1993 was a bad year. The first Suede record came out and it ruined my sex life. It brought with it an early, glammed up prototype of the urban metrosexual, and I had no chance. I was too tall, too heavy, and just a fraction too hairy for the small, slim-hipped androgynous ideal. It wasn’t for the lack of effort, but I got nowhere. The elfin indie girls would scatter at my galumphing approach and I sought refuge in folk music where being an ugly fucker didn’t seem to matter so much.
’94 promised better things. Anyone with a pair of trainers and a Ben Sherman polo shirt could score. The chances increased if you had a decent pair of sideburns and called yourself a geezer. I wasn’t much of a geezer. Shit. So much for that then. I bought the entire Richard Thompson back catalogue, and it wasn’t even very good.
I wasn’t without my moments in the dubious sun. I was socially inept. This somehow made me the poster boy for the socially defeated. I guess everyone has their place in the grand design.
‘I wrote about you on my blog.’
‘That’s, er, great.’
‘I’m home all week. Why don’t you drop by?’
I didn’t drop by. Let’s skip forward a few days.
‘You didn’t come. I waited for you. I hate you and now all my friends hate you.’
The only way this stuff ever ends is with a flourish. Not from me – I hate drama. I prefer to let things burn out slowly; I cover my nose and throat and live through the grey haze until it finally dissipates. I’m sure that’s the problem. Is a short, sharp pain better than lingering detachment? Maybe, but it isn’t a choice I seem able to make.
‘Is it because I’m not six foot and blonde?’
Hmm. Maybe it was more because she was a borderline sociopath. I wasn’t that fussy, but still.
‘I’m going to tell everyone how much of a wanker you are.’
Goddamn it. The first Sparklehorse album was just around the corner too. I could have done something with that.