Bullies, Bitches and Bastards

You: It doesn’t matter.

MB: Yes, it does because you always have to spoil everything. If I like something, then you like it. Can’t I just like something, without you liking it, for God’s sake? Just let me have something for myself, will you? Haven’t you got a mind of your own? Let’s just watch Location, Location, Location. You’ve ruined this entire episode.

Even a shopping trip can turn into a minefield.

A supermarket. You, standing by the lollo rosso, MB next to you, arms folded, sighing.

MB: What are you doing?

You: Just squeezing these lettuces to see if they’re fresh.

MB: Why are you squeezing every third one?

You: I just am.

MB: Just squeeze the first.

You: What?

MB: Just squeeze the first one or the second one. You don’t have to do the third one.

You: There aren’t any rules for squeezing lettuces.

MB: So, in that case, why are you doing every third one? You’ve just completely contradicted yourself. You always have to be right, don’t you?

You: How can I contradict myself and always be right?

MB: You’d find a way.

You: Look, I’m not going to have a row with you about squeezing lettuces.

MB: In that case, stop picking an argument.

You: I didn’t! You started it.

MB: God, how childish. ‘You started it.’

You: I can’t say anything, can I? Just…stop being in such a mood.

MB: Do you bloody wonder why I get in a mood with you around? Just get a courgette. I couldn’t eat that lettuce now, thanks to your ridiculous behaviour. (Stomping Off to Cereals)

Everyone around MB ends up comparing their antidepressant dosages and side effects. He, however, has never taken a pill in his life. Why would he? Being surly is his greatest joy.

What he says

‘I’m mercurial, like the moon. I cannot help my overwhelming emotions.’

‘You ruin everything.’

‘No, I don’t want a bloody cup of tea!’

What you need to do

Learn to enjoy the sound of silence. There will be a lot—interspersed with heavy sighing.

Change his ringtone from Heaven Knows, I’m Miserable Now to Walking on Sunshine.

Don’t let him bring you down—you keep up with your career as a cheerleader.

The Man from Atlantis

What he does

Disappears. On your birthday, at Christmas, New Year, Easter, during spring, summer and most of autumn, on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. Occasionally, he will turn up on a Friday.

He specialises in not being around. He’ll say, ‘I’ll call you tomorrow’; you’ll hear from him seven months later. There’ll be no explanation, no apology, just a cheery, ‘Hi. It’s me’, as if you’d both crawled out of the same bed earlier that morning.

You are understandably flummoxed. Where has he been? Has he just emerged from a coma? Was he taken hostage? Buried under a ton of silage? No. More likely, he’s discovered the fabled city of Atlantis, where he resides with thousands of other men who refuse to acknowledge that there are such things as clock or calendar.

What makes this doubly baffling is that he’s the one who gives specific instructions on where and when you’re meeting, e.g., ‘How about we get together next Tuesday, your birthday, 7.30? I’ll pick you up.’ But he won’t. And he won’t call to tell you why he didn’t, either.

So you’re tortured with self-loathing thoughts along the lines of ‘Did I bore him?’, ‘Do I make him sick?’, ‘Have I got too much to say for myself?’, ‘Am I, as my mother always warned me, too independent for my own good?’, ‘I made him laugh, they don’t like that’, ‘Did I spend enough time making him feel good about himself?’, ‘Is it my saddlebags, my Primark pants, my wonky fringe?’, ‘Do I look like the lead singer of Kiss?’

Once you’ve canvassed the opinions of every member of your family and your entire circle of friends and come to the realisation that you are not so awful someone would rather fake his own death than see you again, you take charge.

You fill up the blank dates in your diary that you were keeping open in hope for him. Finally, ultimately, hallelujahly, you delete every technological trace of him. That’s when your mobile will ring, up will flash the familiar number, ‘Hey, how are you doing?’ and here we bloody well go again.

Still, how can you stay cross at him? You love the fact that he’s bohemian, romantic, a free spirit, unfettered by the demands of time, an international man of mystery. Stuff that. This ‘free spirit’ is free to do what he likes, when he likes, where he likes, with no thought for you.

While the rest of us stick to our commitments and, at the very least, offer an apology if we have to let someone down, MfA just sticks one finger up at your plans and boots your hopes and dreams squarely up the backside.

His constant disappearing acts mess with your mind. You receive a text: I will see you tomorrow at 8. Of course, he doesn’t show. You start to wonder if I will see you tomorrow at 8 bears an encrypted meaning and you haven’t cracked the code. Finally, you will start to think you’ve made him up. He’s a hallucination; he’s your imaginary boyfriend. Sadly, he’s for real, and a complete cock.

You, holding court at Casa Felafel, surrounded by 23 of your closest friends. Your mobile lights up with his number.

MfA: Can I take you to dinner next week?

You: Lovely. When? Where?

MfA (very decisively): La Romantica. 7.30.

You: Great! See you there.

MfA: I’ll ring you on the day.

Three weeks later, after you’ve given yourself a dry-eye condition from scanning the railway tracks for bodies, your mobile again lights up.

MfA: Hi. It’s me. How are you?