by Mike Gayle
‘Hmm, maybe. The thing is I was thinking about taking the organic instinctive approach to agony uncling.’
‘Which is?’
‘Making it up as I go along.’
Izzy laughs. ‘That’s it,’ she says. ‘I’m going to round up everyone and we’re going to celebrate tonight. It’s not every day a girl’s husband becomes a doctor of love.’
peroni
Trevor, Jenny, Stella, Lee, Izzy and I are sitting together in a crowded Pizza Express in Soho. We’ve been at our table for over fifteen minutes and have sent away the waitress twice as we’re all too busy talking about my latest career move to concentrate on ordering.
‘You do know that being an agony uncle on a teenage girls’ magazine isn’t a normal occupation for a man of your years?’ says Trevor. ‘Not normal at all.’
‘You’d be hard pushed to find yourself on a weirder mag,’ says Stella.
‘Yachting Monthly?’ suggests Izzy. ‘Dave hasn’t been near the sea in his life. I think that would be pretty weird.’
‘No,’ says Trevor. ‘Boats fall into the category of “things a man can fake an interest in even if he isn’t that interested”. Along with golf, any kind of vehicle that has a motor . . .’
‘Anything technological – computers, video cameras, etcetera,’ adds Lee.
‘Basically anything that’s really manly,’ says Trevor.
‘Leave him alone, you lot,’ says Jenny. ‘Dave’s going to be brilliant at giving advice. When he used to come over to the flat that Stella, Izzy and I shared in East Finchley we were always asking him for advice about men.’
‘She’s right,’ says Stella. ‘But that’s what you do with a friend’s boyfriend, isn’t it? You treat them like they’re your big brother.’
This is true. I didn’t do much except listen to them talk incessantly about the men they were interested in. I didn’t think of it as giving advice – it was more a way of keeping my girlfriend’s flatmates amused while I waited for her to get ready to go out.
‘He was more like your flat’s resident eunuch,’ says Trevor. ‘And, anyway, Dave’s advice to Jenny when she was thinking about going out with me was that I was the love-them-and-leave-them-type.’
‘I was just messing with your head,’ I say, laughing. ‘You’re all right by me, Trev.’
‘Enough of the squabbling,’ says Jenny. ‘The question is, Dave, are you ready?’
‘For what?’
‘Your first-ever agony-uncle letter.’
agony
Jenny has thoughtfully brought a carrier-bag full of ‘Ask Adam’ letters with her to the restaurant. As if I were selecting a winner for one of those TV competitions of my youth, I root around in the bag and pull out an envelope. It is pastel green with the Teen Scene address painstakingly scrawled across it in silver metallic ink. The letter itself is written on yellow paper in the shape of a dog. I read it aloud:
Dear Ask Adam,
I am a fifteen-year-old girl. I have liked this boy at school called Peter since the start of term and I think he really likes me. The only problem is Peter is my best friend Liz’s boyfriend. He lives three doors down from me so we quite often end up walking home after he’s walked Liz home. He’s really nice. And this isn’t just a crush. I think he feels the same way. But I’m not sure. Should I say something? Should I risk my friendship with Liz? What should I do?
Yours
A Puff Daddy fan
Bristol
‘What’s your gut reaction?’ asks Stella.
‘I don’t understand,’ I reply. ‘Why’s she signed it “A Puff Daddy Fan”?’
‘Because she likes Puff Daddy!’ says Izzy, and rolls her eyes.
‘And this is relevant because?’
‘You’re being deliberately obtuse, Dave,’ warns Izzy. ‘She’s signed it “a Puff Daddy fan” because she doesn’t want anyone she knows to recognise her and, well, the only other option –“anonymous” – is just a bit square, isn’t it?’
‘Okay, okay.’ I focus on the letter again. ‘So she fancies her best friend’s boyfriend and she wants to know if he fancies her and if it’s ethical.’
‘Good,’ says Jenny, encouragingly. ‘What’s your answer?’
‘My answer? Well, it’s bad news, isn’t it? She shouldn’t steal her best mate’s boyfriend because that’s going to cause a whole heap of trouble.’
‘And?’
‘And the boyfriend might not fancy her anyway.’
‘Exactly,’ chips in Trevor. ‘From what she says in the letter, do you think the boyfriend does like her?’
‘Probably.’
‘Really?’ says Stella. ‘I thought he was just being friendly.’
‘No,’ I reply firmly. ‘He fancies her. If he didn’t fancy her he wouldn’t be walking along the street with her. Believe me, having once been a teenage boy I know I wouldn’t have been seen dead talking to a girl I didn’t fancy in case my mates saw me.’ I look over to Trevor and Lee for support. ‘Am I right or am I right?’
They nod and grin enthusiastically.
‘That’s so shallow!’ says Izzy.
‘Fifteen-year-old boys are shallow,’ says Lee. ‘That’s why they’re fifteen-year-old boys.’
‘Maybe you should leave that bit out of your answer in the mag, eh?’
‘I’m enjoying this. Let’s see what else is in there.’ I search around in the bag again. The next letter is in a small white envelope; the handwriting appears youthful but masculine.
Dear Ask Adam
I’m a thirteen-year-old boy. I don’t normally read girls’ magazines but I picked up my sister’s copy and it seemed okay. My problem is that I really like this girl at school called Charmaine. She really likes me too. The thing is I’ve never had a girlfriend before but I know that she’s had at least three boyfriends. I’m really scared of looking stupid in front of her especially as I’ve never kissed a girl before. Is it easy? Where should I put my hands? I’ve heard that some girls like you to use your tongue and others don’t. How can I tell which kind of girl she is? This is all very confusing.
Yours,
A Manchester United fan, Essex
‘What a sweetie!’ enthuses Jenny. ‘Let me have a look at his letter.’ I hand it to her and she examines it carefully. ‘Why can’t all boys be like this?’ She adopts a look of mock-menace for Trevor’s benefit. ‘All nice and sweet and vulnerable instead of being the nasty, leering creatures they usually are.’
‘Are you talking about teenage boys or men in general?’ asks Lee.
‘All of you,’ chips in Stella. ‘All men could learn a thing or two from a sweetheart like that. You should definitely put him in your first Love Doctor column. I’ll bet you’ll have loads of Teen Scene readers gagging to introduce him to the delights of kissing. I tell you what, if I was ten years younger I’d probably have a go myself. What are you going to tell him?’
‘About kissing?’
‘Yes! About kissing.’
‘Honestly, I can’t even remember this being an issue.’
‘That’s such a lie,’ says Izzy. ‘How can your first ever kiss not have been an issue? Who was it with?’
I think long and hard. The details are foggy. A fourteenth-birthday party. A game of Spin the Bottle gone out of control. A darkened room. An alien tongue tasting of Pernod and blackcurrant.
‘Amanda Reddington at a party,’ I confess. ‘Chunky girl with huge glasses. Kind of took me by surprise.’
‘Did you fancy her?’ asks Lee.
‘Not really,’ I reply.
‘So why did you kiss her?’ asks Jenny.
‘She offered,’ I tell her. ‘It felt rude not to.’
‘So what did you know about kissing before that moment?’ Izzy interjects.
‘Nothing.’
‘And what had you learned after you’d kissed her?’ asks Stella.
‘Not to go into a darkened room with Amanda Reddington.’
‘So what advice
are you going to give this poor boy?’ says Izzy, pointing at the letter.
‘I’ll tell him to do it like they do in films. Go in gently, keep his eyes closed, head angled to avoid a clash of noses. He could hold her hands, and he shouldn’t even attempt to put his tongue anywhere it doesn’t belong for the first ten minutes unless invited to do so.’
‘What about lubrication?’ asks Stella.
‘What about lubrication?’
‘Dave, as someone who was once a teenage girl, let me tell you that teen boys have a major problem with lubrication. They’re either so dry it’s like kissing sandpaper or they’re foaming at the mouth and you want to gag. Mind you, the worst thing they can do – and, believe me, this used to happen to me a lot – was lick their lips then wipe them on their sleeve!’
Jenny lets out a shrill scream. ‘That is so horrible.’
‘I always thought the lick ’n’ wipe was quite a sexy manoeuvre,’ I tell her. ‘You know, like, “Here I am, babe, limbering up for the kill.” Izzy used to love it when we first started going out.’
Izzy laughs. ‘You can bet your life that wasn’t me you’re talking about,’ she says. ‘He is so lying.’
‘So I’ve got to tell him all this?’ I ask Jenny.
‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘It’s not as easy as you thought, is it? Pick one more, then let’s order some food because I’m starving.’
The final letter I pull out is a brown manila prepaid envelope to British Gas, only the address and prepaid symbol have been crossed out with a thick black marker pen then replaced with the Teen Scene address. I hold it up for the entire table to see.
‘Looks scary,’ says Lee.
‘I think you’re right,’ says Trevor, who is studying the letter. It’s written on a page torn from a school exercise book.
Dear Ask Adam,
I’m eleven. I love boys. I want one to be my boyfriend. All my friends talk about boys all the time. They say I am boy obsessed. How do I get a boyfriend? Please, please, please.
Yours
An eleven-year-old desperate Teen Scene reader, Leicester
‘The pre-teen contingent,’ says Jenny knowingly. ‘Explains everything.’
‘It does?’
‘Pre-teens haven’t got the faintest clue about real teen angst so they have to make it up. They read in the problem page about all these teens with real worries and feel envious so they make stuff up.’
At this moment the waitress arrives at our table with a look of determination. We order six beers and when they arrive Jenny takes the tray from the waitress and hands them round. Raising hers in the air, she addresses the table loudly enough to get the attention of the whole restaurant: ‘Will you all be upstanding for Dave Love Doctor Harding, the nation’s number-one agony uncle!’
And they all stand up and give me a round of applause.
post
‘Which one of you is Dave Harding?’ says the guy from the post room, not noticing that, other than himself, I’m the only man in the office.
It’s now four o’clock on the following afternoon and I’ve been waiting all day for the rest of the ‘Ask Adam’ postbags to arrive. Keen to get on with my new job, I’d called several times and been told that the bags would be up in ‘twenty minutes’ It isn’t until my fifth call that Fran explains to me that the post room’s ‘twenty minutes’ could be anything from half an hour to an entire day, depending on what they’re watching on their portable TV.
The post-room guy drops three huge green plastic post-bags at my feet, then leaves the office without another word.
‘What’s up with him?’ I ask Fran, as she helps me untie the bags.
‘It’s nothing personal,’ says Fran, grimacing in the direction of the door. ‘All the post guys are a bit surly when you ask them to do their jobs. When they’re eyeing up my arse as I go into the lift or having a fag outside the office, they’re the nicest people in the world.’ She struggles to open her bag while I search around for a pair of scissors. ‘We’re in,’ she says eventually, having severed the cords with her teeth. She leaves me to wade through hundreds of pages of love, self-hatred, self-loathing and self-doubt. It’s amazing. I can’t believe how complicated a teenage girl’s life can be.
PART THREE
(January–March 2001)
‘You know, I used to live like Robinson Crusoe – shipwrecked among eight million people. Then one day I saw a footprint in the sand and there you were. It’s a wonderful thing, dinner for two.’
Baxter, in Billy Wilder’s The Apartment
lift
It’s raining heavily and I feel as if steam must be rising from my soaking clothes as I wait in the lobby for the lift. The first issue of Teen Scene with me as agony uncle has been out in the shops now for two weeks and I’m quite proud of it – apart from the photo at the top of the column. Just as Fran had said he would, the photographer has made me look like a (slightly haggard older version of a) boy-band member and Izzy has been having a field day teasing me about it. I press the lift button repeatedly and, as one of the building’s two lifts finally begins its descent, Fran appears next to me. ‘Morning,’ she says brightly.
‘Hey, you,’ I reply. ‘What did you get up to at the weekend?’
‘I stayed in for most of it and had a massive row with Linden.’
‘About?’
‘Everything.’
‘Where did it begin?’
She half smiles. ‘I think it might have been when I opened my mouth to say hello when I dropped round at his flat on Friday night.’
‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,’ I tell her, ‘he’s a waste of space.’
‘I know,’ says Fran, as the lift arrives. ‘But I like him. He’s a very sexy waste of space. What’s a girl to do?’
I’m about to reply when I realise we’re no longer alone. A couple of women – all perfect lipstick, perfect hair, perfect dress sense, who obviously work on Stylissimo – have arrived and are standing to the left of us and a young casually dressed guy is next to me. I do a double-take and realise I recognise him just as he realises he recognises me.
‘Dave Harding?’ says the man, as we get into the lift.
I smile politely. It’s all coming back to me. He’d done quite a bit of work experience at Louder about a year ago but we hadn’t been able to give him a job. I feel myself shrink.
‘I thought it was you,’ he continues. ‘How are you, mate?’
‘Okay,’ I reply. ‘How about yourself?’
‘Excellent, actually. You know how it is, a bit of this and a bit of that. I DJ at a couple of bars in Soho, and then I do a bit of stuff for a couple of underground labels and on top of all that I’m working at Metrosoundz on the top floor. Features editor, actually. Just got promoted.’
‘Congratulations,’ I say, in a tone that I hope doesn’t sound churlish or needlessly genuine. ‘You must be really pleased.’
‘Sorry to hear about Louder,’ he says. ‘It was a great mag in its time.’
‘Cheers,’ I reply, aware of the thinly veiled insult. Out of the corner of my eye I notice that Fran is wearing the look of someone who is desperate to be introduced. ‘This is my mate Fran,’ I say grudgingly. ‘Fran, this is—’
‘Steve Jackson,’ he interrupts, then corrects himself. ‘Stevie J.’
It said it all.
‘Hi,’ says Fran to Stevie J. ‘I’ve seen you about in the building.’
He smiles widely. ‘I’ve seen you too.’
I sigh. I don’t really care that Fran is flirting with him but I don’t understand why she’s doing it in front of complete strangers.
‘Which mag do you work on?’ he asks Fran.
‘Teen Scene,’ she replies. ‘I’m a writer there.’
‘I’ve always thought it would be a good laugh to work on a mag like that.’
‘It is,’ she says, grinning like an idiot.
‘And what are you up to at the minute, Dave?’
‘T
his and that.’
‘Dave’s Teen Scene’s agony uncle,’ says Fran. ‘Aren’t you, Dave?’
There’s a long uncomfortable silence.
Stevie J looks at me in disbelief. ‘You’ve stopped writing about music?’ he asks.
‘Not stopped,’ I tell him. ‘Just taking a break.’
‘Dave’s really good at it,’ says Fran. ‘If you’ve got any relationship problems you should go and see him.’
Stevie J and Fran laugh and I have to join in. Fortunately I don’t have to endure this torture for long as the lift arrives at the third floor.
‘Nice talking to you,’ says Stevie J, as Fran and I step out.
‘See you around,’ says Fran.
‘Yeah,’ he replies. ‘Definitely.’
As the lift door begins to close behind us Stevie J calls out, ‘If you’re looking for some writing work, Dave, you should give me a call and pitch some ideas to me.’
Before I can muster a reply the door closes.
‘That was nice of him,’ says Fran. ‘I can’t tell you how long I’ve been dying to talk to him. He’s very, very sexy.’
‘That wasn’t nice of him,’ I snap. ‘He was having a laugh at my expense. He did work experience for me once. He used to make my coffee. Open my bloody post for me. And there he is asking me to pitch him features ideas. I should’ve . . . I should’ve—’
Fran, highly amused by my anger, grabs me by the arm and pulls me into the Teen Scene office.
bag
It’s midday and I’m at my desk. Jenny has been in meetings all morning and Fran’s now out of the office overseeing a reader photo-shoot with the fashion editor at a studio in Fulham. Together they’re making over a bunch of girls to look like their favourite female pop stars. Even though I have loads of work to do by the end of the day – some singles reviews and a telephone interview with a new Irish boy band to write up – I decide to take a break with a little light reading from my Love Doctor postbag.