Around 8ish last night, my mate rang me to say that we’re off to Colwyn Bay Weatherspoons. It was a leaving “have a nice holiday” do for one of my mates, as well as getting rid of one of my tickets for the cricket (navy guy, mid 40′s. I was scared meeting him). Not one to turn down a drink, I had a few, then – in the clouded haze of non-soberity – I came home and switched on Love Island. The latest piece of reality TV garbage. In it, non-celebrities go to an island in the south pacific and sunbathe and tease relationships. It’s all rather dull. Guy loves it anyway, and he proceeds to tell me exactly what’s going on in it.

Anyway, it was a recap show, and as such it brought you “the best bits” – one such was Bombhead from Hollyoaks (man I miss that program not being a student) mentioning that he’s been single for three weeks. And then it hit me.

To the very day, I’ve been single for 9 months.


Now the above “fuck” is not a “fuck that’s depressing”, it’s the kind of “fuck” said when it’s June 25th, and you realise that it’s closer to that year’s Christmas than the previous years. A realisation fuck that, if on that fateful day instead of just dumping me she wanted break up sex, and the durex’s weren’t upto scratch, I could be a father now. That sort of fuck.

I’m not a father.

I’d love to say a lot’s happened, but alas no. Sure, I’ve got my career off the ground after two screwups and there’s that forgettable business with the hospital, but apart from that, nothing in the least bit exciting, or new, or indeed remotely fun.

I mean, on the “lets get Rhys a girlfriend side of things” there has been an alarming amount of opportunity. But every single time I manage to screw it up. Some examples for you:-

  • That time when I was back in Liverpool and a girl who worked in the same building as me (saying no more) invited me back to hers for “coffee”. I declined because I’m pretty much caffiene intolerant.
  • The time when I was dancing with a girl in Liverpool, then grease came on, and suddenly got myself into a slanging match with her stating that musicals are “gay” and “the day I see a musical is the day Satan ice skates to work”. She suprisngly didn’t run off, instead offered to take me back to hers to “watch a musical”. I declined.
  • The time when I was dancing with a girl in Broadway. She said she fancied me, and I replied with “you loser”, for some reason.
  • The whole ‘date’ business which was blogged extensively, and the first date which I went from “enjoyable conversationalist” to “leach that makes you wince which is the personification of a cucumber” (even thinking about it now makes me wince) in one kiss.
  • And the fact that I’ve pretty much ignored almost everybody on myspace who has not known about my blog and shown some interest in me. Though I feel justified. That place is full of pyschos (blogging company most definitely excluded)

    Don’t get me wrong, I’m not misearble or owt (though occassionally, when my mates are all with their significant others and I’m sat watching TV, I do feel a little down), I’m just doing it to amuse myself and look back and how femilliterate I am. Take today, for example – I’m sure any girl who was my girlfriend would of been nice and accompanied me to the cricket – on promise of chick flick/lunch bought/satisfy some wierd fetish that she has (going on previous girlfriends here). But instead I’m going along alone in the light drizzle to watch it on my todd, with my other ticket in the sweat grasp of some navy guy.

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