How I drove an “Older Lady” to fever pitch and she forgave my love of Take That
“I just wanna feel, real love. Feel the home that I live in. Cause I got too much life. Running through my veins. Going to waste”
“I just wanna feel, real love. Feel the home that I live in. Cause I got too much life. Running through my veins. Going to waste”
31st December 1999. Millennium Eve. We were on the cusp of a brave new world of electronic innovation and technocratic bureaucracy and yet still some way away from Facebook and Twitter being the inventions of geeky nerds in their converted garages. Apparently. We were also far beyond the excesses of the 1980’s and the more conservative 1990’s. Wars were still raging across the world as there’s always a magic money tree when there’s a conflict to be waged and a regime that needs changing, but some of us were partying like it was 1999 and Purple Rain was still contemporary enough to be appreciated as the amazing anthemic song it was and not the epitaph for the sudden and early demise of it’s genius creator.
The lead up to Millennium Eve was a crazy and somewhat discombobulating time indeed, and especially so if, like me, you worked in a busy office. We were all in mortal danger apparently and not particularly from a raging war around us or the dreadful state of contemporary, heavily dance and trance inspired music but from a bug. A millennium bug. I worked at the time in a 13 storey office building and every day there would be teams of IT technicians rushing around like headless chickens, screwdrivers in hand and fingers poised to punch buttons, secure firewalls and varying other impressive looking activities that left me faintly bemused. For as we approached the witching hour of New Years Eve on 31st December 1999 we all had to hold our collective breath. Because there was a bug in town and that dastardly invisible creature would, as our computers and electronic devices skipped from one series of arbitrary numbers to another, from 1999 to 2000, either end the world or, more likely, our electronic equipment would collectively rise up like the T1000 in Terminator and hunt us all down. We were all John Connor now. Skynet was here and there was nothing a team of screwdriver wielding IT technicians could do about it. The date was going to change come what may (or December) and that arbitrary series of digits could not be stopped, the Skynet bug was going to run rampant, and our digital alarm clocks were going to turn into HAL 9000 and whether your name was Dave or not, it was going to bar the door to your bedroom and you were never going to be allowed to escape ever again.
All of these things were of no concern to me on that particular day and I never gave it a passing thought in the evening either. I was entertaining on New Years Eve 1999 and I had done so for a couple of days prior to this too. And I was entertaining in my sparkling, brand new home, in a new town, and 200 miles away from home. I had thankfully left the office of panicking IT experts, the hum of the same conversations from the same cast of characters of whom many had become friends, a couple had become needless enemies and I had left my hometown for good, a decision that still racks me with variable mixed feelings. But I had to leave, not for any nefarious reasons but to broaden my horizons, to try and climb the greasy pole of corporate success, move closer to my spiritual and footballing home of Liverpool and perhaps as a way of seeking refuge from the Millennium Bug Terminators who would soon be rampaging their way across a dystopian landscape full of dis-functioning computer terminals. We watched a film I cannot remember and shared many glasses of alcohol no doubt but all I vividly recall of our New Years Eve together is standing on the front porch of the house and watching the masses of fireworks that lit up the night sky. The Millennium Bug did not materialise, the Terminators did not hunt us all down, and that was the last evening I ever shared with the “Older Lady”.
Considering we had met in a drab, dimly lit nightclub in Southsea, Portsmouth in early 1995, enjoyed a near two year relationship and been apart from each other officially, and finally, for another two, spending New Years Eve together a further two years later would seem from the outside to be a strange thing. But this was perfectly in keeping with the bond we had, and of course the bond I had despicably broken, and the bond this incredible lady had allowed herself to repair. But that’s five years wrapped up in a shake of a lamb’s tail, so let’s unravel this more coherently and with a little more structure. To begin with, neither of us actually enjoyed nightclubs, so for us to have met in such a place was probably due to some form of karmic fate. We were both with friends and, dear reader, she made the first move! I mean, come on, look at that handsome man above with the flowing locks and youthful good looks! Of course she made the first move! I distinctly remember her shouting her name into my ear numerous times as I simply couldn’t fully comprehend it, but who cared, we quickly made our excuses from our friends and headed for a stroll near the seaside.
Now, before I continue, the lady concerned (I was 23, she 36) will always and forever be “The Older Lady”. I will never divulge her name as that’s incredibly disrespectful and it’s far from my intention to be so. That said, knowing her as well as I did, I cannot imagine in the 22 years that have since passed she will have embraced the murky waters of social media! Her antipathy towards the ever growing sense of multi media in 1999 was legendary so I doubt she will have ever embraced Facebook or Twitter and I further doubt this will ever find her, like some digital “message in a bottle”, in 2021. But disrespect and embarrassment isn’t the aim here, the opposite in fact. This is a digital love letter to her, not for her, and sometimes, digital or otherwise, love letters and notes of appreciation are best kept to one selves.
The Older Lady was living near Brighton at the time we met as she despised Portsmouth and had moved away at the earliest opportunity she found. So every Friday we talked endlessly on the telephone and every second weekend we met until this became ever more regularly and every excuse taken to return to Portsmouth. Admirably, she balanced work with the demands of this young and immature rogue who pined for her like a lost puppy before magically, and very unexpectedly, she fell pregnant. In no time at all, we were permanently together in Portsmouth (against her real wishes and again a mark of the beauty of the lady) and holding hands under a bank manager’s desk, with emotions in utter overdrive, as we signed for our very first house. That day, and the image of us holding hands as we both cried remains one of my most vivid lifetime memories, and it’s all down to her for that memory. The house we bought was still being built and a little way from completion and habitable, so we’d sneak into the marked off area where our garden would eventually be and sat together on long Summer evenings and counted the days until we could move in. Heartbreakingly, a mis-carriage followed and I can still see the questioning look in her eyes of “Why has this happened?” and again, the mark of the incredible lady that she was, she stoically moved on, as did the unreal love we had for each other.
There are many and varied reasons for wishing to recount this “message in a bottle” I’m throwing into the Matrix and we’ll get there. I’m also keenly aware that I haven’t even broached the subjects contained within the headlines of this particular piece of rambling prose, but patience is a virtue dear reader, and we’ll get there too. The main reason is I’ve thought about the “Older Lady” a lot over the past 22 years and I’ve always harboured the sincerest of hopes that she found real love, a husband that adored her and a growing family who adored her too. I also hope she ditched Portsmouth for somewhere else! I hope she found peace and happiness and continued to prove the doubters and funders of her charity organisation wrong and that whatever initiative she started she continued to succeed and thrive with. She deserves/deserved the very best and that was never going to be me. In a nutshell, I was too naïve and immature for her and although I doted on her, I was never happy enough with myself let alone making another happy. As I’ve stated here in previous blogs and to friends privately, my strongest desire in life is to be me. No mask or pretence or trying to fit in. Me. And she allowed me to be me in absolute spades. And loved me for it. Nothing was off limits. She allowed me to think sideways when everyone else was looking straight ahead. She encouraged my interests in Salvador Dali and my brief first look at the works of David Icke or other writers in the early to mid 1990’s who questioned the nature of reality and the world around us. I could’ve written this ode to another lost love and that of my son’s Mother as they share so much in common and especially so their unquestioning love of me, of letting me be me, and the bridges I burned to smithereens to both of them. Both of my “lost loves” are incredible, incredible human beings.
So between 1995 and New Years Eve 1999 we shared so much and I’ve only scratched the surface here as there are very private memories that I keep only for me. But not long after meeting the “older lady” I went to Chicago for an already pre-arranged holiday and as my lifelong friend Adam will testify to (but would probably rather not remember!), I was like a lost dog without her. We spent hundreds of pounds on telephone calls but this wasn’t anywhere near enough and six days into a fourteen day holiday on the other side of the world I sat in Chicago airport for another long day awaiting a stand by/last minute flight home. And there she was at Heathrow Airport for my 7am arrival and the longest cuddle known to man (or woman) commenced. Jetlag conquered, we set off from home almost immediately for Gatwick and a trip to Alicante and a marvellous week away was had by all. 1996 was a halcyon year (until I ruined it) of getting in from work and sunbathing in my very first garden, the incredibly hot and sticky Summer and of Euro ’96, our holiday in Malta and a time of real love, and of feeling loved.
Now for the pedants among you, yes, this song was released two years after I last saw the older lady but the connection will soon become clear, but first, this is an incredible song about the aforementioned need I noted above for “real love” and the lyrics have always both resonated with me as well as haunted me. I could wax lyrical and quote the entire song but my head constantly speaks a language I don’t understand, I strive to understand the role I’ve been given in life and I’ve got far too much love running through my veins going to waste.
And the less said about “I don’t wanna die. But I ain’t keen on living either” the better, so let’s just move on shall we?
The link is that my unnatural love for Take That (I’m a Radiohead obsessive for goodness sake!) was always an in joke between us. Whenever I passed something to her and said “take that please” she’d go all fan girl and say “where’s Take That?” or she’d start singing a Take That song and encourage me to do likewise. We were together during Take That’s move from pure pop throwaway stuff (sorry Take That fans) and into their more mature releases such as Never Forget, Back For Good and Pray. Regardless, it was always an in joke and it never failed to make us laugh or to lighten my mood and it was yet another link and bond between us, and of course, yet another example of this magnificent lady allowing me to be me and loving me for it.
All these years later, I’m still a Take That fan (but let’s keep this secret just between us, yes?) and I can heartily recommend their “Beautiful World” and “Circus” albums. It’s just a shame they had to sell their souls to a supermarket chain, but when you’ve got to shine, I guess you’ve got to shine. Coming full circle, in my son’s last year in school he had to sing a community version of the Take That song “Greatest Day” and it was with great amusement (at least on my part) that as he practised it at home, I knew the full lyrics way before he did! And look, who doesn’t feel better for belting out “A Million Love Songs” at the very top of their lungs? Feel free to do so now. You can thank me later.
And so I broke her heart. And whilst you have no need to know how or why, I did, and along with the other “lost love” of my life, I deeply regret my thoughtless actions. I know that without losing one love I’d never have met the amazing human being who constitutes the other “lost” love, or had the diamond of a son who recently turned from being gangly youth into a young man, and who’s love for me I could never put into words. “Lost loves” eh?
I returned to the home we shared one day to be met with the sight of thousands of ripped pieces of paper scattered throughout the lounge and the cover of a book pinned to the door. On this cover she had scrawled through the “Fever Pitch” title and replaced it with “Fever Bitch”. As I started to pick up the remnants of this favourite book of mine, she slowly descended the stairs and stood in the frame of the doorway exclaiming “FEVER BITCH!”. We laughed! We hugged. I apologised again and again and again. And would continue to apologise every chance I got. We went for a seaside stroll to thrash out our parting and I’d like to think we laughed some more.
The Older Lady helped me move into my next house. She was always there. She was my constant friend despite my thoughtless actions. She was there even when we’d both moved on and I had a new Partner and there was someone new on the carousel for the heart break treatment. She was there at the end of every end of season cricket or football pub crawl, or the regular work nights out. It was a seeming unwritten rule that your humble narrator, not the biggest of drinkers at the best of times, would slope off partway or at the end of a night out.
Because her company and her beautiful presence was the only one I wanted to be with.
Because she was always there for me.
And that’s why we shared that New Years Eve together in 1999.
I returned “home” recently for the first time in an age and managed to catch up with a number of friends and family and whilst walking with Leri and Matthew along a breezy seafront promenade Leri made an astute point, as Leri is renowned for doing. We were talking of life, moving on, regrets and everything in between and she said I sounded like I was in the “12 Step” program as I wanted to make amends and say sorry to a few people who have come and gone in my life. She was right of course, but not in regard to the “Program” as I’m a near teetotaller and have been so since that very New Years Eve in 1999. I restrict my alcohol intake to special occasions only. But I do want to make amends with a number of people, but the irony is, those people will either not want this, not want my apologies or sorry’s or will have forgotten all about the reasons or indeed forgotten about me. And the final irony is, I’ve already apologised to those who needed the apology anyway, so why do I still have a burning need to apologise again?
I walked a lot during my return home recently, with friends but also alone. I harboured this silly notion that as I was walking along the promenade and admiring the view out to sea I dearly miss, the “Older Lady” would be walking toward me from the opposite direction and I’d be able to say sorry once again, even though yet another apology is, I’d like to believe, unnecessary.
But my head speaks a language I don’t understand.