by Ollie Locke
I strutted my stuff down the catwalk, my confidence boosted by the alcohol. I felt like I was oozing attitude and professionalism so I decided to light a cigarette on the way, thinking it would look really cool. I looked like a complete twat.
We all went to a bar afterwards to celebrate the show, which despite my best efforts had gone tremendously well.
I had a couple more drinks before stumbling to the toilet, where I promptly fell asleep in a cubicle. My friend Adam found me, picked me up and carried me upstairs to our table, where I unceremoniously vomited all over it, right in front of some of the most beautiful and eligible girls on my course. That marked the end of my time at Cambridge. Unsurprisingly, I was ready to move on and to focus all my energies on acting.
I’d applied to a number of drama schools with a view to doing a drama degree, and I was excited about putting everything I’d learned at Cambridge into practice.
I got that opportunity when I heard about an audition for a new TV show. The production company was looking for a young posh guy. ‘Perfect,’ I thought. ‘I’m young, I’m posh and I’m about to leave drama school. I can do it.’ I emailed them pretending that I was a Cambridge University student imaginatively named Jerry Horowitz and was duly invited to an audition in London.
After making the journey to a random building in central London they gave me the script but promptly told me that they couldn’t pinpoint which character I could be. Not a great sign. I carried on with the audition regardless, but to be honest I was quite nervous and a bit shit. It’s just that I wanted it so badly. I had to act out a scene where four boys go to an off-licence to try and buy Drambuie. It was funny to watch that same scene sometime later on a show you may have heard of called The Inbetweeners. Needless to say, I didn’t get the part of Will.
When term finished I decided to go travelling around India for a month with seven female friends. I felt like I needed to totally get away from everything.
We rode camels and had amazing parties and slept under the stars in the desert or in very scummy hotels, and I had a lot of time to think about what I wanted to do with my life. All that kept popping into my head was acting, so I knew I’d done the right thing applying for some drama schools before I left England. I decided to focus all of my energy on performing and let love take a back seat for a while, so when I arrived home and received the letters that said my application hadn’t been successful, I was devastated.
Acting had been my plan for 10 years and I wasn’t particularly good at or interested in anything else. I felt totally and utterly lost. In the end, I did something that no one expected, including myself: I enrolled in an agricultural university so I could learn how to be a farmer.
OK, so I know what you’re thinking: Ollie Locke at farmers’ college? That never happened. But I promise you, that’s what happened! I was accepted onto a course at the Royal Agricultural College in Cirencester to study Property Agency and Marketing. It was a last-minute panicked decision, and one that I would live to regret (ish).
Now, you know me, I like to stand out, so I decided that as I was starting university I didn’t really want to conform to the stereotypical countryside dress code. I needed a makeover. So I started calling myself Lockey, and adopted a slightly edgy look.
My reinvention began with a very painful tongue piercing, which involved an ugly, bearded man putting his fingers in my mouth and sticking a needle though my tongue, which duly swelled up so much it resembled a side of beef. I also bought a pair of vintage cowboy boots and 12 pairs of white jeans to complete my look. What more could I need for a degree in property? I was all set for my new adventure.
Now, as you may have already noticed, things rarely go to plan when I’m involved, and sure enough upon arrival at Cirencester I discovered that my details had somehow got lost and there was no place for me in the halls of residence. Instead, I was given a room in a house away from the town, with four men who hardly spoke a word of English. It wasn’t ideal, and to make matters worse they didn’t seem to understand what not pissing on the toilet seat meant.
While everyone in halls was having a jolly old time, with parties every night and getting to know each other, I was stuck off campus with a bunch of men who’d pass me in the kitchen without so much as a ‘hello’. It was so miserable.
The only saving grace was that the house itself was incredible. It had a big open fire, a grand piano and a drinks cabinet in my bedroom, and it only cost £86 a week. There were horses to ride, shooting rights in case I fancied giving it a go, and a swimming pool. I definitely did university in style.
It’s all changed now, but back in the day Cirencester was the kind of university where after dinner women would go into one room and guys would go into another. I’m not exaggerating when I say the men would wear smoking jackets and drink expensive whisky as if they were in Downton Abbey. It was beyond posh. My Fiesta was by far the shittest car there, besides a couple of old tractors, and it didn’t have any hunting or shooting stickers on the back so it stood out a mile.
My fresher’s initiation at Cirencester involved drinking wee and sick from a pint glass with squirty cream and a flake on top. I drank about a quarter of a pint before I threw up violently, so I failed the first hurdle to becoming one of the lads.
No matter how hard I tried, I just didn’t fit in. I had long hair and a tongue piercing and I was into fashion. I remember finally getting an invite to one of the other guy’s country houses for a party and during a game of truth or dare I admitted that I’d once snogged a man. Nobody in that group spoke to me normally again after that day, and I was never invited to another party. I was effectively ostracised.
I had one really great friend called Guy, who was the only person who really stood by me. He was proper country and even owned a partridge farm in Norfolk, but he was very loyal to me and I thought he was a lovely guy.
I was so unhappy that I only went to 14 lectures in the whole of my first year. The only light on the horizon was London Girl, who had returned from travelling at the start of the university year. That brief night of passion had left a lasting impression so I was thrilled when she got back in touch upon her return. Tanned and glowing from her travels, she was every bit as stunning as I remembered. And she was my girlfriend.
London Girl was studying in Oxford and before long we’d started a long-distance relationship. It was hard to find myself in that situation again, saying goodbye week after week as I had done with Dorset Girl, but I knew that London Girl was special.
We hadn’t told Jesters Girl that we were seeing each other yet because we were both a bit worried about how she would react. It’s never fun when your friend dates your ex. But in the end, of course, we had to tell her and Jesters Girl was lovely about it.
I had really become quite besotted with London Girl; they say love makes you do strange things, which must account for what I did next. I had started to get panicked by the thought of thousands of good-looking rugby playing freshers at her uni, all full of sperm, all pumped up on vodka and Red Bull, trying it on with her. Not that I didn’t trust her, but I certainly didn’t trust them. So to ease my mind I ordered a full-size cardboard cutout of myself so it could stand at the end of her bed. That way any guy who dared to enter her room with unsavoury intentions would be faced with my glaring, disapproving face.
I got it made in my hometown of Southampton and it cost me £120. It looked amazing, but there was the small problem of getting it to her. My car had broken down and I was due to visit her, so I decided to get the train from Southampton to London and then on to Oxford.
Because it was life-size the rail company made me pay for a seat for it, so that set me back another £20. I think she was quite shocked when I showed up with it. I’d told her I was bringing her a special present and I think she was expecting jewellery.
I felt like it would guilt her into staying faithful when all those horny uni boys were flocking round her. Remember, I was a guy, and I knew the kind of thoughts they had.
I have never, ever cheated on a girlfriend, and I never would. I feel so guilty about everything anyway that I don’t have it in me. I don’t know if anyone has ever cheated on me – apart from one girlfriend a short while ago and Tilly, sort of. (Even though we were never properly together I felt that way whenever she left me to go to her actual boyfriend.)
If other girls have cheated, I don’t want to know. It’s better to finish the relationship without me knowing. Ignorance is bliss. Why would I need that information now? It won’t change anything and all it would do is make me more paranoid in future relationships and hurt a lot more.
If I did find out a girl was cheating on me while we were in a serious relationship, that would be it. It would be over; there would be no second chances. I would advise any friend of mine to do the same. It’s so disrespectful and it ruins people’s sense of trust, which is so selfish.
I know a guy who is 55 and someone he was in love with when he was 20 cheated on him; he has never been able to regain a sense of trust, so he has never got into a relationship again. It’s scarred him for life and I think it’s the worst thing you can do to someone you care for. If you are thinking about doing it, don’t. It’s not worth it for a bit of fun. And if it’s more than a bit of fun, that’s even worse. If you don’t want to be with someone then split up with them and give them a chance to meet someone else. Don’t leave them hanging around because you’re too scared to break the bad news to them, especially if it’s because you like someone else.
It’s just so sad when one bad relationship changes people’s views forever, and if someone ever cheats on you, no matter how much you love them, in my opinion you will never be able to trust them again, so you’re better off out of the relationship.
For some reason men always get a bad deal when it comes to cheating as everyone assumes they’re much worse than women. I know for a fact that one of my best friends, Barnaby, once slept with four married women in a single week.
He pulled a girl in a club one night and they ended up back at his house. The next morning she turned round to him without a hint of irony and said, ‘Have you got any perfume? I’m seeing my husband for lunch and I want to smell nice.’
Barnaby and I lived with another guy, Alex, for a while (more on both of them later) and Alex and I had this ritual where, if we were both free, we’d go to Ikea on a Tuesday and have meatballs for dinner. It’s a guilty pleasure. I liked going to one particular branch because there was a girl who worked there who was unbelievably beautiful.
We were there one night tucking into our meatballs when Barnaby texted us to say that he was stuck in our kitchen. As the story unfolded we discovered that he had been having sex with a girl on the kitchen worksurface, and when he’d turned the handle on the door to get out, it had come off in his hand. We raced back to let him out, and when we eventually managed to open the door we found them both standing there, stark naked. Obviously we found the whole thing hysterical, while they ran down the hallway to get clothes.
Barnaby found it quite amusing, but his partner in crime didn’t and she threw a massive shit fit when she realised how late it was. Her reason? She was supposed to be having dinner with her fiancé that night!
Anyway, back to the story. It was about four months into my relationship with London Girl and I thought things were going brilliantly. She was due to visit, so I persuaded Guy to come with me when I went to pick her up from the station. When I went to introduce them, everything went really quiet and it soon became clear that they already knew each other. They’d been shagging for a couple of months the previous summer, before London Girl and I had got together. My two main insecurities back then were people who were taller or better-looking than me, and Guy was both. They met each other when they went stalking deer together in Scotland with their respective families.
They were both completely mortified and we tried to talk about it that night but it was so weird. It wasn’t like they had cheated on me. Neither of them had even known me then. But it was a shit, shit situation.
Even though it wasn’t Guy’s fault at all I barely spoke to him for the next couple of weeks. He even sent me flowers to say sorry, but there was nothing either of them could do to make me feel better. I felt so hurt by it, even though I knew I was being irrational.
By the end of the first year, I had come to accept that Cirencester was totally wrong for me. I didn’t fit in. I didn’t wear a Barbour jacket 24 hours a day or go hunting, for which I used to get bullied. People would piss on the door handles of my car.
I was so happy when June rolled around and it was time to leave. I knew there was no way I would be going back for the second year, so I dropped out, despite having no idea what I was going to do next. For some reason I wasn’t at all worried. I knew that everything would be OK.
I didn’t want to go back to living in Southampton and I wasn’t in a position to move up to London, so I decided to pretty much move in with London Girl in her halls in Oxford. I’d got over the whole thing with Guy, and our relationship was stronger than ever. London Girl was the first person I said ‘I love you’ to. We were lying together in her single bed at halls, and just as we were falling asleep she turned to me and said, ‘I love you.’ Like me, she’d never said it to anyone before so it was a big deal for her, and I did have to think briefly about whether or not to say it back. But actually, it felt right.
I sometimes worry that I’ll never get that incredible feeling again with anyone. I’ve had relationships since but nothing has evoked that same feeling of total contentment and happiness. Maybe it’s something to do with being young and as you get older that emotional high wanes. Who knows? Maybe we are more realistic now. I’m definitely on my guard more than I used to be, and I’m more wary of jumping into things. I guess when you’re young you don’t worry as much about being hurt or things going wrong.
Looking back, we were besotted with one another. One of my favourite memories is of waking up in bed with London Girl at her mum’s house in London with the sun streaming through the windows. It was so cosy and romantic and I can still take myself back to that moment in a second. We used to travel to London as often as we could because we both loved going out exploring together. I fell more in love with London Girl and with London with each visit.
A not-so-happy memory is another Valentine’s Day disaster. See? I told you that day is a total nightmare.
I’d booked London Girl and myself a junior suite at The Ritz. I was determined that, for once, Valentine’s Day would be perfect. After my Paris disaster I was ready to give up on the whole thing but the romantic in me still wanted to believe that it could all be wonderful.
Now, I had never taken Viagra before, but a friend of mine gave me one so I decided to give it a go that night. Much to my disappointment it didn’t work, and by then the moment had been ruined, so after all of that build-up London Girl and I ended up having an early night after some supper. At least I didn’t get the shits this time.
We moved past that quite literal let down and had just celebrated our two-year anniversary when Christian, a friend of mine from Cambridge, called to invite me onto his boat for Cowes Week.
Cowes Week is the world’s biggest sailing regatta, and I’ve been every year since I was young. I’ve inherited my love of sailing from my dad, who was once a big sailor and came third in the world championships of the 505 yacht class in the 1970s. It’s a fabulous week of parties and sailing; the champagne and conversation flows, while wealthy yacht owners and enthusiasts watch the races. The first evening, I met a beautiful girl called Antalya Nall-Cain, who is the daughter of Lord Brocket (who you may know following his appearance on I’m a Celebrity … Get Me Out of Here!). Antalya and I hit it off straight away, but purely on a platonic level.
Antalya wouldn’t stop talking about this guy she was seeing. She said he was very posh and lived on a grand estate in the middle of Buckinghamshire, and that I would love him. I wasn’t so sure. The idea of having to spend
the next five days on a boat with someone who sounded almost identical to the pricks I went to uni with sounded horrendous. But I wasn’t going to judge him before I’d even met him.
Later that evening a small dingy boasting a Union Jack flag made its way to the boat where we were staying. Suddenly a blond Hugh Grant type tripped onto the boat with a huge smile and a bottle of champagne in his hand. That was the moment Antalya’s boyfriend, Richard Dinan, entered my life. I knew from the grin on his face and the fact that he tripped up the stairs, and dropped the champagne that this was a man I would like.
We all sat down with candles and wine, overlooking the ocean, to eat the mackerel I had caught earlier in the day. Slowly everyone went back to their cabins to sleep, but I stayed outside drinking wine and writing, which are two of my favourite things in the world.
Richard came out to join me because he couldn’t sleep, and we spent hours talking and watching the sunrise. He asked me what I wanted to do now I had finished university. I told him that I had absolutely no idea. He explained that he owned a small magazine and asked if I wanted to go and work for him. Even though I’m dyslexic I have a real passion for writing and I’ve always kept journals and written short stories. It sounded perfect. So, partly due to an excitable wine haze, I accepted the job there and then.
Cowes Week ended but a new chapter and a new friendship in my life began.
London Girl came to join us the next day and when I told her my news she was happy for me but I think she was also a bit worried about what would become of us. I assured her that we could survive anything, and I truly believed it. I told her I loved her. And I did. And that was all that mattered.