A lad called Alex
A Rotherham lad at that
A lad called Alex
Whose legs are perfect
And not bad for a Rotherham lad
And those legs
On a lad called Alex
Would be perfect to touch
But that lad called Alex
Who’s not a bad lad
A Rotherham lad with perfect legs
Has a girlfriend
I dream about that lad
A lad called Alex
A Rotherham lad
With perfect legs
Pablo. You told me that was your name. Somebody told me that you were a ballet dancer, and that kind of did it for me.
You are always alone. But last night, you stood beside me and smoked a cigarette.
I glanced, and you smiled. You glanced, and I smiled.
And then you said I was hot, which is something all Europeans say when trying to chat British lads up. And, I said something typically English, that you were hot too. And we both laughed.
We chatted about drunk people and how they amused us.
You asked me when I finished work, and I told you six in the morning, and you looked disappointed. You finished your cigarette and walked back inside
And then it turned out you weren’t a ballet dancer but worked six days a week in a Polish bakery, and every time I’ve seen you since, you ignore me.
Where did those days go? Those days when we were gorgeous models from another era. People envied us, and we didn’t care. We were young and immature and didn’t realise that it was just a transient existence.
Somewhere along the way, when we were too busy to notice, nor cared, the God of Time changed the record speed from 33⅓ to 45rpm and we didn’t realise until it was too late.
One day, we looked at one another and thought that each was less attractive, worn-down, and fatter. It applied to everyone, except me, because in my head I was still twenty-something.
Until that morning when I looked in the bathroom mirror and saw somebody that I didn’t know, somebody I didn’t like, somebody who had become old. I accepted it but couldn’t look myself in the eye anymore.
And then someone who was once better looking than you, so much slicker, goes and dies.
“Though we had our fling,
I just never would suspect a thing,
Till that little bell began to ring.”
That chasmic flaw is about to break. When things are going well, I need to press that self-destruct button and obliterate everything that’s good. It might be something to do with family, friends, or career. But worst of all it happens when I’m in a good relationship. I panic. I react. I self-destroy. And then, when the pieces shatter across the floor, I can start again.
I must do something about you.
A mournful violin, playing minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, pulling at emotions I thought evaporated with age. Hot-blooded spirits interred within an ice-covered heart have been resuscitated. Slowly, slowly, you cleared away that frost and slush, and allowed lust inside me to take flight again.
But you don’t know that you have done it.
You are young, untidy, hopeless with money, pay too much attention to a cat, and do not like salad. You talk about sex all the time. Every excruciating detail of what you did with whom and when.
You are depressed and miserable. And through the hours of darkness, we sit and talk, and I hear you crying for an existence. A world which considers you better.
And I love you with every single breath. Your touch, your scent. They make me tremble, and send me into silent misery, because I know this feeling isn’t reciprocal.
I’ll never know how I became infatuated with a spotty 21-year-old straight lad. I’ll never know why I become obsessed with anyone. Occasionally, somebody comes along who destroys me. And it happens when I least expect it. I might have known them ages, and one day, I turn around and see them, and I think, I’m in love. And then, I follow a ritual of making them love me. But they never do. Not anymore. He was the same. Happy-go-lucky, handsome even with the spots, and a suggestive habit of taking off his shirt. He had a fine body. There was acne on his back, but it didn’t matter. He was clever and played the game. I tried to indulge him with money, and he accepted, but it was never a route to his heart.
It snowed heavily, and the night grew darker, and bewilderingly silent. It reminded me of a Sunday night many years ago. The snow had fallen and trapped us inside, and there were only three TV channels to watch. But late at night, we watched an American TV series called Nero Wolfe that starred that fat bloke from Cannon. I still remember that episode. Many winters have gone. But tonight, when snow fell and we were trapped once again, we dared to switch on the heating and watch TV. And late at night, with thousands of programmes to choose from, we spent an hour deciding what to watch, and I realised that this was the same length of time it had taken to watch Nero Wolfe back then. This time we chose a movie, The Power of the Dog, and felt sadder and colder.
The night of the poison arrows. One came left. One came right. And all those poison arrows hit me where it hurt most. Straight through the heart. After all these years, that ABC song finally meant something. Life has a habit of firing poison arrows when you least expect them. And all because two people I cared about got it on with one another. Petty jealousy is worse when you’re drunk. But when I woke up next day the poison arrows were still there.
“Who broke my heart, you did, you did.
Bow to the target, blame Cupid, Cupid.
You think you’re smart, stupid, stupid.
Shoot that poison arrow to my heart”
Eighties lad. Anger. Arrogance. Hormones. Confusion. You let me run my inquisitive fingers over your innocent chest and pinch those indulgent nipples. And then, with burning eyes, you always hit me.
I think you are curious. I see you in the streets with your mates and people walk away. They are frightened. But once a week you come on your own and stand around the back and chat gangsta shit. And beneath that swagger is something that isn’t you. All the while, you play inside your boxers, and then take out a cigarette, and give it to me, and I always accept.
Perfectly Hard and Glamorous 