Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Why it's easier to be a broker than a broken, when it comes to hearts.

Cedric is saying, "I'm broken. There's no cracks on the outside. No tears. But inside, I've crumbled." Whoops. Oops. Was it something I said? I promise I won't mention mice again. How did we get onto this topic? We'd managed to avoid it so far. Me and Swoosh knew. We had the phone call, but we thought that was the end of it. Hmmm. But now Cedric's started there's probably no stopping him: "I miss her like I miss the rest of my life. Do you understand? Because it's not going to happen any more!"

O blimey. I'm calling him Cedric for the porpoises of this bloggage, this friend of mine.

Hello Cedric.

We'd gone out for beer, y'see. Me, Cedric & Swoosh. (These are great made-up names aren't they? Well if you're going to give someone a fake name why choose Brian and Anthony - particularly if those actually *are* their real names..... Err, I mean, they're not really, no. O. Anyway. Close bracket.)

So I'm there and I'm drinking & I'm thinking: O shut up, Ced. Come on, man - be a man. Deal with it. Sh1t happens. Grow up. Or if you must splurge all this out, just do it n I'll sit here nodding & looking empathetic. And occasionally glancing over your shoulder at Match of The Day.

Me: "Hmmm, yeh, terrible, I know. Bitch. No, not a bitch, I mean, I don't mean it like that. She's lovely. But not worth it. No, no, you're right, she is worth it, but I mean, you've gotta move on. No? O, well maybe she will have you back, do you think? She will."

What are you supposed to say? And I'm not gonna hug you, Cedric, alright, so don't go getting any silly ideas about male bonding and the modern world. The modern world stops at Cheshire. It's barred from this pub. See that man over there with the scars and the tattoos and the dog? Is he the modern world? No. And if you start crying, then we're all in trouble. If you're crying over a woman then you're gay. That's a science fact in this pub.

Of course I don't say any of this. It's easier to just nod & say general things, "I feel for you mate, I know how you feel, I've been there." I want to tell him that clever metaphor about how there are lots of sea creatures and all you need is a big net. But I'll leave that until next week. Let him mope for now.

Cedric: "I'm sittin on a shelf & on the next shelf down is where suicide lives. I just need to step down and I can sit next to him. We can start makin plans about how we're gonna do it."

And that's the moment. It's the mentioning suicide moment where you have to take stock, cos it's easy to think: yeh, yeh, anyone who *talks* about suicide isn't going to do it. Except I did have a friend who talked about it & and he did attempt it. He failed and died by other means but that's another story - but the point being - if someone *does* mention suicide and you don't take them seriously and then they go through with it... well ... that's not nice. Not that you should be thinking of yourself at that point, but who can stop thinking about themselves at any point - at any time - ever?

Cedric: "She took my t-shirt. I gave her this t-shirt that she wears in bed. She borrowed it ages ago, I wanted her to have it. I liked that she was wearing something of mine. It was so great. It was too small for me, but, it sounds sad, but... she took it. How can she take it? How can she wear it ever? Is she just going to give it away to Oxfam? Put it in the bin?"

Ced, in all honesty, you've got some *priority issues* here. Methinks maybe the t-shirt shouldn't be your first point of concern. If you're going to care at all - and yeh, you're allowed to care - then perhaps there are some other more fundamental relationship thingies you should be complaining about, no? GO to Primark buy a new t-shirt. Etc. Worry about why she left you, if it's to do with all the crap things you've done, if it's to do with her being bored with you, if it's because of her ... bla bla someone else ... etc. Y'know? I can't even put those words together in my head, never mind say them to you.

Maybe we're all just a bunch of sad single blokes in a pub. In fact that's exactly what we are. Let's go to a lapdancing club. Let's pretend we're popular and loved. O, dear, Cedric - what have you done to us? You've started to infect us with your misery. Cos now I'm thinking: will we all be still sat here in a year's time? Maybe all 3 of us should be sitting on the shelf next to the suicide man...

Cos once one of the apples in the bowl starts to rot - it soon spreads.

Luckily Swoosh has been sprayed with anti-misery pesticides so he seems fairly safe. He's rolling his eyes at me. Cedric is still saying things but we're only picking up the occasional bunch of words. We just need to wait it out, stay closed up to all emotions, and hope all this emotion thing will pass. Perhaps we could replace ourselves with cardboard cut-outs programmed to agree with everything he says: yeh, right, correct, not your fault, you're a good guy etc.

Cedric: "She used to wear my t-shirt to sleep in. But it was mine. How can she wear it now. Does it mean nothing to her?"
Me: "I know. Terrible. T-shirt. That is so crap."
Swoosh: "My round is it? Same again?"

Cedric shakes his head and gets up and goes over to the jukebox. Swoosh gives me that look. His monkey-faced look. He looks at his watch & suggests that he might have to make some excuses if this carries on.

Over at the jukebox Cedric puts on a Simply Red record. He comes back over, slightly embarrassed but with a little smile on his lips, mouthing the words to 'If you don't love me by now.' It's like Simply Red will heal all wounds. Thank the Lord for Mick Hucknall and his tuneful unfashionable wailing. It's going to be a long night. Cedric put in a few quid, stacked up the tunes: mainly Phil Collins & Simply Red. Enya. Anything pathetic and mawkish.

Tattooed and scarred man is looking over at us. Like he wants his Irish fighting songs back on. So Cedric might not be crying any more, but I'm still worrying if we're gonna get outta here alive...

This is how wars start. Helen of Troy => Jackie of Levenshulme.****

[****Of course there was no violence towards us in the end. Just a bit of drunken staring. No one even pushed a wooden horse into the pub, sadly.]


  1. sounds like your friend is in need of a little TLC. I am not offering, I am just suggesting you send him to his mums house with a note pinned to his lapel instucting her to 'clean, feed and hug' him.
    I am crap in those situations, I usually just make an innapropriate joke and get the hell outta there. so... good luck with that!

  2. Pah. As if blokes have feelings or empathy.

  3. That's my point. Tell it to your mum. You won't find me moping about that sort of thing. O no.

  4. Bless him though, he must really be broken hearted if he is blabbing his feelings to you guys in the pub. I could almost forgive his sadness if it wasnt for the fact that he played a simply red song... I mean, come on, the only one thats worth while is Fairground - and thats just for the amusing video!