I Blame Morrissey

by Jamie Jones

  I still hoped beyond hope that something, anything, would happen and that she would realise that we should stay together. I would make her tapes, sing her songs, try to make her laugh but nothing worked like it used to. The spark of attraction had gone. Ever since V97 and my subsequent haircut, I’d known that she didn’t fancy me any more. The way she looked at me had altered, going from undiluted love and affection to the way that you look at an injured bird laying in the gutter after it’s been attacked by a cat; full of sympathy but not knowing what to do for the best. Should she attempt to care for me or stamp on my head to put me out of my misery?

  Amy had hardly changed the way she looked from 1995 when I went to sleep dreaming of her to 1998 when I went to bed dreaming of when she would leave me. Her hair was a little longer maybe, her eyes a little more wrinkled, thanks to being continually screwed up in frustration at something I’d done.

  I knew that I still fancied her because the widget in the pit of my stomach kept activating to show me that I wanted to be near her. The problem was, I didn’t feel that chemically unhinged surge of heart flickering attraction anymore. Whether she was dressed up for a night out or slobbing around the house in her pyjama’s, I had lost that sense of being happy to chop off my left hand just for the chance to kiss her. For both of us, those heady nights spent together in the winter of 1995, felt like a lifetime ago.

  The light had gone out.

  Unlike Amy, my appearance had changed radically during our relationship. When we first got together, I was a 9 stone, skinny indie kid who could eat and drink anything he liked thanks to playing a lot of football and even going for the occasional run. I had a floppy haircut, round John Lennon style glasses and a plethora of band t-shirts which passed for a wardrobe. I looked exactly what I was at the time, a 19 year old student going to study Social Policy. I was obsessed with Morrissey and Peterborough United but, in the first flush of our love affair, Amy found that “cute”. She later admitted that, when we first got together, she thought that I would grow out of my twin obsessions. How wrong she was and she was now paying the price for that mistake in tears, tantrums and scratched corneas. That wasn’t a badge of honour. I knew it was pathetic to devote so much of my life to Morrissey and Peterborough United but they were me. Without them I was pretty sure that I didn’t add up to much.

  By 1998, I weighed at least 3 stone more than when I arrived in Cardiff thanks to a standard student diet of pizza, pasta and beer. I had given up playing football, bar the odd game. I had the remnants of a suedehead haircut that was slowly being cultivated into a Nick Cave style. I’d bought some half horn rimmed glasses purely on the basis that Morrissey had worn an almost identical pair through the late 1980’s. My obsessions were taking over my life. For example, no matter how late I was for a lecture or a meeting in the pub, I couldn’t leave my room without first carefully selecting 2 tracks to listen to, one each from Morrissey and The Smiths. That would drive Amy crazy as she stood at the door waiting for the tracks to end. Often she would just give up and announce her departure with a good old fashioned slamming of the front door. My girlfriend had long ago given up on asking what I had planned for Saturday afternoons. She knew that I would be spending that time glued to the radio, desperately waiting for news of The Posh’s game. If it was a particularly big game, I would ring home and get Mum to hold the phone up to the radio, which was tuned to the local station and had live commentary. I spent more on phone calls listening to Posh games in my final year at Cardiff than I spent on food. I would go up to Amy’s room after the game had finished only to find that she had gone out for the afternoon without me even noticing.

  She also had to contend with the fact that living in Wales had made my love for England grow tenfold. I had always been proud to be English but, before I went to live Wales, I was genuine when I filled in the box marked “British” on my passport application. As far as I was concerned, those of us that lived in the four nations of the UK were ‘all in it together’. Living in Wales for 3 years though, where every social, political or sporting problem had a simple solution: “blame it on the English”, ignited my inner little Englander. Watching my nations football matches on the TV in various Cardiff pubs, the place would always explode with unbridled joy if our opponents scored.

  I’d never enjoyed playing or watching rugby but would watch in fascination as the Welshmen and women would go crazy, desperate to beat England in the annual 5 Nations tournament. For the 1998 fixture, our SU decided, in their infinite wisdom, to put up a big screen for the England v Wales match and charge people to come in, watch the game and have a can of Brains Skull Attack. I would probably have walked past the poster advertising the event and not thought anymore of it, until I noticed in small letters on the bottom: “…..home and away seating areas will be in operation”. Home and away areas? In a hall? I had to see what this was all about, so went and bought us tickets.

  Amy wasn’t keen to be in a hall full of rugby fans as she didn’t have any sense of national pride and was mystified why anyone cared about which team won a ‘sports match’, but she reluctantly agreed to come along with me.

  As we entered the hall on the afternoon of the match, the wall of noise created by 500 students singing ‘Land Of My Fathers’ hit us full in the face. A sea of red Wales shirts greeted us, as the melody rose and fell in an already drunken crescendo as far as my steamed up glasses would allow me to see. A steward examined our tickets and, after taking one look at my England shirt, began to usher us to an area slap-bang in the middle of the already packed hall, that was clearly marked “England Fans Only”. As the speakers filled the air with the pre-match renidition of “God Save The Queen”, the booing and obscenities quickly drowned out the tune. I was in my element, howling out the words, my right hand clasped to the three lions on my chest, which just seemed to wind up my Welsh cousins even further. The adrenaline was coming up, pounding through my system like the best drug known to mankind. It made me feel invincible for 30 seconds, even as my fellow students, some of whom were coursemates and people I would consider friends were stood 10 yards away calling me an ‘English wanker’. The anthem ended and all eyes went back to the big screen. I instinctively reached for Amy’s now clammy hand and looked into her increasingly nervous eyes. She had no interest in sport and now, here she was, in this pen, in a darkened hall, surrounded on all 4 sides by Welsh fans who all appeared ready to offer any Englishman in the room as a human sacrifice to the Rugby Gods.

  Amy: ‘Did you really have to do that?’

  Me: ‘Do what?’

  Amy: ‘Wind them up by singing about the Queen. Did you see Cerys over there shouting at you? She’s a good friend of mine and she was calling you the c word. You wound them up…’

  Me: ‘All I was doing was singing the national bloody anthem,’

  The game kicked off and the noise inside the hall was incredible, with the vast majority of fans turning their attention towards supporting their team. Unfortunately, the knuckle-draggers amongst the Welsh supporters decided that they would be better entertained hurling their empty beer cans into the pen that now contained around 100 England fans. The anger and hatred towards us was apparent from their snarling faces, but they had seemingly failed to grasp the futility of attempting to throw an empty beer can 50 yards across a room in the dark and hoping to hit your target. I couldn’t help but laugh, but Amy was becoming increasingly twitchy and asked; “Can we go at half-time? Let’s get out of here…” For the remainder of the half, nobody seemed interested in the game on the screen. The English had become the new sporting focus, with the massed ranks of rabid Welsh fans, the women being more rabid than the men, screaming obscenities and throwing anything that came to hand at our pen.

  Once the half-time whistle had blown, I realised that Amy had had quite enough and I gave her a nod that we both know meant: ‘let’s get out of here and go to the pub’. I told the nearest steward that we needed to leave and he radioed ahead to get his colleagues to clear a pa
th through the baying hordes. As we walked the 50 yards towards the door, I held Amy close if she were a small child I was taking off the ghost train at the fair after she’d got scared halfway round, quietly assuring her that it would all be ok and that we would soon be laughing about this in the pub. We got to within 10 yards of the exit and safety when, a spikey haired gentleman with a dragon painted on his face, threw an unopened can of the aforementioned Skull Attack at me with as much force as his skinny arms could muster. I knew he was aiming at me, as he screamed “Fucking speccy English twat” as the can left his sweaty palm. I was holding Amy’s hand as she walked closely behind me but, as the projectile headed towards me, my natural survival instinct kicked in and without thinking, I ducked. The can hit Amy smack in the face. As her legs buckled and blood flowed from her nose, I gathered her up, furiously apologising and raced for the exit. Thankfully, after the initial gush of blood and bruising, Amy recovered over a couple of beverages in The Tav’. I felt it only fair that I bought all of the drinks that afternoon. Whilst downing her second gin and tonic, Amy told me to stop apologising and that she didn’t blame me, which was very noble of her. If the situation had been reversed, I would have blamed her for taking me to the bloody rugby match in the first place and then again for ducking. She was a much nicer person than I was.

  Things weren’t all bad between us during 1998 and, as always, our top nights out were at gigs. We would let loose, get drunk and bounce around next to each other. The best of those nights came during the Easter break when we went to see Ray Davies on his ‘Storyteller’ tour at Cambridge Corn Exchange. As he struck up the Kinks classic, ‘Sunny Afternoon’, we were up from out seats, jigging up and down and singing. We lost ourselves in the 90 minute set that he served up, forgetting all the ill feeling as we had a hug to ‘Waterloo Sunset’. I stayed at her folks house that night but didn’t make any attempt to sneak across the landing and into her room where she was snoring off the vodka.

  Following our original conversation about her sister’s wedding clashing with the England v Saudi Arabia game, it was a subject that we purposefully avoided for months. In early May, with the wedding only a couple of weeks away, we couldn’t put off talking about it any longer. We sat on the floor of my room, during one of our exam revision sessions and had a chat. My logic was that Amy’s sister didn’t like me so why would she want me at her wedding? That wasn’t me being paranoid, it was a fact. At a barbeque at their parents’ house the previous summer, after one too many glasses of Pimms, she had drunkenly confided in me that the whole family thought I wasn’t good enough for Amy and that they all hoped that she would come to her senses soon.

  What would she care if I missed her wedding ceremony in order to go and watch England play, in a meaningless friendly admittedly, at Wembley? My plan was to go and watch the match, thus missing the wedding ceremony, before getting the train out to Hertfordshire in order to attend the evening reception. I thought this was a marvellous plan that suited everyone. I got to attend the match, Amys sister didn’t have to see me during the important part of her special day and then we would all get to have a drink and a dance in the evening. I was convinced that the plan was a winner and would see Amy tell me that I was a genius for thinking up such a schedule of events. Instead, when I told Amy of my idea, she paused, gave me a look of utter disdain and ranted:

  ‘If any normal person had come up with that, I would ask them if they were joking? Unfortunately I know you too well and I know, by the inane grin on your face, that you seriously think that is a good plan. You’re not normal, seriously, not normal at all. I think you need mental help. Normal people wouldn’t care if it was the World Cup final let alone a stupid friendly against South Korea, they would come to the wedding. It is JUST FOOTBALL, it’s not important. Don’t you get it? Glen Hoddling, or whatever his name is, couldn’t care less if you’re there. This is my only sister’s wedding for Christ sake. You’re not normal, you really aren’t. How the hell did I end up with you Jay? If it’s not Morrissey you put before me and our relationship, it’s bloody Posh and now if neither of those have anything that can interfere in our lives, we have England playing soddin’ South Korea to take their place.’

  Me: ‘It’s Saudi Arabia.’ (I decided to let the Glenn Hoddling/Hoddle point go. I didn’t want to make things worse).

  Amy: ‘What?’

  Me: ‘You said England we’re playing South Korea. It’s Saudi Arabia.’

  Amy ‘Is that all you have to say? After what I just said, all you have to say is (imitates a childish whiney voice) “It’s not Saudi Arabia we’re playing its South Korea.’

  Me: ‘See you’ve got it wrong again. The game’s against Saudi Arabia not South Korea.’

  At this point she bared her teeth and launched herself at me like a screaming banshee, pummelling her hands into the sides of my unguarded head. It was the first time in our relationship that I had driven her to such extremes and I sat there, fending off her blows, thinking, “Well, she kept getting the team wrong, I had to correct her didn’t I?

  After 30 seconds her anger was spent and instead morphed into tearful dejection.

  ‘Just do what you want. I don’t care anymore, I really don’t. I don’t give a shit about you or about us. If you want rid of me just say it rather than putting me through this torture.”

  I had struck another critical blow to our relationship with my hammerhead. My behaviour was shameful, especially as England only managed a 0-0 with South Korea, I mean Saudi Arabia.

  We abandoned our joint exam revision sessions after the ‘South Korea row’. She was so desperate to avoid me that we hardly spoke or saw each other for the next couple of weeks. We both used the excuse of our need to revise to explain away the fact that we appeared to be allergic to breathing the same air. I spent most of my time in the library revising, with my rucksack packed full of Morrissey CDs to feed into the snapping jaws of my Discman. I would happily spend 5 or 6 hours in there, revising, listening to Moz and people watching, before heading to the pub for a couple of pints on my own. I would then put Moz back on my Discman, pick up some chips on the way back to the house, go straight into my bedroom and sleep. I repeated this hectic schedule every day for 3 weeks, readying myself for the exams and staying out of Amy’s way. I knew that she wanted to focus on her revision and I also knew that she was tired of arguing. In one sense I was being considerate by staying out of her way, on the other hand I was worried that she was going to just end our relationship at that point. I figured if she didn’t see me she couldn’t tell me it was over.

  After the first week of exams was negotiated, with friendly “good lucks” exchanged between us beforehand and “how was it?” afterwards, we both headed for Cardiff train station on the Friday afternoon. We walked the mile from our house, talking only of exams that we had sat and those still to come. The double trunked elephant grasped both of our legs, refusing to let go as we similarly refused to let it enter our light and fluffy conversation. At the station, as I made my way to platform 3, she headed to platform 1 with no more than thin lips brushing against sucked in cheeks to show for a goodbye.

  Last Of The Gang To Leave

  AFTER her sister’s wedding, Amy stayed in Cambridge for a few days to enjoy the unconditional love provided by her family and to prepare for her final couple of exams in a house where the windows didn’t rattle in the wind. She came back with a smile on her face and an over exaggerated spring in her step. She looked like the girl that I’d fallen in love with when I spilt blood on her trainers in 1995. She explained that this revived sense of joy was due to a “beautiful wedding” and the fact that “my course is nearly over, and I can go home permanently to my family and friends”. The first one was a fair point, the second hurt but was no less than I deserved.

  I struggled more when she got back than when she’d been away. We tried studying together again that week, but my insistence on revising for 25 minutes then putting on some music and trying to persuade her to dance
along with me didn’t help convince her that such sessions were useful. She was stressing about the exams whereas I quite enjoyed the tension and adrenaline that they provoked. The pressure of the situation normally meant that I felt like Rocky going in to fight Ivan Drago in Rocky IV before each exam, strangely confident despite knowing that the odds were stacked against me. On at least one occasion, a classmate caught me humming “The Eye Of The Tiger” whilst waiting in the corridor before entering the exam hall.

  When not revising, I would sit for hours in the pub nursing a pint of Skull Attack with Nick Cave on my Discman. I knew that Amy and I were both unhappy with our relationship but I had no intention of giving up on it. If we were going to be unhappy, we could bloody well be unhappy together, forever. I was pretty sure that she didn’t hold the same defeatist attitude and would, at some point, give me the “old Spanish archer” (I had been learning cockney slang from Lou). I was also stressed about what I was going to do for a career. My grades were pretty good so staying on to do an MSc either at Cardiff or at another university was an option. I loved my subject, would happily have studied it for another year and the student routine of eat, drink, gigs was now fully ingrained as my lifestyle. However, the one thing I was desperate to do was to get back to my friends, family and football in my beloved home city. When I vocalised this to Amy one day, she spat her Nescafé all over the carpet and chuckled:

  ‘Christ Jay, when we finish in Cardiff you’re never going to leave Peterborough again are you?’

  I considered that a loaded question so decided not to answer.

  Despite my best efforts, Amy hadn’t fallen for the charms of my home city. Aside from the memorable Maundy Thursday night out, on the rare occasions she did come to mine, we would venture up town and explore all that Peterborough had to offer. This mainly involved drinking in crap bars and then watching fights in the streets outside rubbish nightclubs. She was impressed by our cathedral, but even that image was tainted slightly when, walking through the gardens one Sunday afternoon, we stumbled across a homeless couple having frantic sex against one of the ancient headstones.