘How can I thank you enough for looking after Iona? You must give her your number so that we can stay in touch.’
Aaaaaagh!
Someone who had got lucky was Flatmate Fred. When I got back from my Stride of Pride I found him and Jasper having breakfast with a mystery girl.
‘Good jail bait?’ asked Jasper.
‘Indeed, no,’ I replied. ‘I did the honourable thing and passed out alone.’
‘You fool,’ said Flatmate Fred. ‘Surely you know that they’re old enough when they leave school.’
‘And when do they leave school?’
‘At half-past three.’
I gave him a confused smile and crashed into bed.
Sunday 19th June
‘Ten months of celibacy and I’ve just broken my fast with a threesome — every guy’s lifelong dream.’
‘Fred?’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘Isn’t the dream threesome meant to be with two girls and not with one random girl and a failing actor called Jasper?’
‘Well, yes, ideally. But Jasper had nowhere to stay. It was a rutter or gutter evening. A score or floor soirée.’
‘Fred, you’re a horrible person.’
‘So, we decided to give the dog a bone.’
‘Rank.’
‘Even though she was almost clinically ugly.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘And two’s always better than one, in any case.’
‘Foul. Even if one of those two is a guy?’
‘Yeah, of course.’
‘Fred, are you gay?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Did you touch Jasper at all? Apart from high-fives, obviously.’
‘No, really — I mean it. Shut up.’
Rang my dad later to wish him happy Father’s Day.
‘Oh you soppy sausage, Jack. I hope you’re not doing anything embarrassing like buying me a huge present and taking me out for a nice meal. Horrendous commercialism, the lot of it.’
‘No, but I have got us tickets for Wimbledon tomorrow.’
Monday 20th June
The perfect day at Wimbledon. The sun shone and Daddy paid for the strawberries. Watched a bevy of gorgeous Russian teenagers up close on the outer courts before taking our centre court seats to watch a Brit lose the first two sets to a wild-card entry from Slovenia and then overcome him 12—10 in the fifth. My retired dad with his unemployed son. We can spend all the time we like together now.
‘I meant to ask you,’ said Daddy on the way home. ‘How’s your search for a purpose going?’
‘Pretty badly really. Tried pure hedonism. It doesn’t work. As soon as I get drunk, all I want is a girl to share the moment with.’
‘And how are the girls?’
‘Equally bad. I’m fine at expressing my emotions with people I don’t care about. But rubbish when it comes to someone I actually like.’
‘What about that Leila girl you mentioned?’
‘Messed up completely.’
‘And other girls? Are you dating?’
‘Don’t you start, too.’
‘And career plans?’
‘Hmmm, nonexistent.’
‘And Rick and Lucy?’
‘Together.’
We look at each other.
‘Poor bloke,’ we say simultaneously. We collapse into laughter.
‘Yes, don’t tell your mother, but I was never a great fan.’
‘Fortunately, Rick’s got the patience of a saint, innit.’
We laugh again and sit in happy silence for a while.
‘Daddy, you know how you once said I could ask you anything?’
‘Yes, although I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘Er, do you still have, er, ink in your pen? Does the twitch subside as you get older? Are you still shackled to a mad beast? Does it become clear who’s right for you and who isn’t?’
‘Chin up, Jack. Give it time. You’ll be fine.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I’m aware of that, Jack,’ he says, with a twinkle in his eye.
Friday 24th June
Midsummer’s Day and I’ve resolved to start playing the dating game. Rick has Lucy, Leila might or might not have an accountant, Flatmate Fred’s got a Jasper sandwich and all I’ve had or almost had recently is a sixteen-year-old whose mum fancied me.
This is a crap situation and it’s got to change. But how the hell do you go about dating in London?
There was a time when finding a girl was easy. In your youth you played doctors and nurses. In your teens you turned up to a sleepover with a large enough sleeping bag and waited for the alcopops to transform you into a charming Casanova. By university you had your own room, and the size of student beds made intercourse inevitable, if not always accomplished. And, just as you’d blown your chances with one year group, a brand new team of replacements would arrive in September. You may get older every year, but eighteen-year-old freshers are always the same age.
And then suddenly you’re in your mid-twenties, and you enter the Wasteland. When I left university I had Lucy. When I left Lucy, Leila preoccupied my thoughts. And now I have no one.
I really need a date. Perhaps one of them will turn into a girlfriend and we can work out our purpose in life together.
‘Fred, have you got any attractive friends?’
‘Shut up.’
I’m going to ring Claire (doctors ’n’ nurses).
Saturday 25th June
Claire’s house party. Got three numbers. Result.
I hate asking for people’s numbers. To the first one (Lizzy) I offered a lame excuse about wanting to help her get a job in banking. The second (Sarah) I stole off Claire’s mobile because I was too scared to ask myself. And with the third (Jean) I embarked on such a pathetic Hugh Grant detour — ‘Er, Jean, yes, I just wanted to say, really, that, er, I mean, that, well, I enjoyed meeting you and’ — that she interrupted and grabbed my phone off me.
‘Look, do you want my bloody number or not? You’ve already got two others, so you might as well have mine, too.’
Direct. I like it.
There was also someone there called Miranda who refused my request point blank.
‘There’s no point, is there? You’ll just wait three days and then send me a witty little text. I’ll wait another day before I reply. Then we’ll meet up, spend £30 on crap food and I’ll fancy you no more then than I do now, which is not at all. So let’s just leave it, shall we?’
Very direct. I preferred Jean’s answer.
Rick’s twin Katie was there too, but I’m still in her bad books for not getting back to her. First Kiss and First Shag were also hovering, but I’m in their bad books as well for not seeing them for ages. Why are women so bloody political? They’ve made no effort to see me for ages, either.
Never mind. Three lost, three gained. It’s a score draw.
Monday 27th June
I’m beginning to tire of my listlessly lethargic Lothario lifestyle. When you’re in a proper job you cram a huge amount into your spare time. When you’re lazing around at home you can make a trip to the supermarket take up the entire day. Your free time isn’t free time any more. It just becomes a new routine. I actually miss the structure.
It’s almost the end of the month and I appear to have done next to nothing with my time.
In fact, it’s been a month of almosts. I almost died of testicular cancer, but didn’t. I almost completed the Circle Line, but couldn’t. Almost gave up alcohol, but didn’t. Almost told Leila how I felt, but backed out. Almost started dating. Alm
ost pulled a schoolgirl. And got absolutely nowhere close whatsoever to working out what my purpose in life is.
Perhaps I should get a useful job — join the big debates over society’s future. Perhaps I should start reading the newspapers properly and see what’s going on in the big wide world beyond my piss-boring, selfish little existence.
Perhaps.
Tuesday 28th June
Right, I’m going to text Lizzy, Sarah and Jean. It’s been two and a half days. Perfect timing, even if I say so myself. After one day they’re just beginning to regret giving their number out. If you text then, they’ll think you’re a desperate loser. After two days the fear is just setting in that you might never get in touch. The trick is for your text to arrive just as they’re beginning to analyse what they did wrong to put you off. You have to lift their mood just as it’s starting to sag. Wait any longer and you’ve lost them.
This was my text: ‘Hey [insert Christian name here], really good to meet you at Claire’s. Wld be fun to have a drink some time if you’re not too busy. I hear Sunday night is the new black Jack x’.
For simplicity’s sake I sent the same text to all three of them and tried to ignore my phone for the rest of the day. I had to restrain myself from texting again five minutes later, saying, ‘Look, are you coming or not? Put me out of my agony.’
I hate the in-between bit. It’s like finishing an exam and waiting two months for the result.
Wednesday 29th June
Still no reply from any of them. I detest modern technology. It makes you compulsively check everything — email, voicemail, text messages. When someone contacts you, you’re disproportionately delighted. And when no one does, you’re a picture of abject misery. It must have been so much easier when your messages had to trot across country-wide staging posts and not zing through satellites.
Thursday 30th June
Beep, beep.
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