William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story. Matt Rudd
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to know what Johnson, Andy and I always talk about at the pub, besides brazen, harlotish women in bars.
‘Stuff,’ I say.
‘What stuff?’ It’s not the first time she has asked but this time she says she has a right to know.
‘I am your wife. You shouldn’t be going out with them any more. Not without telling me what you talk about.’
This is the sort of thing Johnson has been warning me about. I must nip it in the bud.
‘Well …’ I begin with a sharp, scandalised intake of breath.
‘I was joking,’ she says. ‘It’s only that you never seem to come back from the pub with any news about the two of them. I was curious about how you pass the time.’
This could easily be a trick. If I was a better chess player, I’d be able to work out the various permutations before I opened my mouth. I don’t think she’s trying to trick me. She’s simply making conversation. She likes talking to me when we get back from work. She likes it more than watching television. This is obviously a compliment but it does mean I am no longer up to speed with The Bill. It could also still be a trick.
‘Well, you can come.’
‘What?’
‘Come to the pub.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Er, yes.’ Suddenly, I’m not. I should have just moved the pawn. That would have been fine.
‘Okay, but you have to talk about the things you always talk about. No chatting about art and poetry and horse-riding just for my benefit.’
These are the things she really does like to talk about, which is sometimes a problem. I don’t know very much about art but she does, on account of her highly arty family upbringing. The poetry of the Romantic Period was her special subject at university and, unlike everyone else who went to university, she still remembers it. And made me go to several poetry recitals when we first met just because she really, really wants to share the joy of it all. I almost got it. I almost did. I could see why she loved it and why I was a useless philistine for not loving it as much.
Horse-riding, though. That’s where we really come unstuck. She loves horse-riding. When we’re tired of London (about five years) and we’ve won the lottery, she wants to move to somewhere remote and horsey like North Wales. She wants to ride and muck out stables and give out carrots and blow in horses’ nostrils because they love it. She likes smelling of horse.
We’ll never see eye to eye on the joy of horses.
I phone Andy and Johnson, both of whom are suspicious, even when I tell them we don’t have to talk about poetry. Reluctantly, they agree to meet me and Isabel in the pub on Friday—and pretend she’s a bloke.
Thursday 26 May
Woke up with absolutely no idea of the eureka moment about to occur in the bathroom. Bath, teeth, flossed a little bit, nothing out of the ordinary. Attempt to shave, but last razor is on last legs. I’m busy hacking away like a tired peasant in a cornfield when, out of the corner of my eye, I spot another option lying provocatively on the shelf: Isabel’s pink leg-razor. Isabel is still in bed and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Amazing. It’s all over in a flash, a clean shave, my skin all silky smooth. Pink girly razor: the best a man can get … I put it back, so no one will ever know. Skip to work, delighted that the years of hacking away and patching up cuts with bits of loo roll might be over.
Friday 27 May
Isabel found dark stubbly hair in her razor. Firmly told not to do it again or she’ll tell Johnson.
‘Evening, boys.’
‘Evening, Isabel.’
The four of us are in the pub. Johnson is behaving like he’s in an interrogation room. He squints suspiciously at Isabel.
‘Well, since I’m the honorary bloke, I’ll get the first round.’
While we sit in silence, she goes to the bar, returning minutes later with four pints of bitter, four whisky chasers and four packets of pork scratchings. Everyone starts to relax.
Three pints later, we are playing one of Isabel’s traveller drinking games. A pint after that, Andy is explaining to us how breasts vary from one nation to the next. Then, Isabel tells everyone that I use a Ladyshave. Then Johnson tells us his post-pee dribble trick.
Johnson’s post-pee dribble trick
You have to trick it. Finish the pee, shake as usual, put away, zip up, pretend you’re leaving then retrieve when it thinks it’s in the clear and have another shake. I tried it and it works. Andy did too. Can’t believe I’m almost thirty and only now have I truly mastered the art of urinating.
Rest of evening spent discussing where to hold the door handle on the way out of the toilet. I always hold it at the top corner, where other people don’t touch it. Johnson reckons that doesn’t work because it’s the bit least likely to be cleaned properly. Even though it’s touched less, the germs have longer to prosper. Andy uses his shirtsleeve or waits for someone else to come in. Isabel thinks we should get out more.
Saturday 28 May
Andy is unconscious, perhaps dead, on our sofa. Johnson called to say he fell asleep on the night bus and woke up in a depot near Hounslow. I feel as sick as I did on the third day of our honeymoon after eating the warm lamb rogan josh.
Isabel, on the other hand, is eating toast and contemplating a fry-up.
‘I think I’ll skip the next few pub outings. You three are lightweights.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘And it really is true, isn’t it? Blokes can spend a whole night in a pub talking about absolutely nothing whatsoever. No “how was the honeymoon?” or “how’s work?” or “sorry things didn’t work out with the waitress” or “terrible what’s going on in Bangladesh”.’
‘Blokes don’t need to natter on the whole time.’
‘Oh, I see. Okay. Still, at least I know how to shake my willy.’
Johnson was right—women should not be allowed to gatecrash bloke-nights.
WHY BRITISH MEN DON’T NATTER ON THE WHOLE TIME
It’s exhausting.
We’re not Italian.
Life is too short.
We spend our (too short) lives being nattered at by women. It is therefore only sensible to think of male company as a pause between bouts of nattering. Isabel can’t see this because she is a woman. While she made a good honorary bloke last night, she has reverted to type this morning by nattering. Even if she did make an excellent fry-up.
Monday 30 May
Met Isabel four years ago today. Seems like much, much longer. Not in a bad way.
Dinner at Andrew Edmunds (note for next time, refuse downstairs table if upstairs full and go somewhere else instead because left smelling like lamb chops), then a tour of all the bars we’d got drunk in back when we were all excited and unfamiliar with each other. Isabel gets super-nostalgic: ‘We sat on this sofa, you ordered those drinks, you tripped on that step and ruined the dress of a girl sitting at that table. And you were wearing that horrible off-centre skintight jumper.’
I explain, as I did at the time, that it was bias-cut, very fashionable, chosen by a fashion PR who’d felt sorry for me. She explains, as she did at the time, that I will never be fashionable with my sticky-out ears