Six hundred and forty days ago, I sat down on front of my 2001 Dell desktop. I would write about my relationship. I would write with absolute honesty, regardless of the consequences.
My Dell desktop no longer exists, at least not in my study, but my relationship, which has faltered without doubt more often than the computer, continues to be something that I proudly possess. Within three days I had written the same amount of articles: about choices, intimacy and monogamy, all of which would go on to define my relationship in the future.
As a single person living in the dating jungle that is Dublin, I had imagined myself being a practicing monogamist upon my arrival at relationship central. It seemed right, and even if I’d fancied the idea of multi-dating, wouldn’t it be too complicated? I tried to understand how I’d manage to schedule numerous dates on the weekend without eventually double-booking, and landing myself in a sticky situation. I hadn’t had many offers of interest pre-relationship anyway, so it was a non-issue.
It turns out, you’re more desirable when you’re in a relationship. Enter, Potential Future Lover Number One. It was December 15, 2007. The streets were cold and the night was young. The building was old, a section of the 1774 Powerscourt Townhouse, and the people were new. PFL Number One was fresh out of the Irish countryside and a one-off piece, like couture Marc Jacobs, you’re comforted by the knowledge that you won’t be seeing a 20-something piece of work walking along the opposite side of Grafton Street with a replicate of what, or rather whom, you’re wearing.
Simon, my best friend, a singleton at this stage having split from the Dark Lord, reconciling briefly and being hijacked on a plane, was at my side on the inside of the Powercourt Townhouse. “If walls could talk…I would be in a lot of trouble”, I recently whispered over lunch at a new eatery on the opposite side of South William Street.
PFL Number One was ordering a drink. Suddenly I was parched. I needed vodka, straight up. The next week, I felt like I was coming down off a bad drug, and a fix was necessary. Dublin made that possible: sometimes, the city had turned against me, sending ex-bosses into Butlers coffee shop at 8am, and kindly distributing past one-night-stands to the next table at the flavour of the month restaurant.
Today, the city was on my team, and shortly after my departure from the job from hell at 42 Grafton Street, at approximately 7pm, I arrived in Paris. Or at least the next best thing, Leon café on Exchequer Street, where I want to marry, in no particular order: the food, the décor, and just about anyone who takes me there. “Hi”, I said, sounding a little too surprised. PFL Number One was like the dish on their place setting: unpretentious, classic, and a winner. I took two sips of my Château Lastours Perlé, and one deep breath, and told the CliffsNotes version of my life story.
“This is the first time I’ve felt like I mightn’t be able to keep up with a guy”, said the stockbroker. It occurred to me in retrospect, the economy might have been about to plummet, but my stock was up. Maybe those PR classes had taught me more than client relations, maybe they had shown me how to sell myself in shorthand. “Listen, as much as I’d love to stay in France, there’s something I have to get to at home”. We stood up, walked past the pastries and out the door, returning approximately 30 seconds later for the Ralph Lauren carrier bag which held a considerable amount of my recent earnings.
Christmas came and went, and on St. Patrick’s Day, as Simon and I slouched in the leather chairs at Ba Mizu, I lifted what must have been my second glass of wine that afternoon and gushed: “I want to have my cake and eat it. I want a Woody and Mia situation: to be together when I want to be and apart when I want to be”. Simon, who I’d decided was either too scarred from his former serious relationship to enter another, or had become despaired in the desert, probably thought. “You, my friend, are a greedy pig”, but because Simon was Simon, he said “The stockbroker is gorgeous”, and I loved him for it.
That spring, PFLs Two, Three and Four arrived and departed with little more than surface scratches caused to my relationship. A well-heeled diarist with a briefcase full of grand gestures, a socialite with a penchant for acting and boys in Abercrombie, and a broadcaster with dirty blond hair and talk that was even dirtier, couldn’t take my attentions away, at least not for more than a few hours here and there, from my chosen person.
Each time I encountered another singleton hoping to alter my intentions, I came to realise that my romantic relationship with Significant Other was more than just a passing trend. In our time together, skinny ties and Old Glory T-shirts had come in and out of fashion, along with the endless other fads I couldn’t care to mention. I had lost mobile phones, jackets and friends, not to mention hopes and bets.
There was one certain in my life, and that was my relationship. Short of being struck down by a bus, and it’s been close, it felt like I could count on Significant Other to always be there for authentic love and support. It was certain too, that my most intimate moments of the emotional variety had been spent with my romantic partner.
On the other hand, there was the certainty of the countless Flirtinis that would be consumed in just seven days on September 13, 2008, before the doors of the venue where it had all started would close for the final time, at least in it’s current life form. There was the certainty of the courage that came from the rush of alcohol to the head. There was the certainty that I loved. There was the certainty that love would be enough. There was, only one uncertainty.
This was the final Sex and the Liffey column. The author, Robert O’Connor, would like to thank the people of Dublin for the inspiration they have provided, especially those he’s been on dates with.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Paper Covers Rock?
I sat on the terrace outside of Cocoon bar on Duke Lane, a long term Saturday night haunt of ours, swilling a glass of Pinot Grigio, as Simon explained to me how the Dark Lord had cut him out of his life with one simple, sharp text message: “don’t call me, I’ll call you”.
Sometimes I wonder has modern technology encouraged us to stop using our own functions, manners being one of them. “Simon, look, that is just not acceptable… ever”. I had been telling my best friend for the past year that there needed to be a clean cut after his relationship with the Dark Lord had ended, but in fairness, it was easier said than done. When I looked at my own relationship, people had been giving me advice that I had been ignoring for almost as long.
A buyer from Brown Thomas sat next to us with her baby, no more than six months old. An older gentleman sat together with the strawberry blonde, who’s make-up looked as if she was intentionally mocking a clown. He was a friend, not a lover, I assumed, for she most certainly wouldn’t be speaking so openly about baby weight and stretch marks to her husband, fiancé or boyfriend.
What kind of a person do you think she goes out with, I thought about asking Simon, before thinking, what kind of a question is that? How shallow can one man be? I expected that the man she would raise this designer baby with was a solicitor or surgeon with an impressive pile in Dalkey, drove a Bentley and holidayed in Marbella and the South of France. For all I knew, he could have been a bar man with a Fiat and a flat on Sheriff Street, but we, or at least I, have these preconceptions about people from their image.
Simon was still single since his split from the Dark Lord, and I had recently celebrated my three year anniversary with Beloved at an out of town hotel. I thought back to when we were both in relationships, and how neither of us knew which would last longer or whether “this” was “it” or not.
I wondered what it was that I had done that allowed my relationship to survive beyond Simon’s. From the outset Simon’s relationship could have been ideal had I not been informed otherwise. There were the mini-breaks to Paris and London, and of course there was the fact that they had considered moving in together in the not-too-distant future at the time. It was further than Beloved and I had reached in our three-year stint. From what I could see, their respective lives went from the setting of desirable city love to desolate suburban despair in a matter of months.
All of a sudden we were no longer complaining about the Dark Lord’s obsessive phone calls, we were complaining about the lack of phone calls period. Simon’s life was a full one with his work and studies, and becoming a full time English teacher wasn‘t lending him any free time, but Simon hadn’t felt his heart leap at the thought of what his Significant Other might have said in their most recent text in a time that felt like forever.
I, on the other hand, had a heart that never stopped leaping, each time my Blackberry buzzed, which had recently been kindly upgraded by Beloved to a brooding Burgundy model. When Simon’s phone rang, he knew it was another offer for a job interview, when mine rang, I knew it was a call from Lover Ville, and unlike Simon, I became disconsolate each time I realised I was unable to accept offers of interviews, because my interviews were with potential new friends with benefits over coffee, champagne or cocktails.
“Remember the Relative Stranger?” I asked Simon, taking a long sip from my glass. I was referring to a certain person whom I’d met at a certain Dublin 2 establishment in the later parts of 2007 and who had caused me to re-evaluate my relationship. “We met in Powerscourt the other night”, I whispered. “Are we talking about the stockbroker?”, Simon sat upright, becoming slightly excitable, his newly highlighted hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.
“Yes…well, I had sort of forgotten we had had the conversations and the repartee”, I gushed, “and when we ran into each other we sort of picked up where we left off. Significant Other, as you can imagine, isn’t exactly thrilled about the whole thing”. Simon wondered, why would there be a problem in having a friend that was interesting.
He wondered why it needed to be a threat to my relationship, which by all means should have been strong enough to endure this sort of thing after three years of flying high, even though we had experienced bouts of turbulence along the way. “You’re hardly supposed to cut the Relative Stranger out of your life, are you?”, Simon announced in a steely tone. “You are allowed to be fond of a person”, he assured me, with confidence that I wished he would reserve for his own matters of the heart.
I wanted to believe Simon, I wanted to say that it was the right thing for me to do in keeping a healthy balance of friends in my life alongside my authorised lover, but I was frightened that the Relative Stranger, with their good on paper credentials, would work their way into my mind and worse still, my heart. You have a rock solid foundation in your relationship, I told myself, and even if there are a few cracks in the paintwork, the damage can still be repaired.
There we were, now alone on the terrace on Duke Lane, as the strawberry blonde buyer and her male friend in tow headed on to Grafton Street. I realised, Simon, a good on paper guy himself, had been viciously cut out for a reason we may never know, whilst I, was fighting harder than ever to prevent good on paper from covering my rock.
Sometimes I wonder has modern technology encouraged us to stop using our own functions, manners being one of them. “Simon, look, that is just not acceptable… ever”. I had been telling my best friend for the past year that there needed to be a clean cut after his relationship with the Dark Lord had ended, but in fairness, it was easier said than done. When I looked at my own relationship, people had been giving me advice that I had been ignoring for almost as long.
A buyer from Brown Thomas sat next to us with her baby, no more than six months old. An older gentleman sat together with the strawberry blonde, who’s make-up looked as if she was intentionally mocking a clown. He was a friend, not a lover, I assumed, for she most certainly wouldn’t be speaking so openly about baby weight and stretch marks to her husband, fiancé or boyfriend.
What kind of a person do you think she goes out with, I thought about asking Simon, before thinking, what kind of a question is that? How shallow can one man be? I expected that the man she would raise this designer baby with was a solicitor or surgeon with an impressive pile in Dalkey, drove a Bentley and holidayed in Marbella and the South of France. For all I knew, he could have been a bar man with a Fiat and a flat on Sheriff Street, but we, or at least I, have these preconceptions about people from their image.
Simon was still single since his split from the Dark Lord, and I had recently celebrated my three year anniversary with Beloved at an out of town hotel. I thought back to when we were both in relationships, and how neither of us knew which would last longer or whether “this” was “it” or not.
I wondered what it was that I had done that allowed my relationship to survive beyond Simon’s. From the outset Simon’s relationship could have been ideal had I not been informed otherwise. There were the mini-breaks to Paris and London, and of course there was the fact that they had considered moving in together in the not-too-distant future at the time. It was further than Beloved and I had reached in our three-year stint. From what I could see, their respective lives went from the setting of desirable city love to desolate suburban despair in a matter of months.
All of a sudden we were no longer complaining about the Dark Lord’s obsessive phone calls, we were complaining about the lack of phone calls period. Simon’s life was a full one with his work and studies, and becoming a full time English teacher wasn‘t lending him any free time, but Simon hadn’t felt his heart leap at the thought of what his Significant Other might have said in their most recent text in a time that felt like forever.
I, on the other hand, had a heart that never stopped leaping, each time my Blackberry buzzed, which had recently been kindly upgraded by Beloved to a brooding Burgundy model. When Simon’s phone rang, he knew it was another offer for a job interview, when mine rang, I knew it was a call from Lover Ville, and unlike Simon, I became disconsolate each time I realised I was unable to accept offers of interviews, because my interviews were with potential new friends with benefits over coffee, champagne or cocktails.
“Remember the Relative Stranger?” I asked Simon, taking a long sip from my glass. I was referring to a certain person whom I’d met at a certain Dublin 2 establishment in the later parts of 2007 and who had caused me to re-evaluate my relationship. “We met in Powerscourt the other night”, I whispered. “Are we talking about the stockbroker?”, Simon sat upright, becoming slightly excitable, his newly highlighted hair glistening in the late afternoon sunshine.
“Yes…well, I had sort of forgotten we had had the conversations and the repartee”, I gushed, “and when we ran into each other we sort of picked up where we left off. Significant Other, as you can imagine, isn’t exactly thrilled about the whole thing”. Simon wondered, why would there be a problem in having a friend that was interesting.
He wondered why it needed to be a threat to my relationship, which by all means should have been strong enough to endure this sort of thing after three years of flying high, even though we had experienced bouts of turbulence along the way. “You’re hardly supposed to cut the Relative Stranger out of your life, are you?”, Simon announced in a steely tone. “You are allowed to be fond of a person”, he assured me, with confidence that I wished he would reserve for his own matters of the heart.
I wanted to believe Simon, I wanted to say that it was the right thing for me to do in keeping a healthy balance of friends in my life alongside my authorised lover, but I was frightened that the Relative Stranger, with their good on paper credentials, would work their way into my mind and worse still, my heart. You have a rock solid foundation in your relationship, I told myself, and even if there are a few cracks in the paintwork, the damage can still be repaired.
There we were, now alone on the terrace on Duke Lane, as the strawberry blonde buyer and her male friend in tow headed on to Grafton Street. I realised, Simon, a good on paper guy himself, had been viciously cut out for a reason we may never know, whilst I, was fighting harder than ever to prevent good on paper from covering my rock.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Seeing Beneath the Surface
Dublin has a population of just below three million people, all of different colour, age, background and personality. During the time of our existence, we form a pool of just a few of those people from different aspects of our lives: from school and from college, from the workplace and from sports teams, from the coffee shop on the corner of South William and Wicklow Street, and from the clubs and bars we frequent every fortnight.
Every so often, a person comes into our lives that is more intriguing than the others. In September 2006, I met one of those people. A man who shall become known as John for the sake of his privacy. John and I did not have an immediate connection, it was one that rather grew and continued to grow further over a period of less than two years.
John was an articulate writer and a visionary. He had an interesting and somewhat mysterious background. I once commented that it would make for an interesting novel, but then, hadn’t I said the same of many of my friend’s lives? He was full of infectious ambition that made my temperature rise and was like a kick in the ass every time I was tempted to slack off.
My relationship with John was different than my relationships with all other friends. It was not necessarily better or worse, it was just entirely alternative. John and I could tell each other almost anything, at least that is how I felt. And then there were the things that we didn’t say: the things that were bubbling just beneath the surface of one of us which the other would then refer to.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was in the process of packing my suitcase for a trip that I would make to Portugal the next day on a visit to a good friend, Laura. My mobile rang…disturbances always pleased me--a visitor, an email, a phone call--anything to make the mundane tasks of everyday life less solitary.
It was John. “Can you talk?”, he queried in his antique Dublin tone. “Yes of course”, I responded. I always found that the activity I was undertaking happened so much faster whilst speaking on the phone, maybe it was the distraction of conversation. I had played a gig the night before to an extremely unsuccessful turnout, more so than normal circumstances even, I was disappointed to admit. “How was the gig?”, John continued, upbeat and genuinely interested as he almost always had been.
I tried to conceal my disappointment, and revealed the facts, such as those who had attended and the songs that had been performed. “You sound very down…”, John remarked, sounding concerned. It was one of those moments. So many people could have heard the facts and moved on to the next topic of conversation, but John was so tuned-in that he became instantly aware that there was something wrong despite the fact that I had not pointed towards the issue.
I was down. It was one slap in the face after another, I had thought. The music industry--I could go on for hours, and I have, much to the listener’s horror--was the kind of industry in which you could spend thousands of euros, hundreds of days and nights, and every drop of energy that your body will allow, all for nothing. It is not guaranteed that you will receive a cent in return, nor a record sale, and you certainly won’t be having that piece of time back.
The gig had been the last straw for me and I was just glad to be getting on a plane the next day. “Maybe this is the break you need”, said John, “to relax and to think about other things and to clear your head”, he added. Part of me agreed, but I had to wonder, were those who succeeded before me and those that would succeed after me in the music business, or in any business for that matter, those that didn’t run scared and disheartened after a poor-charting record or an empty venue gig?
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know if they were true. I did know, however, that things were made slightly less difficult by those few people in my pool that understood and supported how I was feeling even when I didn’t speak about it. I may not be rich in terms of a career, I thought, but counting my pool of friends, I am a very wealthy man indeed.
Every so often, a person comes into our lives that is more intriguing than the others. In September 2006, I met one of those people. A man who shall become known as John for the sake of his privacy. John and I did not have an immediate connection, it was one that rather grew and continued to grow further over a period of less than two years.
John was an articulate writer and a visionary. He had an interesting and somewhat mysterious background. I once commented that it would make for an interesting novel, but then, hadn’t I said the same of many of my friend’s lives? He was full of infectious ambition that made my temperature rise and was like a kick in the ass every time I was tempted to slack off.
My relationship with John was different than my relationships with all other friends. It was not necessarily better or worse, it was just entirely alternative. John and I could tell each other almost anything, at least that is how I felt. And then there were the things that we didn’t say: the things that were bubbling just beneath the surface of one of us which the other would then refer to.
It was a Sunday afternoon and I was in the process of packing my suitcase for a trip that I would make to Portugal the next day on a visit to a good friend, Laura. My mobile rang…disturbances always pleased me--a visitor, an email, a phone call--anything to make the mundane tasks of everyday life less solitary.
It was John. “Can you talk?”, he queried in his antique Dublin tone. “Yes of course”, I responded. I always found that the activity I was undertaking happened so much faster whilst speaking on the phone, maybe it was the distraction of conversation. I had played a gig the night before to an extremely unsuccessful turnout, more so than normal circumstances even, I was disappointed to admit. “How was the gig?”, John continued, upbeat and genuinely interested as he almost always had been.
I tried to conceal my disappointment, and revealed the facts, such as those who had attended and the songs that had been performed. “You sound very down…”, John remarked, sounding concerned. It was one of those moments. So many people could have heard the facts and moved on to the next topic of conversation, but John was so tuned-in that he became instantly aware that there was something wrong despite the fact that I had not pointed towards the issue.
I was down. It was one slap in the face after another, I had thought. The music industry--I could go on for hours, and I have, much to the listener’s horror--was the kind of industry in which you could spend thousands of euros, hundreds of days and nights, and every drop of energy that your body will allow, all for nothing. It is not guaranteed that you will receive a cent in return, nor a record sale, and you certainly won’t be having that piece of time back.
The gig had been the last straw for me and I was just glad to be getting on a plane the next day. “Maybe this is the break you need”, said John, “to relax and to think about other things and to clear your head”, he added. Part of me agreed, but I had to wonder, were those who succeeded before me and those that would succeed after me in the music business, or in any business for that matter, those that didn’t run scared and disheartened after a poor-charting record or an empty venue gig?
I had my suspicions, but I didn’t know if they were true. I did know, however, that things were made slightly less difficult by those few people in my pool that understood and supported how I was feeling even when I didn’t speak about it. I may not be rich in terms of a career, I thought, but counting my pool of friends, I am a very wealthy man indeed.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Martinis and Monogamy
At exactly 9:05pm on Friday evening, Beloved and I came from our respective homes at opposite parts of Dublin and entered our favourite hotel bar of the moment, The Morrison, from opposite entrances.
I ordered a Martini, Beloved took a beer. It hadn’t been a particularly exciting week for either of us: Significant Other was ticking over at the office, whilst I, remained unpublished. I secretly longed for the moment where I had good news, something along the lines of “I’ve just had a 500-word feature printed in The Dubliner”, but a bigger part of me realised that the moment was no closer than it had been twelve months ago.
It may or may not have been time for a yet another career choice change, I thought, but either way, here I was, right now, in a good hotel with a great person, who was concerned only with the next six hours. I lost my worries and found my next drink at approximately 11:30pm across town at a venue that had caused quite a stir in my relationship on most visits since it’s opening.
As we walked the staircase to the decadent “room of doom” as I had come to call it, I noticed that I had adopted my single persona all of a sudden. Across the room, a stockbroker that I had been friendly with for a few weeks some months ago approached. “You're blonde now”, said the stockbroker, flashing a wide grin that I remembered from our previous encounter.
“Who are you here with?”, the stockbroker enquired. I glanced at Beloved and understood that it was not cool that my partner of three years was being overlooked. “Oh you’ve met each other before, right?”, I joked. “Oh we go way back”, the stockbroker said, more serious than before, and right then, with a beer in one hand, Beloved was punched in the arm. “Your friend here doesn’t like me”, the stockbroker announced. How could anyone know, I wondered, before catching a glimpse of Beloved’s Stare of Death.
The double glass doors opened and Michael, a Castleknock society boy renowned for his partying ways, entered with a new lover in-tow. “You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said under my breath. Michael, and his date. Michael stood for single, and when he was introducing a lover as a life partner, I knew it was time to settle. “How long has it been, Michael?”, I probed. I wasn’t ready for his response. “Three months…and we just had our first fight, I‘m an emotional wreck right now”, he divulged. “Well you look great”, like always I thought. The stockbroker had escaped whilst my attention was on the society boy.
I realised, the reason Beloved wasn’t exactly crazy about this joint was that my attention was on all people except my true partner. What was it, I had to wonder, that prevented me from being the person that I wanted to be for my Significant Other. I wanted to be the strong type who treated my partner like a trophy. Why? Because I had always felt that there was something terribly attractive about that. I knew that I never felt demeaned by such treatment on the occasions that I’d experienced it.
I wanted to tell Beloved, “I’m sorry you love me so absolutely and that I’m a prat to you”, but my single persona, the part of me that is most chauvinist, wouldn’t allow the words, and so instead I said “What do you want to drink, babe?” The stockbroker had returned, and the fact that I was buying all three of us a drink wasn’t going down particularly well with Significant Other. “It’s a suggestion”, my partner suggested. “No. It’s a Vodka”, I said, returning promptly to my obnoxious guise.
Later, on the dance floor in the next room, as the DJ played “4 Minutes To Save The World”, I stomped my feet, which were contained in my don’t-fuck-with-me Gucci loafers, as though I had only the same amount of time to live, flashing that same grin that the stockbroker had greeted me with right back.
“I am 22”, I affirmed silently whilst we walked to Beloved’s contemporary central apartment. I had been beating myself up for my flirtatious ways as we left the club, and I wondered, despite my knowledge that my existing relationship was the one that would be the most rewarding, not to mention the most sensible, why was I always tempted away from being smart and towards being sexually provocative with individuals who were interested mostly in checking off another man about town on their personal “to-do” lists?
I realised it may have been my age, and the fact that I had lived the beginning of my adult life in a particularly close-knit romantic relationship. I considered the prospect that it was the Martinis, that if I had been sober I would have been more sensible.
Most of all though, I was appreciative, that a couple of years my senior, Beloved probably knew that my behaviour, however nonsensical, was down to such trivial reasons. And of course, my Significant Other was nothing if not loyal.
I ordered a Martini, Beloved took a beer. It hadn’t been a particularly exciting week for either of us: Significant Other was ticking over at the office, whilst I, remained unpublished. I secretly longed for the moment where I had good news, something along the lines of “I’ve just had a 500-word feature printed in The Dubliner”, but a bigger part of me realised that the moment was no closer than it had been twelve months ago.
It may or may not have been time for a yet another career choice change, I thought, but either way, here I was, right now, in a good hotel with a great person, who was concerned only with the next six hours. I lost my worries and found my next drink at approximately 11:30pm across town at a venue that had caused quite a stir in my relationship on most visits since it’s opening.
As we walked the staircase to the decadent “room of doom” as I had come to call it, I noticed that I had adopted my single persona all of a sudden. Across the room, a stockbroker that I had been friendly with for a few weeks some months ago approached. “You're blonde now”, said the stockbroker, flashing a wide grin that I remembered from our previous encounter.
“Who are you here with?”, the stockbroker enquired. I glanced at Beloved and understood that it was not cool that my partner of three years was being overlooked. “Oh you’ve met each other before, right?”, I joked. “Oh we go way back”, the stockbroker said, more serious than before, and right then, with a beer in one hand, Beloved was punched in the arm. “Your friend here doesn’t like me”, the stockbroker announced. How could anyone know, I wondered, before catching a glimpse of Beloved’s Stare of Death.
The double glass doors opened and Michael, a Castleknock society boy renowned for his partying ways, entered with a new lover in-tow. “You’ve got to be shitting me”, I said under my breath. Michael, and his date. Michael stood for single, and when he was introducing a lover as a life partner, I knew it was time to settle. “How long has it been, Michael?”, I probed. I wasn’t ready for his response. “Three months…and we just had our first fight, I‘m an emotional wreck right now”, he divulged. “Well you look great”, like always I thought. The stockbroker had escaped whilst my attention was on the society boy.
I realised, the reason Beloved wasn’t exactly crazy about this joint was that my attention was on all people except my true partner. What was it, I had to wonder, that prevented me from being the person that I wanted to be for my Significant Other. I wanted to be the strong type who treated my partner like a trophy. Why? Because I had always felt that there was something terribly attractive about that. I knew that I never felt demeaned by such treatment on the occasions that I’d experienced it.
I wanted to tell Beloved, “I’m sorry you love me so absolutely and that I’m a prat to you”, but my single persona, the part of me that is most chauvinist, wouldn’t allow the words, and so instead I said “What do you want to drink, babe?” The stockbroker had returned, and the fact that I was buying all three of us a drink wasn’t going down particularly well with Significant Other. “It’s a suggestion”, my partner suggested. “No. It’s a Vodka”, I said, returning promptly to my obnoxious guise.
Later, on the dance floor in the next room, as the DJ played “4 Minutes To Save The World”, I stomped my feet, which were contained in my don’t-fuck-with-me Gucci loafers, as though I had only the same amount of time to live, flashing that same grin that the stockbroker had greeted me with right back.
“I am 22”, I affirmed silently whilst we walked to Beloved’s contemporary central apartment. I had been beating myself up for my flirtatious ways as we left the club, and I wondered, despite my knowledge that my existing relationship was the one that would be the most rewarding, not to mention the most sensible, why was I always tempted away from being smart and towards being sexually provocative with individuals who were interested mostly in checking off another man about town on their personal “to-do” lists?
I realised it may have been my age, and the fact that I had lived the beginning of my adult life in a particularly close-knit romantic relationship. I considered the prospect that it was the Martinis, that if I had been sober I would have been more sensible.
Most of all though, I was appreciative, that a couple of years my senior, Beloved probably knew that my behaviour, however nonsensical, was down to such trivial reasons. And of course, my Significant Other was nothing if not loyal.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Relationships & Real Estate (Part Two)
I sat in the car wondering what was going on inside the ivy-covered house. My parents had been house-hunting. I was their unofficial realtor, scouring the internet and the weekend property supplements for suitable residences.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
The Laurels was just the house: detached, red-brick façade, on a tree-lined road of a settled suburb. I had made an appointment to view and informed my parents that it would take place the following evening. Later that day, I got a call from the auctioneer. “I’m afraid the property has been taken off the market and the viewing will not be going ahead”, said the precise female voice on the other end of the line.
I had never trusted auctioneers, and immediately suspected one of the agents wanted the reasonably priced gem for themselves. “We’re going to speak with the owners”, I announced. My mother walked down the long driveway that led to the car where I sat impatiently. “It’s on the market”, she told, matter-of-factly. Less than an hour later, we returned to make an official bid on the house. A tall, sharp-featured man opened the door. “The house is not for sale”, he announced. “Oh for goodness sake”, I raged.
“Look, I don’t know what is going on here, internal conflict I suppose, but I am giving you my name”, my mother announced (she could have been her own realtor, I thought), reaching inside of her brown tweed suit jacket and extracting a ballpoint pen, “and my number”, she continued, optimistic as ever. “When you decide to put the house on the market, call me. We are willing to pay above the odds”. “Mother!”, I exclaimed, “I’m really liking this side to you”.
That night, across town, a 30-something diarist was filled with a similar desire. “You ought to come with a government warning, I’m fairly sure you’re the best looking guy I’ve seen on front of me”, said the diarist, had recently landed a job with a newspaper that treated high-society parties as priority above the general elections.
“You know I’m not even going to justify that comment with an answer”, I said, taking another sip of my gin and tonic. The restaurant was full to the brim. To our left, a politician and her middle-aged friends from the countryside attempted to unwind over a bottle of vintage port, whilst on our right came our floppy haired waiter armed with champagne and a beaming smile. “Complimentary sir”, he advised, cheerfully.
It was one of those perfect Dublin nights, filled with great food, wine, conversation. What were the motives of the diarist? What would it require to keep both parties satisfied? Was it a case of one person’s business being another person’s pleasure? It was a night of questions, followed by a morning of answers.
“The diarist is a purpose build”, said Lora, who at 19, had reached a new level of mania about finding a suitable man to let into her heart, mentioning nothing of her sheets. “You slept together”, interrupted Sarah, who‘s soul hadn’t existed since puberty kicked off, “you have that Rob look on your face”, she confirmed. “No, no I did not”, I fought back, “It’s just not there”, I tailed off. “I’m actually in love. I think I already have what I want and maybe that’s it for me, no more encounters, no more dates, no more experimenting”. Lora and Sarah glared in my direction.
“So tell me about your date”, I changed the subject to Lora’s night-before encounter. “Did he pass all of the tests? Will you be allowing him to come inside?”, I sniggered. As the topic was about to shift, my BlackBerry beeped. We stared at the handheld device in horror, though no-one really understood why. “Can these friends and/or judges be at all bribed?”, I read the text message. It was the diarist. “Christian Louboutin size six”, screamed Lora, quickly adding “Black”.
What was it about the diarist, I had to wonder. What was it about me for that matter? What could I bring to the table? Why was the diarist interested in someone who was trying to grasp what they themselves had already achieved. Why were the grand gestures so easily made and what would their final bid be?
It took me back to the day before, outside the house in the suburbs. We never heard from the owners despite our offer. Did it mean that they were settled, and content, enough so to remain despite knowing that they could gain by surrendering their property? Was I the same? How high did the offers need to be in order for me to surrender my fast-approaching three-year relationship, which was sort of like pine wood, easily damaged but at the same time full of fine character.
What did it represent that we were allowed to view the property yet go no further? I got to thinking, I too, had been allowing viewings to take place, and there was bound to be disappointment ahead when potential buyers found themselves sold on me.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Morals of the Media Darling
We believe so often that we know all there is to know about a public figure: a politician, a pop star, a footballers wife. We believe that because their lives are exposed in the pages of glossy magazines around the globe, that we can make an effective judgement.
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Sometimes, we admire their lives: like that time you saw Victoria Beckham looking picture perfect in Versace swimwear on her yacht in the South of France and you said “That’s what I want”, and sometimes, we feel their despair, like the time(s) Bertie Ahern stumbled to talk his way out of his financial troubles.
We think that what we see being documented through the media is a reflection of what’s actually going on in their private lives. Many a pop princess has been the envy of a million teenage girls from Brooklyn to Bali to Ballsbridge. Who didn’t want to be Britney in 1999?
So many of us buy into the American Dream: the perfect house, the perfect spouse, the ideal car, the ideal career. But it takes work to achieve any and all of these things, and sometimes, even the most independent of characters need to accept a helping hand.
The late Irish model, Katy French, could never have achieved the rapid success that she enjoyed for a short time had it not been for the initial support of a number of high-profile journalists. Magazine editors who decided that Glenda Gilson was “done” saw French as the next in line. People listen when high-profile journalists speak, and we read when they write. We can only choose to like or dislike the things and people we have been made aware of.
The journalists’ interest in French, though the basis of it could never quite be fathomed, were expressed publicly through the social pages of the Sunday newspapers first of all, filtering through the glossies and trickling on to the tabloids, ultimately ending with a final interview in a Sunday magazine that gave the model a vast push throughout her career, before her untimely death on that fateful day in December 2007.
It did not appear that French and the showbiz journalists of Ireland were real friends, and so it was not a selfless favour on their part, but what did they stand to gain in return from a model who was concerned first and foremost with her career. The chance to be involved romantically with a young attractive woman, some might say. Of course, this was not true of all those who supported French, but it could be suggested that the 24-year-old’s looks and flirtatious personality didn’t hurt her chances.
Being media savvy is a great part of success for potential media darlings: Amy Winehouse has been the darling of the UK media for what seems like an eternity, despite the singer rising to prominence only in recent years with her Back to Black album and its hit singles.
However, once one engages in a relationship with the media, it’s not so easy to exit that relationship that involves so many. Today, to be a star, the looks and talent combination is not enough. A third ingredient is necessary. Some call it luck, some say determination is the key characteristic. A select few agree that it is about “who you know” that determines who will “come to know” you.
French, like Winehouse, appeared to be enjoying life: every hour was happy hour, with glamorous photo shoots by day and cocktails and more in VIP areas of hip bars by night, partying through the early hours with the beautiful people. Infact, there was more to it than that, often left undocumented by the media.
The support French and Winehouse, as well as so many before them, had received by the journalists who embraced them for whatever reasons, was tainted by the negative coverage about them. Perhaps part of the problem comes from within: it seems we are almost conditioned to listen to the negative things people say, whilst we brush off our rave reviews, wondering if they could be truthful.
What about the partners of the stars? French upset her restaurateur fiance Marcus Sweeney at the beginning of her year in the limelight by posing in lingerie on a table at his Dublin city centre restaurant for a certain glossy publication. Sweeney, a self-proclaimed traditionalist, was extremely upset and the couple engaged in an all-too-public war of words through any form of media that would provide a platform: from morning radio to the Sunday papers.
Katy French’s name was made. Everyone was talking, and she was in demand as a model. Who would she have been had it not been for the risk she’d taken? It is difficult to deny that she would be just another blond model on the books of Assets, her agency. Was it worth it, we might ask French if she were here today. Was it worth destroying her relationship for the sake of igniting her career, which would eventually come to a tragic end.
Was it Karma that got Katy? Can anyone have a fast-tracked career as a media darling and continue to enjoy a relationship of the romantic variety that is 100 per cent morally correct?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Jury is Out
“Is everything OK?”, said the foreign waiter in a tone that mortified me. I wasn’t in the city. I wasn’t in the suburbs either. I was somewhere in between that was so undefined it unsettled me. I was sitting in a wicker chair: fragile and unstable, and ready to break at any given moment.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
“Yes, everything’s perfect”, I said, grateful that I could at least convince a perfect stranger it was the truth. Truth was, everything was far from perfect. I was in romantic limbo, the place in a relationship where you realise you can’t go on but neither can you terminate.
I had no clue what I was going to do, but this week like no other, my body had announced to me that I was going to arrive at a decision. Such decisions can be pondered over for weeks, months, even years, but sometimes, in love, there are emergencies of the heart.
The Other Party, I was sure, was confused about why I needed, right now, to make a change. I was confused too, but sometimes, you just have to trust your gut feeling. Sometimes, your mind cannot rationalise a decision.
They say that in lifetime you have just two great loves. How do you define a great love, I had to wonder. Is it a love that feels comfortable and safe, or is it a love that grips you, insists that you take part, and makes you feel every feeling you’d never before experienced, both positive and negative. If it was the latter, I guessed that I was in the midst of experiencing the Great Love of the 21st Century.
Ten minutes later, my coffee arrived. It was 8:30am and in this part of town, no-one was sitting-in. I should be grateful that I have the time to ponder my life in such depth, I decided.
“Sometimes you just need a break, right?”, I questioned of my 19-going-on-30 friend Lora some hours later, waiting for our beers to arrive. “Sweetheart, you are a single man in a relationship. It’s not fair to anyone”, she announced, swinging her Prada, so enormous it could have been luggage, I believed.
I was at risk of becoming fatally dissatisfied through ignorance of the situation and yet, acknowledging it would create deep unhappiness for the Other Party. It was true: the ball was in my court, and for once, I had no idea what to do with it. Maybe Lora was right, maybe I was out of the game already in my own mind, and so there was no decision to make.
And then I wondered, had I consulted too many opinions on the subject? Had I become so acutely aware of the opinions of others that I had completely lost the ability to acknowledge my own? Would my relationship make or break on the basis of a survey?
It is a terrible thing to find yourself in a position where other peoples feelings will dictate your actions. It is a sign of weakness, I told myself. Maybe, it was goodness at one point, but not anymore. I had been worn down. Those who exercise goodness and a Mr Nice Guy attitude too liberally will be taken advantage of by some characters that crop up in life, and the fault is their own.
In friendships it happens all the time, but at least in friendships the Sex Haze doesn’t exist. You can make a logical decision and usually it’s “Bye-bye Polly” without a parting kiss. With relationships of the romantic variety, it’s more complicated.
It’s a great thing to be Mr Nice Guy when you’re telling your sweetheart that you know no-one in the world that is greater than them, and you mean it too. It’s not such a great thing however, when you find yourself trapped and feeling like you’re being suffocated by an 800-count Egyptian cotton duvet cover.
You are trapped because by leaving--there are several comic exit lines to do this--you are causing potentially harmful damage to the Other Party. By staying, you are causing potentially harmful damage to yourself. It’s all sort of, “I love you sweetheart, but I love me more”.
Three days, two clubs and one party later, I decided that you can listen to the defendant, and you can listen to your friends--the jury you rely on to produce a rational and impartial verdict--but at the end of the day, you are the best judge of your own fate. “The jury is out”, I said aloud, “but times-a-ticking”.
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