by Rudd, Matt
‘What?’
‘Alex has been invited to join us for lunch. My parents only just mentioned it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because his family are in Montreal with his sister.’
‘What?’
‘He told them he’d be on his own for Christmas.’
‘How?’
‘When he spoke to them.’
‘When?’
‘On the phone a couple of days ago.’
‘Why?’
‘He still calls them every now and again. Just to keep them up to date.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I guess he just likes them.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, “Why?” Are you saying my parents are difficult to like?’
And so on.
So my first Christmas as a married man is ruined even before it’s begun.
Thursday 22 December
Must buy Isabel present, despite Christmas being ruined. Missed last orders on Amazon. Went to John Lewis on Oxford Street and saw two women fighting over the last pair of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer Y-fronts which was such an unfestive and depressing sight, I had to leave with nothing but a set of cheese knives for the in-laws. Liberty just seemed silly—£180 for a scarf? Unsure of myself in Agent Provocateur what with all the super-confident, super-buxom staff walking around in lingerie. Just gone too far in Ann Summers. Just as wrong but for all the opposite reasons in Dorothy Perkins. And she’s not going to appreciate anything from the Gadget Shop (not even the remote-control indoor helicopter I only just manage to convince myself not to offer as a novelty present).
Why can’t they have a shop selling things women want rather than lots of shops selling things men think women want? Why can’t I just give someone some money in return for an appropriate and preferably pre-wrapped present?
I decide to phone a friend—aka Johnson—who puts on Ali who tells me I’ve left it quite late before giving me a brief but instructive lesson on successful present-purchasing for women.
WHAT WOMEN WANT
Men to guess miraculously, by some divine inspiration, the exact obscure thing they’ve been wanting all year even though they don’t even know what it is themselves.
Sexy but at the same time flattering but at the same time comfortable lingerie. Which, like the above, doesn’t exist. Tickets to something girly like the ballet or a musical, not a rugby match.
Someone else to take them away from all this.
WHAT WOMEN DON’T WANT
A threesome.
An ironing board.
Sports biographies, iPods, laptops, remote-control helicopters or anything else that is clearly for the man, not the woman.
Slutty lingerie (e.g. crotchless and/or edible panties, nipple—revealing bras, suspenders), whips, handcuffs, French maid outfits or anything else that is clearly for the man’s benefit.
Ali then puts Johnson back on so I can tell him what she just told me. I like the way their marriage works. It’s practical.
Saturday 24 December
To my parents for a sorry-we’re-spending-Christmas-with-my-wife’s-family-and-psycho-ex-not-you lunch. Mum is in denial. She has made roast turkey.
Sunday 25 December
Christmas is supposed to be a time of peace, love and understanding. No such luck, through no fault of my own, for me.
Rubbish Christmas, part one
Despite my best efforts, the present-giving went horribly wrong.
She went first and absolutely loved the thoughtful theatre-and-dinner tickets, the non-slutty lingerie and the wheelbarrow full of perennials I’d left wrapped with a bow in the garden. I went second and didn’t look suitably excited by the socks (labelled with the days of the week so I can pair them more easily) or the book (titled It’s Not Easy Being a Man: 25 reasons why you really are always right and she really is always wrong).
‘It’s just a joke.’
‘Hahahahaha. A joke book and another nag about how I never pair my socks. Thanks.’
‘Well, we did say we weren’t going to do big presents this year, what with the house move.’
‘Yes, I know, but we always say that. You’re not supposed to take it seriously.’
‘Well, it’s silly to spend a fortune on presents we don’t need…’
‘Please don’t say “…what with the starving Africans.”’
‘…What with the starving Africans.’
‘Okay, I’ll send the pants and the theatre tickets to Africa.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘Well.’
‘And I thought you’d like the socks. You can walk around with Monday on one foot and Thursday on the other. You like being a rebel.’
Rubbish Christmas, part two
Alex is already there when we arrive, hogging the sofa next to Isabel’s mum who is showing him a photo album.
‘Hi William, Merry Christmas. Come over here and look at these amazing pictures of your very glamorous parents-in-law.’
I approach warily and before I can run screaming from the room, the house, the village, the whole goddamn planet, I find myself looking at porn.
‘You really were very striking when you were younger, Mrs B,’ says Alex as we look at a picture of Isabel’s parents clutching each other, pendulous breasts and swollen pudendum on show for all to see.
‘Thank you, darlink,’ she replies. ‘Look how firm Henry was back then.’ I fight back the sudden urge to die in a pool of my own vomit and acute embarrassment.
‘Oh Mum, not that album again, it’s disgusting,’ says Isabel, but doesn’t do any more in the way of coming to my rescue.
‘Don’t be silly, darlink. Stop being so conservative.’
Over the next twenty pages, I am subjected to a barrage of images that would shock the most liberal of thinkers. It’s art, apparently: a wedding gift from some Sixties photographer friend of theirs.
Why wasn’t I warned?
Consecutive turkey lunches are hard work in any circumstances but with the added parental nudity, I have no hope of finishing my meal. Isabel’s father—who I can now only picture naked and ecstatic under a younger, firmer version of Isabel’s mother—is, of course, highly disapproving.
Rubbish Christmas, part three
Alex has also bought Isabel’s parents a set of cheese knives for Christmas. Except mine came from John Lewis and his came from Fortnum’s. Mine are accompanied by nothing (‘Because,’ said Isabel, ‘my parents don’t like ostentation’). His are accompanied by a whole wheel of Stilton from Neal’s Yard. And a book on great cheeses of the world. And some chutney he made himself. Six bottles, each a different level of spiciness.
‘Because I know you like it spicier than Mr B, Mrs B.’ The two of them laugh conspiratorially. I’ve never laughed conspiratorially with my mother-in-law. I’ve never called her Mrs B either.
Mr and Mrs B love ostentation. They hug him and say you shouldn’t have, marvel at how he managed to find time to make chutney, then unwrap my shitty cheese knives and everyone looks blank. Eventually, there are muted thanks, suggestions of perhaps taking one set back (I wonder which), then me saying I’ve still got the receipt, then Alex saying what a silly coincidence, then me replying, yes, cheese knives are like buses, and then no one laughing.
They use Alex’s knives to cut Alex’s Stilton. I use mine to cut him into tiny little cheesy pieces and serve him on cocktail sticks with pineapple. Until someone spoils my fantasy by asking me to pass the chutney.
‘I’ll try number five. Number four was good but I’m ready for the hard stuff.’
Someone kill me.
Rubbish Christmas, part four
You really would have thought that that was enough for one season of glad tidings but then, on the miserable post-lunch walk through high winds and sleeting rain, I find myself stuck at the back with Alex. The real Alex, the bastard who’s in love with my wife.
‘Shame about the cheese knives,’ he begins,
a big grin on his stupid face.
‘Yes, devastating,’ I retort rather pathetically.
Stony silence.
‘How are the lamps, by the way?’
‘Great, really great.’
‘Really? Isabel didn’t give me that impression. Sounded like they were more up her street than yours.’
‘No, they’re up both our streets. We’re on the same street. So thanks, I like the lamps. Very…tactile.’
‘Oh, okay. Well, that’s good.’
Even longer stony silence.
‘And I’m glad to hear your marital difficulties are over.’
‘What marital difficulties?’
‘You know.’
‘Look, mate, it’s none of your business, but for your information there is no marital difficulty…’
‘Yes, but Isabel’s my friend and I’m just saying I’m glad everything is back on track.’
‘Hang on a—’
‘And that all is well in the you-know-what department.’
‘No, I don’t know what. What are you talking about?’
‘Nothing. Hey, do you fancy going paint-balling sometime? I’ve never done it but it’s supposed to be great.’
‘Not really, no.’
‘Oh, okay.’ And with that, he climbed a stile and went running off after his number one fan, Mrs B.
Monday 26 December
Did you tell Alex I didn’t like the lamps? No.
Did you tell Alex we were having marital difficulties? No.
Did you tell Alex I was buying your parents a set of shitty cheese knives? No.
Did you tell Alex we were having sexual difficulties? No.
Well, how did he know all that then?
Wednesday 28 December
I don’t know what to think and I don’t think I care any more. Like Diana, I’m in a crowded marriage. Except I don’t think Diana’s threesome involved actual spying.
Because the options I’ve narrowed it down to over the last two festive days are these: either Isabel is lying and she is telling Alex all about our private affairs and they’re having a good laugh behind my back; or she isn’t lying and Alex is somehow listening in on all our conversations. Neither is great.
To clear my head, I decide to go for an early morning ride on the bike Isabel bought me the last time we were being driven apart. It is dark when I leave but the blood-red orb of the sun soon breaks over the horizon and I am out of the village, racing along the lanes on a crisp winter’s day. It’s good to do some exercise every now and again, I think to myself. Not in a stinking gym with some Lycra-clad sadist driving you on. Out in nature, sweeping through the glorious British countryside, alone in the elements, fresh air pumping through your lungs.
‘Morning,’ I call cheerily to a tweedy man walking his dogs. He looks vaguely familiar.
‘What do you think this is?’ he shouts back, pointing to a locked gate we’ve both reached at the same time.
‘It’s a gate,’ I reply, too puzzled to understand.
‘You can’t get a bloody horse through that, can you?’ He’s still shouting, although we’re now no more than three feet apart.
‘Probably not.’ I still can’t work out what he’s getting at. Neither of us has a horse so it’s not an enormous problem. You couldn’t get a wheelchair through it either, but again, it’s simply not an issue.
‘It’s not a bloody bridle path, so you’re not allowed to cycle here,’ he shouts.
‘Oh, I must have taken a wrong turn. I’ve got an OS map here.’
‘You think I can’t read an OS map. You think I’m some sort of bloody idiot. I can read an OS map. I live here. I live on this estate. If you don’t believe me, ask anyone.’ His whole head has swollen into a red, veiny balloon. He must be seconds away from having a stroke, and that is probably a good thing.
‘I’m sure you can read an OS map. Would you mind telling me where the bridle path goes, then?’
‘WE’VE ALL GOT KEYS. EVERYONE IN THE VILLAGE HAS GOT BLOODY KEYS. SO DO YOU THINK I’M BLOODY LYING?’
It’s quite a flabbergasting onslaught.
‘No, I just want you to show me where the bridle path goes.’
‘YOU DON’T BELIEVE ME? YOU DON’T BLOODY BELIEVE ME? WHERE ARE YOU FROM? WHERE ARE YOU BLOODY FROM? YOU’RE NOT FROM THE VILLAGE.’
I tell him that I am from the village and that I’d be grateful if he could just stop shouting long enough to tell me where the bridle path goes.
‘OVER THERE!’ He’s pointing at a path covering the same ground but coming out at a stile ten yards further along. I have trespassed off it for about ten seconds. I tell him this and he goes an even redder shade of scarlet.
‘I DON’T CARE. I COULDN’T GIVE A TOSS. IT’S THE GAMEKEEPER YOU WANT TO WATCH OUT FOR. HE’S NOT NEARLY SO UNDERSTANDING.’
‘What’s he going to do, shoot me?’
The tweedy man’s face becomes inscrutable and without another word he climbs over the stile and walks off.
I shout Merry Christmas after him and walk my bike the eight yards to the correct stile, swearing to attend the next Countryside Alliance march just to throw rotten eggs at all these silly wax-jacket-wearing idiots.
I get home more stressed than when I left. I shower, I change, I jog down to the station to get the train to work. Standing next to me on the platform, as he is every morning, is the tweedy man, now de-tweeded and wearing standard-issue business suit. I knew I had seen him somewhere before.
He bids me good morning, as he always does, not recognising me without my law-breaking mountain bike.
I bid him good morning back, then spend the rest of the journey into London wishing I’d bid him fuck off instead. But by the time we come into Charing Cross, I have a plan. I walk over to his seat, hand him a leaflet from my anger-management class and suggest he joins us.
The look on his face as he puts two and two together is still not enough to cheer up a day that began with a stroke of Alex’s horrible lamp.
Saturday 31 December
Firstly, let me say, dear diary, that this will be my last day of drinking for a month. I can feel both my kidneys protesting at the cruel treatment they’ve been subjected to over the last month/year/ decade, despite my brief lapse into rural bliss. And my liver seems to have left the building altogether. Andy is also suffering acute organ failure. Johnson has been told by his wife that his pot-belly is getting a pot-belly of its own. She loved the original pot-belly, but not the new one. We are all abstaining for a month.
Which partly explains what happened later.
Because I worked all week and Isabel’s more enlightened office closed for the festive period, she was left to arrange the fancy dress. Hers was therefore brilliant—Marilyn Monroe in that dress, complete with convincing wig and portable up-skirt wind machine. Mine wasn’t so good. I would be Clark Kent until midnight, then phone-booth myself into Superman to welcome in the New Year. I didn’t think it sounded like a good idea, particularly given that Isabel had been unable to find a proper Superman costume.
Still, she told me I looked sexy with my Clark Kent glasses so I went along with it. All evening, her annoying friends (why couldn’t we have gone to one of my friends’ parties?) asked why I’d come to a fancy-dress party in a suit. All evening I said, wait and see.
As the hour of both revealing my superpowers and abandoning drink for a month approached, I became increasingly inebriated. Isabel was wowing everyone with her billowing skirt and I was de-wowing them with my suit and speccy four-eyes.
Bong. Bong. Bong. My big opportunity.
I stepped onto the dance floor and began to strip. Empowered by vodka, I really gave it everything, flinging my blazer across the room, nearly garrotting myself as I whipped off my tie. Then shirt, then trousers. It wasn’t quite Christopher Reeve, but as I stood there in my Superman T-shirt, frilly red knickers and blue tights, I expected a round of applause at the very least.
No one noticed.
Everyone
was too drunk and too busy singing Old bloody Lang bloody Syne.
Except for Isabel. She’d watched the whole debacle from the kitchen doorway. After suppressing a cruel giggle, she came over and whispered, ‘Let’s go home, Superman, before your cover is blown.’
That wasn’t even the embarrassing bit. I can’t remember the Tube or the train. I can remember getting back to the village and Isabel still Monroe-ing her knickers at me. And getting into the house and her singing ‘Happy Birthday’ all provocatively, and me pretending to fly and hurting my knees quite badly. And then us, rather spontaneously I thought for married people, tearing each other’s clothes off. Literally tearing them, so that we’d have trouble returning them to the fancy-dress shop next week—not that I was thinking about that at the time. Well, I was a bit.
And then starting to have sex.
And it all going to plan.
And then the image of her naked, postcoital mother and father, winking provocatively from the album on Alex’s lap.
And then retreat. Like a snail someone just threw salt over.
And the words, ‘Don’t worry, we can try again tomorrow,’ coming from Isabel’s lips like a bullet between the eyes of a malfunctioning prize bull.
I am sexually incapable. Happy New Year.
JANUARY
‘The majority of husbands remind me of an orang-utan
trying to play the violin.’
HONORÉ DE BALZAC