I Blame Morrissey

by Jamie Jones

  1998

  The Light Is Fading

  I SHOULD have taken the Christmas snub in a mature way, as a wake-up call and changed my behaviour. Instead I took it as an invitation to become ever more childish. I still loved her, I still wanted to make it all ok but I couldn’t resist the chance to get some form of petty revenge. My chance came when I was, no doubt reluctantly, invited to her sister’s wedding. Amy had sat me down in the pub, bought me a pint and a bag of honey roasted peanuts (which I knew meant that she was either splitting up with me or had some good news). She billed it as a lovely weekend away for us to relax and enjoy the wedding, which was taking place at a country house somewhere in Hertfordshire. When she confirmed the date of the happy event as Saturday 23rd May, I should have just smiled sweetly, taken a swig of my pint and told her how much I was looking forward to spending the weekend with her.

  Instead, I looked her straight in the eyes and said in a breezy tone, ‘Oh, I can’t go if that’s the date. England are playing Saudi Arabia in a friendly at Wembley that afternoon. I’ve promised the lads that I’ll go to the game. I can’t let them down, no way.’

  I knew, as the words tumbled out of my mouth that I was being a petty, pitiful wanker but I couldn’t stop myself. It was like that moment when you’ve got a stinking hangover and you convince yourself that if you be sick, you will feel much better. As your fingers hit the back of your throat you panic and know you have done the wrong thing, but it’s too late by then, the bile is on its way. I scrambled to stuff the words back into my mouth but they were out there, splattered on the floor.

  I wanted her to react, to laugh, cry, hit me. She didn’t make a scene though, she lent in close to me and for a split second I thought she was going to kiss me and say:

  ‘I love it when you’re mean, now take me home and ravage me.’

  Instead she put her mouth so close to my ear that I could feel the acid dripping in her breath as she simply spat; ‘Pathetic.’

  She got up from her seat, grabbed her coat and made a point of slamming the pub door as she left. I turned to the assorted clientele, who were now all staring at me and said: ‘No idea what’s up with her, I only wanted to stay for another pint.’ I stayed for more than one and wrapped my cosy beer fuelled melancholy hood over my head. She didn’t come home that night. I’d waited up, wanting to give her the compilation tape I had made especially to commemorate our argument, a C90 tape filled with The Smiths “I Know It’s Over” repeated 15 times. I stayed awake until 3am, before sleep won out in its battle against my petty desire for revenge.

  It was only when I woke later that morning and realised that she still wasn’t home, that it occurred to me that I was more concerned with giving her the tape than I was about whether she was ok or where she had spent the night.

  We’d memorised each other’s timetable, so I knew that she knew that I had a 9am lecture that morning. I figured that she would wait until I had headed out to come home. I was far better at this game than her though, and sat waiting at the kitchen table for her to return. Sure enough, at 9.15am, she came through the door, where she found her smirking boyfriend walking towards her and handing over a cassette. I smelt the unmistakable odour mix of cigarette smoke and male student bedroom on her clothes but stayed strong and silent. She looked at me slightly bemused as I walked into my room and shut the door.

  With an exaggerated exhalation of breath she wandered up our winding staircase and into her room. Due to the creaking floorboards and worn carpet, I could hear her put the tape into her stereo. After realising what the song was, she hit fast forward and listened again. She repeated this for about 10 more hits of the fast forward button. Eventually she picked the tape out of its tray, threw it onto the floor and stamped on it for so long that I was convinced her leg was going to come through the ceiling.

  When I had heard nothing more for about 20 minutes I went into the shower. Upon my return I found a note on my bed, written in her angriest scrawl:

  “Jay, If you want us to be over just say so. Don’t get Morrissey to do your dirty work. Surely I am worth more than that?

  Ps – I could tell by the look on your face this morning you think I got off with someone last night, well I didn’t. I got drunk and bored the girls from my course by saying how much I hate you and love you at the same time. I crashed at Bethan’s. Check with her if you want.”

  I’d managed to finish on a magnificent double, I’d hurt her and made myself feel like a complete arsehole. I had also, once again, failed to spark the argument that I hoped would enable us to get all of our issues out in the open and find a way to put right all that was wrong between us. I had become the 21 year old equivalent of the boy in the playground who pulls the hair of the girl that he fancies just to get her to notice him. She was right, I was pathetic.

  In an attempt to at least get back to being civil, I met her outside her mid morning lecture and we went for lunch at Bella Pasta. Amy spent the time reiterating her stance that we needed to: “concentrate on our exams” and “leave sorting out our relationship until we have both got our degrees”. I just sat there daydreaming about how we had once been so passionately in love that we never got to the dessert menu when we had a meal. Even though it was only lunchtime, for this meal we had starter, main, desert and coffee. As a couple we had nowhere that we needed to be any more. We had gone from being a pair of lithe teenagers who would burn off any excess calories between the sheets to this podgy twenty something pairing who would comfort eat to hide their sadness.

  That meal, both in the quality of the food and conversation was a new low for us. It was no fun, no silly in-jokes and the only smiling she did was at the waiter. It was excruciating to be part of a loveless conversation in a lifeless restaurant. She spoke in such a cold, businesslike manner that, at the end of the meal, I expected her to give me a print out of all that had been discussed for my records. Once again, I reluctantly agreed that we would “concentrate on our exams”, and this time knew that I had to keep to it, for her sake if not my own. One more argument was all this relationship had in it and I wasn’t going to waste it. Instead, as Amy went off shopping alone, I went home and did the only thing I knew could help me when faced with a crisis. I put “Vauxhall & I” on the stereo and turned off the light.

  When Amy came home later that evening, having been for a drink with her coursemates, she found me still listening to Morrissey. With a glowing face that came from at least 5 vodka and slimlines, she decided to give me some invaluable advice:

  ‘Honestly Jay, I think if you met Morrissey, you’d even manage to depress him.’

  Pause to laugh at her own joke

  ‘Remember when we first met and you would prattle on for hours about how people were wrong when they said he was depressing. That, in fact, he was a very funny guy if you just listened properly to the lyrics? Now, look at you, sat here listening to “Strangeways Here We Bum” and thinking “Ohhhhh woe is me, my girlfriend thinks I’m a self-centred prat and I know she’s right.

  You should blame him you know, blame him for this mess that you’ve created for us. All those years sat listening to this turgid crap has turned your brain into mush, you’re like a soddin’ Morrissey zombie.’

  Now warming to the theme, she wanders into the centre of my room and, to express her point, waves a flailing arm in the direction of my wall of Moz posters.

  ‘Go on, blame him, it will mean you can totally rid yourself of any bad feelings, of any blame for the mess you’ve made of our relationship. Go on, just blame Morrissey for the crap you are making of your life. They will end up writing that on your gravestone. Here lies Jay – he blamed Morrissey.”

  Me – ‘It’s “Vauxhall & I”.’

  Amy – ‘What?’

  Me – ‘I’m not listening to “Strangeways….” it’s “Vauxhall & I”.’

  Amy – ‘The case for the prosecution rests your honour. I hope that the defendant putting me right on what album he is mentally wanking to is the fi
nal point that convinces the jury to find him guilty of being the shitest boyfriend in the history of the world.

  Sod it. I give up, you’ve beaten me, goodnight.’

  I woke the next morning to find that she had stuck a photo of her and me, standing smiling in her parents garden, on my bedroom door and had drawn a speech bubble coming out of my mouth, with the words “I blame Morrissey” contained within it.

  If previous form was anything to go by, I should’ve got up and planned some act of revenge. As it was, I chuckled at the photo, left it pinned to the door (for the rest of the year) and went to my lecture. She had broken the “Bella Pasta Truce” but I was in no mood to strike back. What was the point? We both knew where this was going to end up, but I didn’t want it to get there yet and I was pretty sure that she didn’t either.

  I decided that the best and most noble course of action was to just stay out of her way. By March of 1998 we were edging ever closer to finishing our time at university. I took to spending my days in the library studying, in the park listening to The Smiths or going to the pub on my own. Despite the constant feeling of gaping emptiness, I was starting to enjoy being on my own, not thinking or worrying about anyone else. In fact, I managed to get to a stage when I wasn’t even thinking or worrying about life. I was just existing. Even when I went to the pub, I wasn’t getting down and drinking to forget my troubles, it was usually just to watch the football. I was already subconsciously beginning to take the first steps to getting over the pain of our break up, even though we were still, just about, together.

  This time alone didn’t always go well though and occasionally I would, without someone drinking alongside me to regulate my visits to the bar, get absolutely plastered. One cold spring evening spent slumped at the foot of Nye Bevan’s statue was a particular low point. Still, the 50p that a passing valley-boy threw at my head with a cheery “I bet he’s bloody English, that tramp fella”, was enough to get a portion of chips in an attempt to sober up.

  Alternatively, I would spend whole evenings in my room, listening to music. 1997 had seen the final death knell of Britpop, summed up in the overblown dirge that was Oasis 3rd album, “Be Here Now”. 1998 felt like a clean start, the start of something fresh. Like the rest of the UK, Amy and I were swept away by the gentle coffee table dance music contained within Air’s “Moon Safari” album. We would play it at least once a day, with particular focus on the gorgeous “All I Need”. The only other thing that we could agree on was that Theaudience single, “A Pessimist Is Never Disappointed” was both a shimmering glory of a pop song and summed up my attitude to life in it’s 3 and a half minutes.

  Amy was spending more and more time back in Cambridge, seeming to my self obsessed feelings, that she was desperate to get away from me. That Cardiff spring remained firmly stuck in the icy blasts of winter and I would seek refuge in her luxuriously duveted bed when she was away. We had stopped almost all forms of affection so that was now the closest I got to her. Even our hugs had gone from being full of love and warmth to the kind of pitying embrace that you give someone at a funeral.

  I wasn’t looking for anyone else, the thought didn’t even cross my mind. I knew that Amy had dabbled with other members of the student population. I’d guessed first of all, before one of her coursemates let it slip after one too many Bacardi and Diet Cokes at Popscene. Then one night I saw it for myself.

  She had headed out early one evening for her weekly drink with her coursemates at The Tavern. We were long past the point of her inviting me along, but I persuaded Neil and Nic to come to our local pub for a pint and a game of cards. It was as the barman rang the bell for last orders that we made the half-cut decision to head to the local chinese takeaway, ‘Wok U Like’. With the alcohol fuelled high spirits of a night out flowing through my legs, I decided to do something special for my erstwhile girlfriend. I would get a quarter of crispy duck, (not easy for a vegetarian to order that) then go and walk her home from The Tav’.

  I set off on the 300 yard journey gaily swinging the poor butchered duck carcass in a plastic bag, looking forward to getting back into Amys good books with this act of affection. Even with a few drinks inside me, I should’ve known that something was wrong when I walked through the pub door and saw Lauren, Amy’s new best friend, whose facial expression went from a smile to ‘Oh shit’ as she spotted me.

  Lauren – walking towards me and waving her hands as if she was fighting off a swarm of bees – ‘She’s not here. She’s gone with some of the others up to Clwb Ifor Bach’.

  Me – ‘And hello to you as well Lauren. Errrr, if she’s gone, how come her jacket and bag are still on that seat?’

  Lauren – ‘She was drunk and must have forgotten them. You can take them home for her if you like?’

  Me – ‘But I bought her a Chinese….’

  Lauren- Now using her anti-swarm hand actions to subtly point me towards the exit – ‘She can eat it in the morning can’t she, it’ll be fine.’

  Me – ‘Sod it. Well ok, I’ll have a quick pint and then go home.’

  She went to say; ‘No, don’t….’ but by then I’d turned towards the bar. As I took my first step, a couple deep in a passionate canoodle on the makeshift dancefloor caught my eye. I could see that he was giving the kiss his all, eyes closed for extra meaning, one hand on the back of her head, the other firmly grasping her bum. As they swayed around in their circle of desire, the strobe lighting caught the side of her face, illuminating the whole scene for full effect. As the barman, who was a lad on my course, said “Oh, sorry you had to see that mate, pint and a chaser is it?”, I felt the bag of cremated waterfowl slide out of my hand and split open onto the pub floor. Duck sauce seeped onto my Adidas Gazelles as I stood transfixed, watching my girlfriend dance and kiss a lad that I had never seen before. I knew I had to do something but had no idea what. My stomach had fallen to my feet, my head was swimming and I gripped the bar like it was the referee holding up my battered frame at the end of a boxing match against Mike Tyson. I ordered a pint and stood stock still as I downed it then, as the song changed and with Primal Scream ‘Rocks’ filling the air, this hastily thrown together couple got on with grinding the hell out of each other’s thighs.

  It felt like the world was watching me watching my girlfriend getting her rocks off with a bloke who I now noticed was wearing a rugby shirt tucked firmly in to his jeans. Christ, was this how low we’d sunk? Amy was so unhappy that she was out snogging a rugger bugger in the middle of the Tavern?

  As the song came to an end, Lauren couldn’t take the tension of the situation any longer and felt compelled to go and point out that I was stood at the bar. I could tell from the way that Amy was squinting over in my direction that at some point during this night of debauchery she had lost one or possibly both of her contact lenses. My chance to leave was long gone. I had to wait to see how this scenario, which appeared to be based on my worst nightmare, was going to pan out.

  It didn’t end with drama, instead she staggered over and indignantly asked, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ before telling me, ‘I’m very drunk and I know I will regret that in the morning but right now I don’t care. I’m going to Metros with this lot in a bit, you can come if you want.’

  That was it, no explanation, no sorry, no tears, just advising me that she was going to Metros. I declined her kind offer by growling into her ear:

  ‘Fuck you, I’m going home. Your dinner’s on the floor.’

  With a quick and, possibly unnecessary, flick of the V’s to Lauren and a nodding acknowledgment of the smirk that the pub bouncer was giving me, I was out of there.

  I went home, plugged my headphones into the stereo, loaded: “Workers Playtime”, “Vauxhall & I”, “Ladies & Gentlemen…”, “Dog Man Star” and “His ‘n’ Hers” into the 5 CD tray and hit ‘random’. My stereo, as always, caught my emotion in its randomness and selected “The Wild Ones”. I laid back and let the alcohol in my system slowly defeat the adrenaline and render
me unconscious.

  I was snapped back into the dark night by what sounded like a ten man punch-up taking place in our bathroom. I checked my Indiana Jones clock and it read: 4:09am. My first thought was ‘Surely she isn’t going to take the piss totally and bring her conquest back to our house’, but further intent listening confirmed that Amy alone was making this wide variety of yelps and curses. Either he was taking her to heights of passion filled euphoria that I hadn’t ever managed or she was in pain? I gave it a couple of minutes, to allow my hangover to properly kick in and fill my head full of cloying cotton wool, before deciding that she was in distress and that I had better go and see what was happening.

  As I walked into the bathroom, I could see her jabbing her finger into her eye and yelping as her fingernails hit her cornea. She was trying to get her contact lenses out.

  Me – ‘What are you doing? You’ve not got any contact lenses in, have you?’

  Amy – ‘What? Oh it’s you. My eyes hurt, get my lenses out. I can’t get my lenses out.’

  Me – ‘They’re not in, look one is up here on the sink and the other one you must have lost sometime during the night. Remember when I saw you earlier you were squinting because you didn’t have a lens in?’

  Amy – ‘What? I didn’t see you earlier.’

  Ok, so that’s how we’re going to play it then, is it?

  Me – ‘That doesn’t matter but you’ve scratched your cornea now. You don’t have a lens in, I promise you.’

  Amy – ‘Shall I go to bed then?’

  Me – ‘Yeah, I reckon so. Here, take 2 paracetamol as your eye and hangover are going to hurt like hell in a couple of hours.’

  I helped her back to her feet and she shuffled off towards the stairs.

  Amy – ‘I still love you.’

  Me – ‘The bloody stupid thing is, I know you do.’

  Aside from me examining her eye with the help of a torch the next morning, we never talked about that night or that bloke again.