A Love Story

This story starts much the same as any; at the start.
Please play this as you read, open a new browser.

I am in love with a man. But not just any ten-a-penny-man, I am in love with a gentleman named Nicklas Bendtner. Aul' Bender has filled my days like you wouldn't believe. I'm not talking an actual loving relationship with another human being, or a Brokeback scenario, if you prefer being coarse, but it is a genuine passion for a man I have never known. The way he makes me feel, is, well, unreal.

But first, a preamble. Nicklas Bendtner is a professional footballer, who currently plys his trade at Arsenal Football Club of London. I am neither a professional footballer, nor live in London, but I know this man. He is a Denmark International Player (a Dip, if you like), and a man who has had a lot of press recently. Far from being a media whore (as I am more refined than that), my affinity with him goes back further than recent travails. Not for me, a bandwagon jumping rush of gushing emotive. Hell no. Anyone who knows me can vouch for the fact that I've stuck by him through thick, thin, and thinner.

...Realising that after starting with the start, and then kicking to a preamble, I've obviously blown the start by going back before that instance, I apologise to Dr. Emmet Brown for testing his space/time continuum theory to the max, and wonder when CERN will actually fix the machine of scary physics that kills us all.

Before they do, here we go. My relationship with Bendy began a few years ago. He first came to life in my eyes as nothing more than an extra, a peripheral figure, when he moved to my town from Copenhagen. When he first moved over I didn't even pay any attention, he was the next in a line of potential suitors, just another pup. I caught his name, but neither of us moved in the same circles. Me and my friends used to giggle about the cool kids in town, like Thierry (you should see how he moved, so graceful), and Paddy (a rough gem, but you knew he'd look after you). I started hearing good things about him though, and his name stuck in my head.

Sure as I was that he wanted my attention, and once I started getting a good vibe about him, he was gone. Before I could even react, he'd moved to Birmingham. Ships in the night, and the floozy hade left.

I knew it wasn't really his choice, it just had to be done, so I got on with things. But never forgot. Time passed, we both carried on. He played away, but I didn't care. Things were good at home, and away, for me. I heard that he was doing well where he was, but I was doing better, so why should I care? We both got on with things, each in each others mind, and I'm pretty sure we both knew he'd be back in town, sooner or later. Maybe I just had to let him fly, for a while.

Fly, he did, and home he came, where we finally got to start a real relationship. It started off the same as all the others did, a few tentative moves, here and there. For every good thing he did, there were ten worse. A simple opportunity would arise, and he'd find the best way to fuck it up. Bless him, he stuck in there, even after some initial disinterest. I could tell he was trying too hard though, the nerves were clear to see. Well, they were to me, but everyone else thought he was a blowhard, a preening showpony. I could see where they were coming from, he did have a bad habit of chewwing gum, everywhere he went. He couldn't score in a brothel during Happy Hour. He was shorn of the instant class that Thierry had, that je ne sais quio, but had his own thing going on.

I had faith in the good of him though, that braggadochio was just a front. True to my faith he started repaying my trust in him. The day I actually had a proper conversation with him, he had had a bad day. Missing shots and shanking wide all game, he was in for some derision all match and after. I had even starting listening to the anti-hype myself building upto the game, to the point where I bought his press photo in the club shop afterwards in shameful mockery. Everyone who knew me, knew that I was crushed by how much he didn't turn up.

I met him after the game, accosting him at the traffic lights as he tried to speed off, and demanded that he leave me a token, something to repay my faith in him. I proferred the ironic photo for him to sign. He did, and my heart melted again. It was back on. After a patience testing relationship, and after this day, he got his head back in gear. He went on to do what he was meant to do the whole time, and that was make me feel good.

And now, when I tape that picture to the back of my girlfriends head, and ask to do her doggy, I remember our relationship, mine and Bendy's. But as I do, a thought creeps in. Will he shank my balls into Row Z, or will he stroke them home?

He'll stroke all night, cos he's a changed man.

Right... write, right?

So this is it, a notepad for getting back into writing, and noticing how fat (or unco-ordinated) my fingers are, as I mangle the keyboard, and have to correct myself every few words. A feeling not dissimilar to being back at school, but the ball breaker correcting me is neither teacher nor mother, but my own stupid head. Fucksticks. And what to write?

Well, it's been a strange old week. Not in the epic Jim Cameron way, but strange for me, in the only way it can be in real life. No action, whatsoever, certainly not. Not even a poorly contrieved plot about terminators/aliens/lies of the truest nature/sinking ships/aliens of the bluest nature, or any minute of 2 hours of blu-ray extras padding out out any of these ideologies. Even one instance of that would rock on a wholly gratificating, yet strangely hollow level. But no, and I digress. Must check the meaning of that word later.

So, left to my own devices for a few days or a week, things come a little unstuck. The girlfriend is away, I've the place to myself, and I've started actually thinking. Stupidly.

And it started so well, I went to see some friends for Easter weekend, some old comrades from the failed Uni experiment. A good old weekend of fine whiskeys (some fine single malt, and a few tasty genuine bourbons), metal (from blues to doom) and chatter (chatter). I'm not even particularly a massive fan of any of the above any more, but it was a good tonic to the daily life, where I am now. You know, the 'grown up' bit where you commit to a job/career/way of life after you burn out_

_Burn out_ That bit after your teens where you step back and go "Holy fuck, that was intense", where you reminisce about loving every minute, but can't actually remember a single minute, apart from the character arc of every role in Buffy and getting a really high score in Tony Hawks. Yes you do, don't leave me hangin'! Oh. _

Easy to get lost, I apologise. But there I was. Catching up on old times, hearing how great everyone's ( ' in the possesive- not ' meaning 'is', grammar fools) fucking job was and I was selling myself short the whole time. Someone's looking to get into Social Care and whatnot, and I'm mumbling about my job like it's nothing. Why do that, my job does the same thing they're on about, surely? I work for a company that offers a basic health check to prevent one of the biggest killers of the over 50's. Well, one of the biggest after hoodies and Johnny Foreigner, obviously. Oh, And the Winter. Brrrr.

Maybe I'm not the actual ultrasound tech pointing out the blocked artery, or even meeting them at all, but I'm the Man who finds and books the venue that they go to. Even if they are fine they won't suggest to their friends a basic scan unless I find somewhere nice. And under budget for the numbercrunchers. Crikers. An underpaid, marginally important job, no wonder I'm waiting for a medal!

So, rant all I like, we're getting nowhere here. A good enough weekend. Nay, a great weekend, despite better instincts, and then home.

Back to an empty flat, and that worked well for the first day and a bit, where I repaired, rested and indeed recuperated before going to work.

Day and a half of shaking from the DT's, and we're back in business. Well, after the sorry episode of falling asleep with the telly on in the bedroom, and being awoken to Channel 4's kid schedule at half six, or whenever it was. Trust me, after kicking in under the bed top-sheet that the girlfriend insisted on which was until then refused; which only acted as a bacofoil reflector of my sweaty nightmares, the last thing you want is to be woken up by the ghoulish sounds of a synthesiser, inane goo-goo noises and children laughing. Terrifying.

So, off to work again. Back to casual racism, stupid people making you feel more stupid (or stupider, whichever works) and a general air of recession-era defeatism. Work harder, no more money, blah blah, bleh.

Only had a short working week, but it was a longer one, working weak. Ha.