Laid in Chelsea

by Ollie Locke

  Ashley and I had broken up several weeks before the ‘incident’ with Gabriella. But before we delve into that, I’m going to take you back to December 2012, our coldest winter for many years.

  I was away writing most of that month, so I didn’t see Ashley as much as I’d have liked. Two hundred years ago a carrier pigeon or monthly letter was the quickest form of communication for anyone doing long distance – so romance and seduction moved mind-numbingly slowly. However, these days the long-distance evening phone call is one of the most-practised ways of getting to know each other, and it’s a favourite of mine (especially with free evening and weekend calls). You’re giving the relationship the time and space it needs to develop, but the other person is always just a phone call away.

  Then there are those great moments when you’re both in your own beds, half-asleep on different sides of the country, but the last thing you want to do is put the phone down. I know it’s a bit sickly, but if that’s happening, then you know you’re well on your way to being in that elusive relationship.

  Ashley and I spent our evenings exactly like that: her on the phone from her family home in the middle of nowhere, and me in central Southampton. For hours we talked about everything: past lives and relationships, loves and hates, where we wanted to be 20 years from now. Strangely, things never developed into phone sex, though.

  Always I would fall asleep to the same thoughts. I kept thinking about Soap Girl, and how my last love that ended on camera was my last real relationship. Over Christmas, I battled with my emotions, wondering whether I was ready for a relationship at all – let alone one on camera. Ashley and I hadn’t really spoken about it in those terms at that point, but I knew that it was heading in that direction.

  I had told Ashley that when I finished writing, in early January, I’d take her to Paris for a weekend adventure. We both knew this would most likely be our only alone time for the next five months. So on a Sunday morning we arrived at the airport as planned to board a flight for Paris. But at the last minute, I changed plans and flew us to New York. Premium Economy, no less.

  A few days earlier I had found out it was her dream to go to New York. So that was where we were heading, for five days alone together.

  Over in New York it was freezing, and as we explored the city’s sights and secrets (and, to be completely honest, every stateside Sex and the City location – for my benefit, not hers!), my infamous ‘Gabriella’ long johns were with me every step of the way, keeping my bottom half delightfully heated. As Ashley and I stood in the queue for the Times Square McDonald’s – voted the best McDonald’s in the world by the cast of Will & Grace – I realised there was nowhere I’d rather be. She was the key factor in that.

  As time went on, Ashley and I became quite a tight unit and, without really thinking about it, we fell into a relationship. Everything felt perfect – as any new relationship should. We spent every day in London doing ridiculous things and making each other laugh, and although I knew I was breaking every rule I have ever made for myself about spending too much time together too early, I ignored that – somehow I knew it was right. Everything was amazing and nothing was going to stop me.

  Skip forward six weeks of snogging in cars like we were 17, evening walks around Hyde Park and getting blissfully lost around London … My phone’s buzzing, and I’ve received a message from Ashley. It says that she has ‘been an amazing girlfriend and organised the DVD cabinet into alphabetical order’.

  Now, I’m not a slob, but I have never really understood the point of the ‘alphabetical DVD cabinet’. However, I decided to take this as a bit of a bizarre bonus (and ignore my first thought that I’m dating a potentially neurotic cat-lady). After all, I figured it would be nice just to be able to go straight to ‘M’ for Miss Congeniality instead of sifting through the empty boxes.

  Then a terrifying thought came to me. Several months before, I had ended up at a party at an old friend’s house, who just happened to be gay. Upon leaving, he had presented me with a DVD in front of the whole dinner table. As he handed me the box emblazoned with Dream On, Straight Boy – a hilarious ‘closet gay’ joke – the whole party roared and clapped. In mortified politeness I slipped it into my pocket, smiling and laughing awkwardly. When I got home I remember placing it drunkenly in the empty DVD case of Deep Sea Shark Fishing: How to Hook a Monster – a favourite among my collection, and doubtless a fascinating documentary that I thought no girl, let alone girlfriend, would have any inclination to watch. Little did I know my next girlfriend would have a penchant for organising DVD cabinets.

  Talking to Ashley about gay porn was honestly one of those moments in life – and worse still, on TV – that I will never forget. (Nor will my parents.) A moment where I felt the whole country cringe at the same time, as she obviously didn’t believe I was given the DVD as part of a joke at a dinner party. I did receive a charming tweet from one of the actors, though.

  From that moment on, everything began to change for Ashley and me. She completely accepted the fact that bisexuality was a part of my life, but the dynamic changed all the same.

  Have you ever picked up a girlfriend’s or boyfriend’s phone and read messages you didn’t want to read – but which, on questioning, turned out to be completely innocent? The sinister ‘I love you’ was from his mother’s new unsaved number, awkwardly. Well, this was similar.

  Ashley worried about my fidelity, and so several things, even my cheese and wine evenings with Oscar, were put on a temporary blacklist. After just a few months it had all changed dramatically. The fun had disappeared from our relationship and I knew that I was losing my girlfriend. I was heading for my third on-screen break-up.

  At this point I did what any man would do in my position. I took my Union Jack Jaguar out at midnight and drove around London, asking myself, ‘What would the Queen do?’

  I drove for hours. Once again it occurred to me that every person I saw, from whatever culture or background, had gone, or would go, through exactly the same emotions as I was feeling right then. As I turned down Pall Mall, with its huge Union Jack flags proudly on display, I decided something that at the beginning of my journey had never occurred to me: not only was I ready for a break-up, I was ready to make the biggest decision of my life.

  For the first time in my life I felt old and wise, with a million memories guiding me towards what I needed to do. I had become Bilbo Baggins at the end of The Lord of the Rings – a hairy old hobbit ready to sail, without fear, into the unknown.

  Out of the three break-ups I’ve had on Made in Chelsea, my split with Ashley was by far the least stressful. Actually, to be honest, she did it for me. We had been arguing about nothing for weeks and, sadly, it had come to the point where being together just wasn’t fun anymore. We had lost the one thing I loved when we first started spending time together – the ease and excitement of a new relationship, not weighed down by history and social pressure.

  By the time we parted, we had basically become friends who argued constantly, and as a result I had completely lost my libido (a by-product of arguing is rarely sex). When the final split happened, there were no drama-filled fights, no wardrobes emptied or clothes thrown off the balcony. We spoke, and it was final, so we went our separate ways.

  So I was single again. I went back to writing, my weekly cheese and wine evenings with Oscar and even decided to enrol in a beginner’s sushi-making class. That lasted just two sessions before I decided that I was completely shit at rolling raw fish into seaweed, and in the name of self-pride I gave up. I always had the idea that people who take evening sushi classes are attractive 24-year-olds who want to learn a new trick over a glass of wine … Turns out they’re unemployed and unattractive Japanese men with a personal vendetta against anything that once swam.

  With my new single mentality I realised I wasn’t afraid of what the future had to hold – I was ready to explore other avenues. But would they lead away from Chelsea?

  A month later I got an email from
our production company, brimming with excitement. We had once again been nominated for a BAFTA, one of the most prestigious awards in British TV. Before long my invitation had arrived in the post. This was immediately followed by a call from my agent, reminding me that I had been booked to present a show up in Newcastle – on the same day.

  As the time drew closer, I discovered that Kim Cattrall and Matt LeBlanc were on the list of BAFTA attendees. Naturally, I had to swallow a fair bit of disappointment at this – but remembering the infamous Jennifer Saunders moments of last year provided a bit of comfort. And so it was through slightly teary eyes that I found my way up to Newcastle, to a small room in a hotel overlooking the River Tyne.

  That evening I decided to have a post-show nap, but knowing the BAFTAs were on at the same time kept me half awake. As I dozed my phone started beeping. Continuously. Picking it up I ignored the missed calls and just saw a message that read: ‘Fuck, you just won a BAFTA!’

  At moments like this you want to be as cool as you possibly can. But, hidden away in my hotel room in northern England, in typical Ollie Locke style I burst into tears and just couldn’t stop. I had people thinking I’d lost my dog (or a finger)! But I was so overwhelmed that, after all we had been through, we’d been recognised for everything we do by one of the world’s most prestigious TV awards.

  … And how was I celebrating? By sitting on my own, watching a TV the size of a wing mirror and crying like I’d fallen off the swings. I could have stayed in, ordered room service and got slowly hammered on cheap wine, but I decided a tiny hotel room simply wasn’t going to cut it on such a historic night. I was going to party; I was going out!

  The only person I knew from Newcastle was my old graphics teacher, but after judging that calling a 70-year-old ex-teacher for a pint was probably just a little too weird, I scrolled through my phone desperately trying to find another northern contact. I remembered getting terribly drunk at the flat of journalist Clemmie Moody, where she introduced me to X Factor winner Joe McElderry. We had exchanged numbers. Sure enough, there he was under ‘J’. So, going against any kind of normality, I pressed ‘Call’ and demanded that Joe get a group together and come and get drunk with me. And this we did, till 5am.

  As the last days of spring approached, and the Made in Chelsea cast began to prepare for the long, lazy summer ahead, I realised I may need to follow a different path and part ways with Made in Chelsea. The more I thought about it, the more terrifying it became: I would be leaving one of the biggest shows in the UK, which had just won a BAFTA, without any specific plans for the future. And to make matters worse, I had been single for several months, which for me basically meant I’d endured another 10 weeks of (unjust) chastity. My future was completely undetermined. It was terrifying.

  After months of playing coy, the sun finally started to shine, and for the first time in ages it was beginning to look like summer in Chelsea. Early one Saturday morning I found myself back at my flat after a long night of drinking with Cheska, Fran Newman-Young, who was new to Made in Chelsea, and Hattie Clark – yes, the Hattie Clark! – for company.

  I don’t completely recall what happened that night – I remember someone suggested playing ‘spin the penis-shaped bottle opener’ and being in my favourite gold boxer shorts. Also, Fran saying something about me being ‘a nice guy’. Nothing happened that evening, but the next morning she came and slid into my bed, where we exchanged morning breath.

  Fran and I began spending time together regularly, and fairly soon we were taking 1am impulse shopping trips to the 24-hour Tesco (one of my favourite London spots – and wooing techniques). At that point I think we could safely say we had started seeing each other.

  It was a few weeks later, when I was standing in a room with the whole Made in Chelsea cast, that I told everyone I was leaving. As I spoke the words, my thoughts flew back to the first moments we had together at the very start of it all. I thought about what we had been through, together and apart, and I knew that I was making the right decision. Three break-ups and a broken heart later, I had given more than I’d ever imagined I could, and I was exhausted.

  I’d been hoping so desperately that The One would arrive, so that I could fall in love forever. Somehow I’d managed to forget what it’s like to sit back and remember that sometimes, in life, you have to embrace the fact that you’re perfectly content being perfectly lonely. After a few weeks things had faded out between Fran and myself, but we remain friends. She’s one of the kindest, sweetest people I know.

  I drove away from the cast that day, leaving behind the last three years of memories, everything that had happened on the show and everything people know me for – and realised it wasn’t an ending. This was just the start of another adventure in another place. On my way home, by sheer fluke I passed Mahiki, where I saw three fresh new cast members being photographed leaving the club. I smiled. As that chapter of my life was ending, theirs was only beginning.

  The thing about break-ups is that you have to learn to be single again. Somehow you get through the mind-numbingly horrific feeling that someone has just removed your fragile heart, stamped on it and put it back with the sole purpose of letting you suffer. And it is at that point when you have to embark on learning to be on your own again. (Just hope to God your break-up doesn’t happen in the winter: alone, cold and single with only a bottle of wine and an electric blanket for company! I’ve been there – that’s the lowest break-up point you can reach.)

  So how do you learn to be single again? Well, it takes time, and I’m sorry to say there’s no proven trick, but there are some things I’ve noted over the years that should help.

  My final ‘Dear Ollie’ section is a reference guide for you. If you do go through a break-up, feel free to flick through these pages and remind yourself that things might not be so bad after all.

  1. You’re a Single Entity

  Have you ever walked into your bathroom and found a cascade of tampons or shaving foam adorning the surfaces, and feminine hygiene products or skiddy Y-fronts lying peaceably on the floor, making your perfect bathroom into a genderless mess? This never has to happen again.

  2. It’s Cheaper

  Once you get past the horrific feeling of emptiness and the stage of crying into bowls of popcorn, you may enter a period of resentment. But when you realise how much money you spent on that cheating, lying, slightly-fatter-since-you-broke-up-according-to-Facebook ex, you will begin to realise that being on your own has made you rich. And whatever anyone says, this always makes you look hotter to the opposite sex! Effectively, they are helping you to get laid.

  3. Spending More Time with Friends

  Remember those people you used to be with every single day before you met The One? Yes, your friends! Once again they can become the centre of your life. They will listen to your worries and let you cry on their shoulders. Not only that, but you can have amazing nights out, catch up on what you’ve missed out on and, who knows, they might have made some hot new acquaintances in the time you spent away …

  4. Running Your Own Life

  Did you ever go to Blockbuster to rent a DVD, only to be persuaded to watch some awful film about a dog running around the Yorkshire countryside trying to find its owner? Or had to sit silently, forcing a smile through the tale of an ageing wrestler and his addiction to amphetamines? Well, now you don’t have to put up with any of that. Now you’re single you can watch any blood-fuelled war film (or sickly sweet rom-com) you like in peace – and without the added irritation of someone taking the last bit of prawn toast.

  5. Having Sex with as Many People as You Want

  You might feel fine straight away, but with most break-ups, it will take at least a month’s worth of crying to even think about sleeping with someone else. But you will get to that point, and it will be wonderful! Now that you’re single you can sleep with as many people as you want and no one can tell you not to. It’s all in the name of self-preservation, about keeping your mind preoccupied with other th
ings.

  Just use protection.

  6. Playing the Field

  As a singleton you are now welcome to date anyone you want. The wisdom that all my tender years have taught me is that the most confident people have the most sex. Fact! So why is this? Purely because if you are confident enough to go up to someone and ask, chances are they will say yes. So don’t be scared – go and ask out whoever you want! Just remember the rules in Chapter 9.

  7. Jealousy

  You might think this is a disadvantage to being single rather than a benefit, but in measurable amounts, jealousy is healthy. Not only does it keep you on your toes, but your jealousy level lets you assess how you feel about your ex. If you don’t want anyone else to have them, you still want them to be yours, then you still like them. Over time, this will change.

  Once you are fully ‘over’ your ex, jealousy will only feature if they end up snogging David Gandy or Penelope Cruz.

  8. Never Having to Answer to Anyone Else

  You’re on a night out with your mates and your phone rings. It’s your girlfriend/boyfriend, and they want you to come home. This is probably my least favourite thing about relationships: even if your partner doesn’t call, you feel guilty for staying out too late and having too much fun without them. It’s a catch-22, and it drives me mad. Now that never has to happen again – you can stay out all night, guilt-free!