One of the reasons I started this anonymous blog is to discuss issues that I don’t want to discuss with my friends. A lot of my friends do read my other blog, although not avidly. If they find out they’re in it, though- if I’ve written about them and their actions- they’re all over it. This obviously can lead to problems, especially when your mates are as fucked up as mine.
You’ve probably gathered that I’m not all there in the head myself, hence picking “Patrick Bateman”- the protagonist of Bret Easton Ellis’ novel American Psycho- as a Nom De Plume. Possibly due to being a mentalist, I seem to attract weird people as friends. I’ve mentioned T on this blog before. T is a strange man. A Welsh office clerk and events steward, he has an unusual outlook on life. He’s very placid, almost vacant, and his interests are his potted plants, old style pubs and the countryside. So basically, he’s interested in what I’m not. Occasionally we’ll find something we’re both interested in like films (he’s hardly seen any, so conversations about them are hard) and women (we hardly meet any because he likes to go to weird, old-man pubs instead of the plethora of bars Manchester offers, filled with nubile young women).
I’ve now been mates with him for 11 years. I feel that our friendship is coming to an end. This started last week on the Friday.
T texted me asking me to meet him in Chorlton, an area on the outskirts of Manchester popular with 20-30 something professionals. I put “Chorlton” into the satnav and caned the car ’round to the other side of the city, whacking out a shitload of petrol in the process. The bar he was in, though, wasn’t in the centre- it was a mile or so out, so he had to go to the bar and ask for the postcode to this place. Eventually I found it, but due to Metrolink works and the layout of the town I had to park about a 5 minute walk away from the bar.
Because I forget fucking EVERYTHING, I take pictures of where I am to jog my memory. So I parked up, took a pic of the car, of the street name, of the view from the end of the street, and then found myself in the main bar area of Chorlton. I had to ask around to find this random bar, but eventually I found the venue- Elektrik bar.
Admittedly, it’s a decent venue. No bad attitudes, chilled out people, good funky music from the 90s and before, and stylish décor. Putting the damper on this situation was the fact that T hadn’t thought to invite anyone else. I had to explain to him that when two guys go out on their own together, it can look a bit gay. It’s better to go out in a group because if one of you pulls, the other two still have someone to hang with. It’s fair enough if no-one else can make it out, but T hadn’t even contacted anyone else. He’s done this for as long as I’ve known him- organised a “night out” that- to bystanders- looks like an awkward gay date. On these occasions we’d normally be going to places in the city centre that we were familiar with, but on this night he’d picked a town that neither of us knew much about.
So we stayed for a few drinks, chatted about how boring our jobs are and how most people we know are going travelling anyway. Then we went to get chips. You know the night is over when you get to the “chippy stage” of the night. The takeaway food was good, but this momentary pleasure relapsed into frustration when I attempted to find my car.
I’d not taken enough pictures to jog my decimated memory. There was a gap in the sequence between the photo of the bars where we were and photo of the next street sign. I just couldn’t find the street to follow the sequence. And then, of course, it started to piss it down.
T, having a better memory than me, decided we should take each surrounding street one at a time and see what was down each one. So, sequentially, we marched down each of these suburban enclaves trying to find the car. One by one we ruled them out until- thank FUCK- we saw a shop that I’d photographed. We homed in, and the car was right there on this side-street just where I’d left it. The feeling was akin to being constipated for a week and then having a bowel-excavating shit so immense that your eyes water and your whole body sags with relief. Only without the smell.
This night out taught me a number of things.
you leave your car in a weird place, and your memory is as bad as
mine, make a video of the trip to the main road, or take loads of
photos. Not just a few.
also say figure out the Maps app, but when I tried to do that on
this night the app wanted to send me 1.4 miles away. I’d definitely
not strayed that far from the car.
your mate is planning to meet you, and he’s a weird twat, ask
yourself if you really want to meet him on his own. I went to Tiger
Tiger with just him, but at least we both knew where it was. And anyway, going out in a
group is more fun. And normal.
essence, I have had to come to a conclusion. I need to shake T off.
This may sound sickeningly arrogant, but I don’t know whether it’s a
good idea to associate with him. He has been a real twat over the
years, copying numbers out of my phones and texting people I know
with all sorts of weird shit, taking the piss out of mistakes I’ve
made when my memory has caused me to slip up, and sending me pissy
text messages when something doesn’t go his way. But I’ve repeatedly
forgiven him. Now, it’s not that he’s particularly wronged me in
recent years that is putting me off, because he hasn’t. It’s just
the fact that he’s a weird cunt.
will judge you on the company you keep, and people notice that T is
“distant”- he’s not the best conversationalist and his banter is
lame- and that he can’t handle his drink. So. I’m going to be judged
by others for hanging with people who I don’t really connect with,
and for going to places I don’t like. Essentially, I need to stop
this from happening.
So, after an evening like this it occurs to me that I need to move on. I need new friends, and I need to distance myself from those hold me back. It’s better to have less friends than crap friends.