Noughties

by Ben Masters

  With all of my experience in fucking things up, I have been able to cultivate a notable degree of self-fucked-upness, which makes me an ideal fucker-upper. I am absolutely committed to, and passionate about, fucking up and am fluent in several different types of fucking things up.

  I am keen to enter the world of advanced fucking up, and am eager to fuck things up in a range of new and exciting ways.

  Yes, I am a wanker, and it’s time to be completely straight with myself about this …

  Thus I sense this chapter of my life closing in toward a conclusion, and the past few weeks have been some of the most significant in getting here. I completed Finals just ten days ago and the buildup to this landmark event was intense and never to be forgotten. That is perhaps untrue: the details have already failed to remain, though the leaden sense of responsibility has stuck.

  My mind, my welfare, and indeed my life entire, had been reduced to Post-it notes. They were splattered about the room (against the walls, up the side of the desk, above my bed) like shot-out bits of brain. They carried quotations which I had strained to learn and have since more leisurely forgotten. Revision doesn’t suit me. It requires extended concentration and an airtight memory, and I have neither of these. I have the retention of a fork in a bowl of soup and the attention span of a knob. I like to tell myself that I have ADHD but it’s yet to be clinically verified. Everyone’s ADHD these days. The Internet and TV have programmed us this way. It’s evolution, though I don’t have the necessary time, concentration, or tools to prove this. Twenty-first-century condition. (Note: apply for large postgraduate grant to carry out fairly in-depth study of this.)

  I did try hard though. I badly wanted a First and I knew that this meant a certain amount of total devotion. I drew up one of those revision timetables that grossly overestimates the human capacity and—when you fail to keep up with it—makes you feel like a no-good slacker. Each morning my alarm grated that much more, increasing and increasing with exponential severity. It was especially soul-crushing when it signaled nothing more than a date with Jeff Chaucer or an early-morning workout with the Middle Scots poets.

  Revision fertilized thoughts of Lucy and Ella like shit on a field of crops. I was Milton’s Adam, for instance, eating chocolate-caramel digestives in the Garden of Eden with my Lucy-Eve. We’d take our fill of love and love’s disport, wet with the solace of sin. And then, with postlapsarian vigor, a cry of “Sex me here.” And I would obey this Lady, in my head, over on the bed. And then, back on my feet, walking around the room, throwing a baseball up and down, I would recite, “Let us go then, you and I, when Ella’s legs are spread out against the sky.”

  My wanking schedule quadrupled over the revision period. I could always find time for this, the ultimate distraction. No sweat. There was the painfully bladdered wake-up wank, the manic morning rush-hour wank, the corpulent post-lunch wank, the traditional wank-then-nap afternoon wank, the limp dessert wank, the steamy shower wank, and the fantastical knockout nightcap wank. Arm cramp, bollock ache, and bell-end friction burn were constant afflictions, but so much less painful than the eighteenth-century sentimental novel. That said, there were many sentimental wanks (over Lucy), and sociability was never far away (the frustrating Jack-and-Ella combo insisting on guest appearances: oh fuck off … get the hell out of here). Lucy or Ella would always claim the dénouement and end credits, of course, me being a loyal kind of guy. Unfortunately my “ADHD” even managed to infect my wanking—my subject rarely holding a position, a scenario, or even a face, for more than a second at a time. Sad to admit, I became a dour master at the limp tug, reaching dull orgasms without even getting it up—just shaking it from the wrist like I was throwing dice. This virtually always ended in sorry throbs of guilt (revision revision revision) and a grimy self-loathing (she’s not yours). Try all that eight times a day with impenetrable literary quotations tramping through your head. Now that’s what I call hard work. If I get my First I won’t have anyone saying it’s undeserved.

  I go to the bar and reload. I need it more than ever.

  Call it what you will (drunk, pissed, fucked, hammered, lashed, steaming, destroyed, blottoed, pie-eyed, wankered, off your tits, lubed, mullered, paralytic), but I like to think of it as transcendence. I’m nothing less than a spiritual ideal walking around with sticky tequila stubble and warm, fuzzy bottles of Bud. The consumption levels tonight have been abnormally high (which is the norm) and we’re veering toward an entirely other plane of consciousness. Time for an outer-body experience, don’t you think? I unzip myself from the mouth down and climb on out. I float up to the vaulting heights of the twenty-foot ceiling and take it all in from a cosmic perspective. Deep.

  Filth is at capacity. It fluctuates like a lapping tongue, curling and twisting; its innumerable force fields work in concentricity, sending shock waves back and forth, side to side, around and around. Steam rises from the surface like heat off some mythical beast. The punters seem so insignificant, locked in their paltry games of sexual auctioneering and mindless clowning. I watch this grotesque globule of performance from afar with profound disinterest.

  Who am I? Where do I fit into all this? I see an eighteen-year-old (baggier jeans, higher buttoned shirt, fresher face) prancing about, an irrepressible little first-year. Me? Eliot the kid in miracle world, leaping and swimming from station to station. Me? It’s his first night here and he’s hurling drinks down his gullet to get things off to an appropriate start. Me? He is religious in the attention he pays to a wide-eyed Ella. Me? He knocks about ecstatically with his hoped-for reflection, Jack. Me? He reeks of relief and contentedness. Me? He misses Lucy, his new girlfriend from back home. Definitely me. How inconsequential this all seems.

  Dear lover, who art thou? O bold lover, where art thou? I struggle to find the language. Shall I compare thee … oh stop it, stop it. Enough. Enough; a nought; the noughties.

  We are not an age kitted out for the telling of true love, hardwired for fripperies and drivel instead.

  No, but we are capable of love, if we can just get over ourselves for a second.

  Is this love? Who am I to judge.

  Is this a failed love letter? Doesn’t even come close.

  I come back down to earth. I’m hemmed in by animal shapes and horror-show masks. A girl with a spotty face and dirty teeth pins me back—“Nice hair! Haha! How d’ya get it like that?” A gluey Neanderthal with corrugated neck pushes me aside as he plods into the pit, throwing me at a terrifying stranger who wants to dance up close and personal. Her face is in mine: eyes shot, pupils swollen black holes, mouth twisted, cheeks mushy. I slide away, dragged helplessly by the filthy, murky slipstreams, farther into the pit. It opens its fishy gob to receive me.

  Down in the belly of the beast I knock heads with various stumbling blocks, sticking to dripping hairdos, swiped by hyper elbows. Can someone please take me to lost property so I can reclaim my identity? I feel utterly stripped in here, menaced by clattering bodies, stuck in The Triumph of Death: swarms snapping their gnashers, blurring limbs shoving me about, splashed all over in anonymous sweat. Despite all the intimacy and mutual palpitations, there is zero sense of oneness. We are monads, every bugger stagnating in a little bubble of me. Part of me wants to skip about with a huge fuck-off needle, popping them all and singing, “Let’s all just be outside ourselves.” But then I don’t want nobody getting up inside my bubble, no thank you. I want to be left to myself.

  “Eliot!”

  Thank fuck for that. Everyone is together, right in the heart of the dance floor. Come in, come in, say their smiley emoticon faces and flailing arms.

  “Where you been, you tosser?” We’re all dancing, together, each to his or her own ability.

  “Looking for you. Looking for you.”

  And here we are. Friends renewed just in time for the end credits. The last night of uni. The final dance.

  This is it. Fittingly, an absolute tune comes on. We make t-shapes with our bodies to acknowledge the fact
: Sanj a capital T, laying his arm horizontally across his head, me a lowercase t, stretching my arms out to the side like a cross, and Scott (the most restrained alphabetizer of the three) raising a forefinger and laying his other hand on top in a baby t, or time out sign. So, as you can see, although we vary in opinion on the degree of the tuneage, we nevertheless agree that it is indeed a tune. (The artist? Some American rapper. The tune? Some American rap song.) Tune.

  We sing the chorus together (utter babble), arms around each other, occasionally forming a ring, beaming like imbeciles. We bloody love it. If I think about what the moment signifies for more than a few seconds (if I really think about it), I get teary (it’s just sweat in the eyes, mate). Wrapped in our devotional circle, arms locked around waists and shoulders like a rugby team doing the motivational pre-match squeeze, we look into each other’s faces: Sanjay, Megan, Abi, Scott, Laura (how’d she get in here?), and Ella. Jack is a gaping absence and the recognition makes me feel sick an instant. Ella is next to me in the circle. I’m sorry for what’s happened and give her a tender squeeze to let her know. Her body gives to mine and lets me know that she’s still there. I lower my head and rest it on her crown. We feel like a unit again … for once. There’s a tired euphoria shared by all. Sheer will and emotion have eked out this space for communion amongst the shapeless ruck of pissheads. So this is what you call a happy ending.

  And the bonds disintegrate.

  We’ve had our moment.

  Now is the time for the majority of the group to meet their conclusions and wave reluctant good-byes. Scott’s leaving with Laura, his young love (better things to be doing); Sanjay and Megan are pulling each other, propelled by all the emotion on display and the irresistible force of the “lucky” shirt (she may have a boyfriend but we all think he’s a cock anyway, so who cares?); and Abi’s struck lucky with some sporty stranger (she’ll be spending the night at his). Ella and I are left quite conveniently alone. I take her hand—she feels warm and soft, tired, ready for final gentleness—and lead her out from the mob to the club’s outer limits. We hit a booth.

  She looks at me intently, by which I mean to say she looks at me with intent. Eros or philia? But this is no time for joking. As Rob would say, it’s time to put our dicks on the table.

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so cold to you all year,” she says. Well, I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe I should run with this: And so you should be, you evil ice queen; you fucking bitch actually. No, that’s so far off the mark it doesn’t even hold up as interior monologue.

  “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about,” I say, rather impressed by the gallant maturity I’m demonstrating.

  Ella stirs the ice cubes in her drink with a chewed straw, whipping the contents into a whirlpool. “Things got so horrible … so complicated.” She pauses as a thought visibly shudders through her body. “I know this is going to sound awful, but in some ways I can’t wait for all this to end; to get away from Oxford and everybody here—not you and Jack,” she adds hastily. “You two have been such good friends to me. I owe you a lot.” I muster all the effort I can to perform a small nod. “It’s just been a shitty time in my life. I guess I need to move on.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say, so I shift over and put both arms around her. She latches an arm up and over mine and holds on, round and pliant. We sink into each other, enticed by our own delicacy.

  Slowly we pull apart, but I keep one arm around her and she continues to lean in. Buoyed by the physical intimacy and the torrents of alcohol tampering with my nervous system, I decide to chance something and just see what happens.

  “Am I more than a friend to you, Ella?” I ask. “I guess what I mean is, could you ever see us being …” I pause, trying to think of a better phrase … something more qualifying and emotive. But it’s no longer a question I even want to ask. It’s only because it’s been stuck in my head all night that it’s taking on a force of its own, demanding vocalization. No. This isn’t right.

  Ella is looking at me: her eyes swimming with punctuation marks that I can’t make head or tail of. Her mouth lends no assistance: no upward or downward curve; no opening or bite of lip; just level and secretive. “What did you say?” she shouts, her brow subtly creasing. “It’s so loud in here!”

  “Nothing,” I reply. “No, it doesn’t matter.”

  I’m getting tearful: alcohol, end of an era, wasted opportunities. The intimacy is starting to affect Ella too. We hug tightly, our faces finding their way to each other through the arms and over the shoulders. Forehead on forehead, hand in hand, we look down as though we’re inspecting each other’s noses. I think we are beginning to smile.

  This hold with Ella feels like an eternity, each second stretching itself into abstracted minutes and hours. Tucked in the neat proximity of our hug I am forced images of Lucy, reminders of heavy love. Maybe I’ve got everything wrong. Ella begins squeezing me tighter, as if to stop her frame from trembling. I feel as though I’m checking back into the womb. I’ve got my return ticket and excess baggage. It’s a moist and salty embrace, one of my hands tucked beneath the soft underhang of her jaw, cheek against cheek, lips drawn into uncompromising vicinities.

  Jack stands before us, suddenly nicking the corner of my eye. We unfurl, like he’s corroding the joints of our hold.

  “Jack!” I jump to my feet, simply to insist on our separateness, but Jack mistakes it for confrontation. He pushes me hard and I fall straight back down on my arse, next to Ella. I go to stand up again, which comes across as further provocation, so Jack assists, grabbing my collar double-fisted and yanking me from the seat.

  “What the fuck’s with you?” I know what’s with him … what’s with all of us: booze.

  “You just couldn’t keep your filthy hands off, could you?”

  “It’s not like that,” I appeal, although my temper is starting to rear its sleepy head. I don’t like being pushed around, no matter what the context.

  “You absolute cunt.” Jack delivers a feeble blow to my stomach.

  “Jack!” screams Ella (not that this can be heard much over the totality of the music).

  Jack pushes me again, so I punch him halfheartedly on the nose. He’s bleeding. He then catches me on the cheekbone with a raw, naked fist. Forget returning to the womb, this is like being born all over again: pulled about, kicking and screaming, thumping with anguish, sticky in effluence. I don’t want no part of this … but if you ain’t gonna give me no choice …

  We start scrapping like only best mates can: sloppy and passionately ineffectual; almost farcical. It’s a vulgar exhibition of love and affection. We grapple and grope at each other’s faces, not really wanting to close a fist or do any serious damage. We’ve caused quite a commotion and word has got to the bouncers, their bald heads intuiting a change in Filth’s spatio-thermal equilibrium. Send in the heavies. I feel a third hand exploring my jugular with intent to maneuver. And then I’m being shifted from an establishment for the second time tonight. That’s a new PB.

  “I thought I said no more trouble?” spits the bouncer in my ear, almost lifting me from the floor as he leads me by the collar. “Fuckin university shits.”

  O Filth, is this the farewell you deserve? Must we part on such terms? I feel scummy. And you can kiss good-bye to the coat (just as I thought).

  “Now get the fuck out,” says the bouncer as he gobs me onto the pavement. Jack comes flailing behind in a similar fashion, and Ella totters after.

  “But we’re best mates,” protests Jack, as though this gives us some license.

  It’s freezing out here.

  “Why the fuck didn’t you ever tell me you’d slept with her?” demands Jack, walking alongside me, almost pushing me into the glass front of the dead Sainsbury’s on our right, shut down for the night but still lit up inside.

  “Why the hell do you think? What would you have done?” I vaguely nudge him away. Ella is trailing behind, arms folded, staring at her feet as though each step demands pai
nful attention.

  “And you reckon you got her pregnant? Jesus Christ, Eliot! How do you know it was you anyway? You always have been an arrogant prick.”

  “What did you just say?” shouts Ella, darting forward to catch us up. “Can you not talk about me like I’m not here?”

  “Oh fuck off, Jack. Yes, it was me. I got Ella pregnant!”

  “What?” shrieks Ella.

  “But even if you did think it was you, how come you never once talked to her about it, hey? You were together for long enough! It obviously hasn’t bothered you that much, has it, Jack?”

  “Is that what this is about?” cries Ella. “Fuck me!” She laughs in humorless disbelief, looking rapidly between the two of us. “No, no, no. If it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t either of you, okay?” We’ve all stopped. Tears are forming in her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, just make up and get over yourselves.” Ella squares us both in her tightening gaze. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and then runs, leaving me and Jack to ourselves.

  I’ve got everything so wrong. Do I understand any of this?

  It’s just you and me now, kid. You and you, and me and me. Ah implied listener, up in my head. Where would I be without you? It’s tough in here. And for me there’s no way out. But for you—

  For a while I had been able to justify solitude and sacrificed relationships. Until a couple of weeks ago, Finals had practically demanded this. I ruthlessly cut all ties and shrank into myself like a cold-hearted exam killer (fortified by notes, books, printouts, photocopies, illegible annotations, highlighter pens, caffeine, power naps …). Strutting down the tight alley of desks and chairs in Exam Schools, a row amongst a gang of rows, my Exhibitioner’s gown wafting behind me and my final paper waiting expectantly, facedown on the table like a hardened criminal slapped against a bonnet, I was ready. Once seated (five temperamental Biros laid before me and a perpetual feeling of needing a piss), the clock on the wall began its long-drawn-out gig of menacing me. It had watched me all week with threatening face as I stuttered my way through eight exams: You’re really ticking me off, mate … I’ll give you something to be alarmed about. Invigilators, like aged crypt-keepers, wormed around the aisles, leaving trails of skin and dandruff in their wake. Approximately three hundred pasty students ran through their pre-match warm-ups: yawns and eye rubs, nervous giggles, arms stretched skyward, knuckles cracking like cashews, nails bitten to nubs, cocky chairs swinging on hind legs, anxious legs twitching spasmodically beneath desks, brains barely functioning. Me, I play the intimidation game: I line up the BO geek just in front, to the right, and terrorize his periphery; I psyche him out good and proper. I trash talk: you going down, boy; I’m the champ; I own this paper; you ain’t got shit.