From Swansea With Love (Part 2)

 

….And we kissed, and suddenly everything was amazing.

And it was.

I was young, unjaded. My biggest worries were contemplating wearing beige chinos or untagging myself in dubious photos of me looking hammered.

Trying to maintain a long distance relationship is not easy. It’s like an orgasm. It’s fantastic when it happens, but it doesn’t come around enough.

You want to hold that person in you arms for a hug or cuddle or, if you’ve been paying them the right compliments and have cheekbones as delectable as mine*, a cheeky fumble. To travel 200 miles to hold someone’s hand, however, just doesn’t feel right. Like Instagram validation and all you can eat buffets, you want lots of it and you want it now.

*This is bullshit btw

We spoke on Skype most nights, sometimes until 4am, saying goodnight as the birds sang good morning. While the milkmen were loading up their floats and various TOWIE stars were stumbling out of nightclubs, we were chatting far into the night about how much we loved each other and the excitement of seeing each other in 26 days.

In order to get a good connection, I had to perch on the landing, often tripping over cables to get some precious Wi-Fi bandwidth to talk to my e-girlfriend. I felt like the third wheel between her and my temperamental Broadband connection.

Once I had a glass of water near the laptop, a great idea for pre-Skype hydration, but I tumbled over a wire and knocked over said water, sending a short splash over  my keyboard. After this unwanted lubrication, I could no longer use the W and O keys.
Imagine trying to tell friends online you have recently found a great woman.

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Pretty much

 

I did some research and followed Google’s advice and used a hairdryer to dry the buttons to prevent further letter corruption.
Sadly the hot air ended up fusing the keys and I raised an angry fist at the Internet’s lack of wisdom. Eventually each letter died until the only impact I could make was via the space bar.
It’s hard to tell someone you love them without vowels and consonants.

Staying up to 4am also meant mornings were unloved. I once awoke to my manager phoning me up asking where I was. I should have been at work half an hour before, but had been fast asleep in bed.

Another stipulation to long distance, particularly with a University First Year,  was seeing your girlfriend get ready to go party at various liver intoxication events during Freshers’ Week. With events called ‘Carnage’ and 18 year old boys who have recently been released from their family nests, it didn’t fill my mind with the greatest joy.

It was difficult to see her make herself look pretty on Skype with me before she went out. I wasn’t much of a party animal at the time, so I’d be left watching Skins Series 5 (a form of self-punishment) back in England whilst she was dancing her socks off at a sticky club floor. I might receive a drunken message or an incoherent picture of a z-list celeb or Hollyoaks guest star who’d turned up for a paid appearance.

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Sadly the quality of celebrity appearances have diminished since then. #gotnofans

One such event I’m glad she didn’t partake in was a sports team drinking event. The social club’s rules were that you would be handcuffed to a Third Year student rugby player whilst dressed as a sheep. Then you would spend the night drinking copious amounts of liquor. You would be penalised if your drink cup was empty, with the added bonus of having to drink a shot with every sip. Even Phil Mitchell would find this to be hardcore.

One time I came back from a late swimming session to find a text message saying from her ‘I kissed someone.’
I almost stumbled back into my locker.
Someone had stolen her phone and sent this, and she had apologised profusely. I didn’t know how to talk to her the next day as it was such a confusing situation. She was terrified at the thought of losing me over this. Regardless of whether this cuckoldry was true or false, it was hard to find the words to say back.

Despite this incident, or non-incident as it could have been, we moved on.

At one point later in our relationship she was coming out of Popworld whilst on the phone to me. She had just seen Jay from The Inbetweeners riding his post-movie fame and posing in photographs interlocked between various female forearms. She was trying to find her friends and was feeling a bit dry in the post-apocalyptic world of a closing 3am Welsh nightclub.

I could hear some guy (not Jay, who was probably too busy being knee deep in clunge) come up to her and offered her some support.

“Hey, you thirsty? You have my drink!” he said, in what I think was an Indian accent. This kind gentleman offered her some of his canned lemonade. Such a Samaritan.

She thanked him and and guzzled it down.

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For those unforgettable nights, try Rohypnol ©

 

She then started to feel a bit off-colour, but presumed it was the copius amount of Jagerbombs she got on the latest 6 for £10 student deal. She began to feel faint and drowsy. She left to go somewhere else to find her friends and luckily bumped into a housemate.There are no words to express how it feels having your girlfriend get her drink spiked 200 miles away, whilst you are helpless on the other end of the phone hearing it happen.
I could barely sleep.
Luckily, her mate had managed to take her back. She spent most of the next morning and midday in a deep slumber, being nursed back to reality by her housemate who gave me a reassuring phone call. I wanted to be there for her instead, but I couldn’t.

The thing is, when you’re head over heels with someone then the above instances don’t matter. You just bury them in the deep recesses of your head, they gnaw away at you but you’re to busy preparing for your loved one’s royal visit. When we saw each other it was electrifying; we had curry nights, deep emotional chats and watched The Human Centipede. Nothing quite beats a romantic night in with Chicken Jalfrezi, poppadoms and people being sewn together ass-to-mouth .
Sure, long distance is mightily unrealistic and deep down, like Communism and my singing career, you know it’s not going to work. You get so drawn into the bubble that you can’t stop. Ironically enough, we talked to each other far more than short-distance (is that the term?) couples do.
At some point, things changed. She hadn’t told her family about me until months in. I fathomed  they didn’t exactly approve of our holiday romance turned cross-country love story.
It was at this point I realised she was an integral part of my life. I had initially been standoffish about a relationship, but she had won me over and we even updated our Facebook relationship status. Now I’d feel incomplete if I didn’t hear from her or look lovingly at her digitised face over Skype.

Little by little, her communication petered away. There were fewer love notes, drunken phone calls and messages. Conversations became picture memes. One time she muted me on Skype as I was embarrassing her.

I felt funny. My heart was numb. I was confused. I couldn’t eat. Fuck, this was bad. I was pretty much checking off a teenage heartbreak checklist, but I was too old for this angst and confusion. I went to see my Dad, whose not the most emotional. I couldn’t tell him how I was feeling, but I found myself asking him loads of questions about himself to try and fill any potential silence, and to take my mind off of her.

We had our first conversation where she told me she wanted to ‘step back’ in regards to our growing relationship. I wasn’t sure what to make of this, but it wasn’t a good sign.
I had booked a week off work to see her in Wales. She was going to teach me how to like Christmas, a nauseous event that comes around way too quickly each year. Sorry everyone, I’m one of those people! We were to go to Winter Wonderland and I was going to spend my time at the ice-rink holding onto the sides.

Things weren’t right. Our last phone call was her in the toilet at Club Destiny. We had barely spoken the day before I was coming up.
I went to my room and loaded up Skype. The opening tune of it no longer had the chirpy and fun connotation I used to enjoy.
The image of the love-lorn lady with a big smile on her face, calling me babe, was now a weeping mess of an angel.
I knew it was the end before she opened her mouth.

 

She expressed how she hadn’t been completely honest to her family about me, and how she was struggling to fit me into her university life when I lived so far away. I understood completely as deep down, I knew this was impossible to maintain long-term.

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I don’t really remember what we spoke about, but for the first time, we were realistic adults, which wasn’t good.

Like a celebrity’s career after Operation Yewtree, it was all over.
I felt numb, confused. She continued to cry. I may had too. We said goodbye.

I went down to the living room and sat down in exhaustion with such force I almost took out the long curtains traipsed along the floor.

The next few days were a nightmare to say the least. The leftover feelings after constant communication had ended. I now had 5 days off work to dwell and ruminate over the situation, and a bundle of Christmas presents for her, now for me. What the hell do I do with a faux Pandora bracelet, and a belly bar for a navel piercing?

The morning after I stumbled down with a friend to the festive outdoor bar, complete with talking moose, and ordered myself a stiff Jagermeister. The automated moose told jokes, possibly realising I was in a bad way and needed some hilarity

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My post break up therapist

What has antlers and sucks blood?” it exclaimed. “A moose-quito!”

Later, we began talking intermittently. (No, not me and the moose)
She had been out  with other suitors, and at one point coldly told me about these. She later apologised for these confessions and admitted her behaviour had been all over place. She admitted she still had strong feelings for me and if I had lived closer, things could be different.

For some reason, we met up a few months later. I booked a train to Cymru for a catchup. I counted sheep along the way, but lost count.

Our reunion was a very strange experience, we had only seen each other through rose-tinted spectacles before. At first she We bantered for hours, and as we shared ice-cream and cheesecake, our lips found each other as they had done so many times before. As we went to bed and I began to drift off, she shyly said ‘I still love you.

Things just weren’t quite the same and I didn’t know how to act or feel with someone I once shared L-Bombs with. There was awkwardness and arguments, but eventually we fell in love all over again, albeit briefly. She spoke about meeting again, and I didn’t want it to be the end.

As we waited for my train, we both looked at each with lumps in our throats and red eyes. She began to cry. The past 9 months had been a roller-coaster, and as Lord Ronan Keating once said about such, ‘You’ve just got to ride it’. 

We said goodbye; I boarded my train and felt rebellious, putting my feet on the seats as I looked back fondly over our relationship

We never saw each other again. She later dated someone with a beard.

 


Have you tried Long Distance? Write down your experiences in the comment box below!


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From Bournemouth With Love (Part 1)

Is love real?

A  poll said 74% of people think love exists,

16% gave a weak, Nick Clegg kind of answer of ‘it depends on the person.’

10% say it is just a lustful infatuation usually caused by someone pretending to understand your problems.

Dairy-free Singles, Thematchmaker.com and Uniformed Dating unsurprisingly say it’s 100%. Sign up to find the one you love, who shares your lactose intolerance needs.

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Any excuse to get this sexy fella on here

 

It would be a huge blow to the music industry if love isn’t real.

Westlife* may start having to sing about aquatics and tapestry

*I am aware Westlife stopped producing music years ago, but I am stuck in a late ’90s timewarp due to my lack of affiliation with scary new things such as lit, peng, dank, nightclub squadding, poo emoji’s and Adult Beiber

The following is my first dabble on the whole love thing. My previous attempts hadn’t worked out.

Rewind. It was 2011, Osama Bin Laden had been shot in the face, and David Guetta and his bezza, Flo Rida, were asking “Where them girls at?” (hope he managed to find them)

This was also the years of the riots, where  uppity people were grouping up and destroying things, but there were confused as to why. There were little riots in my area, although I heard a bin was knocked over in a petty rage.

I was actually worried the 2012 Olympics were to be stripped away from us due to the carnage caused. I was worried one of the Olympic torches might have been kidnapped and used as a Molotov Cocktail by a disgruntled rioter, but luckily England had settled down by then and gone back to safe things, like drinking Tea and moaning.

That year I was working as a catering assistant at Bournemouth Beach. Here you see me, proudly standing in my hot uniform amongst a display of coloured Lions, which had appeared across the town for the summer.

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The much loathed Imax Building still blocked the coastline, but due to a 50:50 sun/rain ratio, there was still interest in the beach. I would work hidden away in a blue box (no, not the Tardis), and would watch as everyone partied in the sunshine. I constructed our variant of 99 flakes, of which included such hideous ingredients as 0% Dairy, Vegetable Oil, emulsifier, sweetener, and more Vegetable Oil.

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My little world

One time I offered a man to top up his ice-cream whippy with a flake for 30p.
He kindly responded by saying I should stick said flake where the sun doesn’t shine.
Another customer had no money, but desperately wanted a Twister lolly. He offered to exchange an 1/8th of weed for one. I decided not to go through with it. I could imagine the local newspaper now with illustrious damning headlines.

“Mr Whippy’s Drugs Bust.”

“Cornetto Cannabis Crackdown”

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But anyway- back to the love you clicked here for.

One Summer’s day, a charming group of ladies approached me for ice-creams. One particularly blonde one, who slightly resembled Tanya from Britain’s most miserable soap, EastEnders, wanted an Orange Ribena Lolly.

We got talking and I joined them on the beach during my break. It was quite tough talking to 5 girls from up North that I’d never met, especially when conversation turned into contraceptions and coils. However, I appeared to go down well, and they found me again the next day at the ice-cream booth.  Ribena I found myself drawn to due to her spirit and smile. She looked past my stubble and uninspired blue uniform, which possibly marked with ice refreshment ooze. As we were sat in a group, it was hard to talk to her alone. I really wanted to know why every lame pun I came out with she giggled at.

I hadn’t had much luck with women for a while; my last girlfriend had run away to Lapland to be an elf and never came home.

I’m not even joking.

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“Look elves, there’s my goofy ex-bf back in England!

 

I digress. The girls were due to go back up North, and my shift finished at 3, and they were leaving around about the same time. I pleaded with my supervisor, Jules, who was busy breaking off icy residue off some  Toffee Vanilla crunch, if I could go early.

I said there was a girl I liked, he let me go. The idea of romance cooled his heart.

I threw my apron off, almost forgetting there was a group of hungry Austrians waiting for a collection of hazelnut Magnums. I raced down the beach, bypassing several obese interpretations of the great British body. I almost pushed kids out the way, tripped over a few deckchairs and crushed a few sandcastles.

To be honest it wasn’t this dramatic. It was more of a hurried pace whilst walking with a sense of haste. I managed to find where them girls at.

Pretending I was merely walking there with little bother, I began to slow down and caught my breath when I saw them. I eventually managed to get talking to Ribena, and we had a walk across the sand. We shared a cute moment where I put ice-cream in her face, covering her in whippy. Our liaison should have ended there really. Luckily she had a soft spot for casual immaturity and vegetable oil.

The sun was shining, the weather was warm. It was nice to enjoy England’s annual one day of summer. We had a kiss on the shore, the icy coastal water cheekily lapping at her feet.

Her friends pulled funny faces at us, probably exclaiming a mixture of worry and excitement their mate was kissing a Cornetto salesperson.

As they left to go back up North, we exchanged details and more kisses. She seemed incredibly lovely, but I figured I was a bit of holiday romance.

A month passed, and in that time Ribena spoke about me coming up to visit as her parents were away. It would also consequently give me a break from another full-time week of ice popsicles.

I got the train to meet her at the nearest train station. It was only until I got there, that I felt a tremble down my spine, I had travelled a few hours away, I barely knew her… what if she was evil? Or tried to kidnap me… or worse, sell my organs for profit?

But my brain calmed down.

She was way too lovely for any of that. Though, talking of vital organs, she may later take my heart and –

WAITspoiler-alert

Getting a little ahead of ourselves. Can we go back to talking about ice cream? No 😦

We had a really great few days. I felt a connection with her that I hadn’t felt before, she genuinely seemed to like me for me, as opposed to the accessory/tall escort/male company/broad-and-a-little-boney shoulder to cry on stigma that I feel.

Shame she lived about 150 odd miles away.

Bit of a stretch. I could just about handle that. Her smile was worth it.

She then decided to go to University 200 miles away.

After talking again, with us both confused on what this was and where we stood with each other, I got the feeling there was something more between us than an extended holiday romance. She asked me again to come up and visit her at her University residence – a student village – in Swansea

I met her at the station a month later, and it was like time stopped for a while. I’d not be so excited to see someone before. She made a lot of effort to look pristine and glowy, and it was good to feel wanted.

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Typical Student Decor

I was terrified of going to her student halls. Drinking Games. Freshers debauchery. Smart Price Taglitelli. Chunder charts!

However, I had nothing to worry about. Apart from the a haunting peculiar smell in the stairwell, and fire doors that closed super-loudly, I mixed into the student experience well. Hell, my initiation into Ring of Fire ended up with me taking on the entire glass of shitmix as I think I got the last queen in the pack. Ribena later on had to drink a load of it, and I took one for the team for her on her behalf. There’s nothing like realizing you like someone when deciding to down their benevolent mixture of  Imperial vodka, Red-flavoured Fanta Twist and Apple Sourz.

Luckily I didn’t earn a place on the chunder chart and my liver remained functional.

Our adventures included restaurants, shopping, cinema. She introduced me to Chiquitos and Danepak bacon, what’s not to like? She’d casually missed lectures just to lie next to me and we’d eventually stumble outside in the afternoon sun. We walked hand in hand with almost matching sunglasses. We even cooked together.*

(*well at the stage in my culinary pursuits I was more of a washer and dryer/sous chef)

We had conversations about food, travelling, emotional things, television.. it was so easy to talk to her. There were even tepid discussions about baby names.
(I’m stealing your suggestion of Atlanta, sorry not sorry.)

One time I almost wept into tears after seeing a video of my late grandmother that I’d not seen before, and she held me whilst I recuperated into a more manly composure.

*MUSH ALERT.*wierd-couple-bench

Cynics leave. I’m aware people will destroy me with mockery at the following effeminate confessions. But a charming 1% of people will find the following quite heartfelt, even if they are slightly snorting with the giggles whilst drinking blog friendly pop.

We’re heading back to the original question. (LOVEEE)

I felt so happy with her. A complete cynic of anything remotely romantic, I found myself doing cringey things such as using pet names (it was babe in this case), sentimental cards pack full of sweetness and even once giving her chocolate hearts, slightly mushed after hiding them in my pocket. I never thought I was this type of person, but when you meet someone special, it just happens.

One night after a mixture of shopping, eating, and various coupley moments,  we placed a candle on the table, it’s flame bouncing slightly in the small amount of Welsh wind that streamed through the window. The trees in the cool breeze of the campus outside were gently dancing. The hollering of distant games of ring of fire, beer pong and never have I ever were practically silent on the cool October eve.

I faced her on the bed and held her hands. I felt a little fuzzy. I tried to maintain some cool composure and said:

“I feel something.. I don’t know what it is, like I’ve not felt before.’

I felt slightly disconcerted of what she was going to respond with.

She looked at me, her eyes longingly looking at mine. She shyly replied:

“Rupert…I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Her words melted me, and I could see the conviction behind them.

At that moment, everything stopped except us.

And we kissed, and suddenly everything was amazing.

 

(1) For people who have grown up in a Disney-esque upbringing, and are probably wearing a Cinderella ball gown whilst reading this on the iPhone or Tablet, then –

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(2) For jaded people who realise the harsh realities of long distance relationships etc, there will be a part 2.

 

Other topics:
Trump | Jobs | Teenager | Urbexing | Valentines | First Girlfriend | Catfish | The Incident | Paris | Nan | The Bedroom Embarrassment | Living with students

Currently breaking the Internet at Facebook | Instagram | Twitter |

I’m now on Youtube !

I’m raising money for charity and achieving goals at http://rupertsresolutions.tumblr.com