Falling Out

GIVEN that the Scottish independence referendum is less than a week away, undoubtedly you’re all wondering what it feels like to be a leftish English middle-aged man at the moment.

Unfortunately, I am unable to carry out much in the way of polling beyond a very small sample of one, but I will do my best to enlighten you.

Several of you will tell me I am wrong, but, if anything, that will only prove my thesis. All I can say is that it is a good thing that I am unswerving in my opinion and always right.


It is as if your friend has gone off with somebody you two had always agreed was a bad ‘un, hanging around with a bad crowd. You know the type.

So you take her to the pub, and you say to her: “I can’t believe you’ve gone off with him, you know what his sort is like.”

But she patiently explains to you that your fears are groundless. “Oh, but he’s not like all the others. Not deep down. He’s different,” she trills.

But you know, deep down, that’s bollocks. So you end up arguing about it because you love your friend. But she’s in love, so there’s naff all you can do about it.

And in the end you fall out over this scoundrel, who you hope will treat her right, but know – absolutely know – is a bad ‘un.

Years later, you see her in the street, bearing four rings she didn’t have before, two on her finger, and two under her eyes. And you ask her how she is, and she says, “Oh, fine, fine…”

And you start talking again, but only to say hello in the street. Maybe you bump into each other at parties, but that’s all. You’re never proper friends again.

That’s what it feels like.