Oh, so pretty.
I feel pretty.
And furthermore, I pity any girl – or indeed, any boy – who isn’t me today – or indeed, any day. Actually no, not any day. Just today.
Actually, thinking about it, to be fair, ‘pretty’ might be pushing it a little. I've still got a head like sack of aubergines pulled from a burning pork scratchings factory, but I was just checking myself out in the bathroom mirror there, with a bit of product on the old thatch and my £200 coat on. And you know what? I kind of half-fancied myself.
I had candles on and – if I say so myself – I looked like a ne’er-do-well in a noirish thriller. A bit dodgy for sure, but doable nonetheless.
So, yes, you may be wondering what has occurred to make me feel so pretty. So witty. So ‘gay’. You may not. I do not know. I lay claim to the ability to peer within the nether regions of neither your soul, your mind nor your pocket. All I can say is this: you know when someone you know – let’s say a friend – is going out with someone you really don’t think is suitable for them? Often you’re dead against the relationship, but you have to respect your friend’s decisions, or at least pretend to, so you bite your lips and nibble your cheeks and say nothing.
Then your friend splits up with their partner, you get drunk together and it all comes out. Everything you’ve ever thought about that good-for-nothing bag of rats. ‘Thank goodness you’re shot of that piece of human excrement,’ you say. ‘Trust me, worst thing that ever happened to you. You’re so much better off without them. In fact, and I probably shouldn’t say, but you were pretty unbearable yourself, while you were together.’ Then before you know it, they’re back together and frankly, things become a little uncomfortable.
Well, brace yourself, for I have news of a personal nature.
Morag and I are back together!
Yes, and by Christ, it definitely deserves at least one exclamation mark. Maybe more. But let’s not go mental.
This time we are going out with one another. None of that modern nonsense. Fuck buddies! I mean, come on. Who were we trying to fool? What were we thinking? In this day and age. Stuff and nonsense. Fuck buddies be buggered. A man needs a wife! No, I’m just kidding. I mean, maybe it’s true. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Although we have made a commitment to each other. And we’re talking about Christmas. And London. And generally being a couple.
That is all I have to say on the subject and I command you – with all of the stentorian muster of Brian Blessed bellowing through a megaphone into a microphone on the main stage at Glastonbury, with the speakers turned up to 11 – to have nothing but good feelings for me. If you don’t mind.
I know most of you will anyway, but a couple of you said some pretty harsh things about Morag when I was stupidly washing our dirty laundry in public a couple of months ago. Or whenever it was. I know you were just trying to be nice to me, but – nothing. Let’s say no more about it. Seriously.
Except this: I am very happy. And what’s more, for a fairly unambiguously ugly bloke, I feel pretty. Sing it!
Now leave your good wishes in the comments and let’s tuck into a celebratory box of Wispas.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Oh, so pretty.