Without actually knowing him at all

You, sullen, dark, grey. All of London laid out before us, from the top of the hill at Alexandra Palace. The weather was hot but the sky was like you; lost and moody. I am sitting on a wall watching you as you watch the capital.

I never liked these blokes when I was 16. You say sourly. Why am I having to rub shoulders with them now? I don’t answer. I drink my wine in silence. I mean look at that one, you say, gesturing to a bloke who looks like a taller version of you. Look at his stupid, trendy glasses. 

You have stupid trendy glasses. I say. And you layer short sleeved teeshirts over long sleeved ones. It’s the look of your generation. I mean, it’s fucking dreadful, but it’s a look you’re also wearing. So….  I trail off and drink some more wine. 

I don’t look like that. I’m cooler than that, you say, bitterly. 

You’re not cooler than that. I respond. I mean, you’re a Marillion fan. Even Marillion’s mums aren’t listening to Marillion anymore. Morrissey is a legend. 

We’re on opposite sides of a war. You say, shaking your head. 

What war? I exclaim, angry now but it isn't about the music. Indie vs Prog Rock? Manchester vs Aylesbury? I put a sneering emphasis on the word Aylesbury to make it sound more ridiculous than it already does. Indie won, Manchester won, like…. Twenty years ago. Let it go. You cross your arms and continue to try and stare out Bow Bells. I roll my eyes and finish the wine. I’m going to the bar. I say. What do you want?

I make my way, headshakingly, through throngs of 30 and 40 something men with receding quiffs and trendy glasses on. I don’t see why you aren’t getting this. This isn’t about, as you so often enjoy telling me it is, getting high at a festival and latching on to the first pretentious singer who walked on stage. I genuinely enjoy songs about The Moors Murders. What’s wrong with a bit of pretention? I order your ale and my wine and think yeah, come on, drinking ale at a Morrissey gig, now that’s pretentious.

It is a hot, dry evening in the city but up on this hill there is a nice breeze. 

So what was the name of this new album? you ask, joining me on my wall. 

Ringleader of the Tormenters. I say. 

What so he is like, the ringleader, is he? You smirk. I want to say several things to this. I want to say, you know what, I listened to those Marillion albums and all those bloody compilation CDs you made me; I want to say, I wasn’t actually born until 1985 so listening to a megamix you made me of your favourite progressive rock tracks from 1983 was a bit of a chore; No, I do not like electric guitars, I want to shout, as I throw my wine at you, I do not like twenty minute solos in the middle of songs played by blokes with big hair and big egos. It is a form of torture. I don’t say any of those things though. I just smile sweetly.

Things have been better between us lately. You promise me faithfully that your marriage is in a winding-down period and you foresee us being able to even live together by the time I graduate. This is more or less how you put it: a business proposal. Exciting times. We have been on several trips together which have involved overnight stays and it’s been really nice. I got drunk on Guinness in Dublin. I brought a pink suitcase for our trips and we’ve hardly been drunk and screaming at each other in months. We have considered and pleasant sex, and I have laid off the other people, although I’ve still to get round to telling you about that whole chapter. Yes, things are feeling pretty fucking civilised I just turn the outrage and bitterness back into myself now rather than out at you, and cutting myself is probably the next stage. It’s not ideal but it keeps you nearby, I think, drinking at twice my usual rate just to keep calm enough not to scream.

Perhaps you realise how difficult it is for me to stay being this nice. Or perhaps you sense that I feel I am auditioning for the role I really want and which you say is just around the corner: full time girlfriend. I don’t know. But certainly you are kinder to me after I don’t kick off about you making fun of this whole gig, and even get into it a bit. When I buy a teeshirt which shows my tits off quite a lot you don’t even say I look like a slut so we are definitely making progress.

When Morrissey comes on stage and the lights go down, you chuckle in quite a fond way and comment that I am entranced. I think, strangely, through the buzz of alcohol and music that I love him like I used to love you- without actually knowing him at all. The thought it shaken from my head with the thump of percussion and soon even you are jumping around and looking a bit daft and there is a glimpse of what we used to have before we got to know one another. I kiss you, closed mouthed, and say 

You’re alright, you are and you look like a kid who’s had his mum tell him he’s been good.