Back in Belfast at Christmas 2000, I went to Watercress‘ last ever gig. #105 played in one of the support bands, and I met him at the after-party at someone’s house. In a move highly reminiscent of #33, he fed me speed and I took it as an opportunity to kiss him. We spent the night on a sofa at #112’s place, but there were a couple other people in the room so we got no privacy. I liked being with him and it was frustrating as all hell.
He was going to spend Christmas Day at his dad’s place, a mile away from me. He said he’d steal a bottle of champagne and we could rendez-vous at the beach. I waited excitedly for his phone call on the day, but it never came. On Boxing Day, I flew back to Edinburgh.
I got a text from him a few days later. He apologised for letting me down, said he’d been scared, that I was the most interesting person he’d met in ages. He threw some compliments my way and concluded, “I’m a dick. Sorry.” I was flattered, and frustrated all over again. We could’ve had more action! If this excuse was for real, it didn’t really make a whole load of sense to me. (Though five years later when I made out with #173, I didn’t follow it up because I thought she was too cool for me. So maybe I halfway get it now.)
As it happens, I wound up at a party at #105’s place last Christmas. It had been a long, long time, but what the hell: after a few drinks I casually asked for a word with him in the hallway, and then suggested we make out. There was an awkward pause and then he revealed that he was actually going out with a girl I’d been talking to. I did my best to suavely extricate myself from the situation, and he added that under other circumstances he totally would. Witness me not holding my breath.