The London Paper  –  25 Aug 2008

It’s funny, isn’t it, how one minute you’re hurtling through life at a million miles an hour on the kind of high that would make Keith Richards call the paramedics and suddenly something stops you absolutely dead in your tracks. The other day, over a pint of Old Thumper at a Shepherds Bush hostelry, I was having a quiet chinwag with my ex-fiancé. We chatted about old times and I bragged away about the rollercoaster ride my life had become. I did notice she was only drinking mineral water and that the usually ubiquitous fag wasn’t in her gob but didn’t think too much about it. Suddenly, she pulled out the big gun and informed me that we she up the duff with her new fellah’s baby. God’s teeth! To say it was a bit of a shocker is akin to saying my football team QPR winning the League would be mildly surprising! I put a brave face on it and pretended everything was cool and the gang but, of course, once home cried until I could cry no more

It was, as I had told her a year ago it would be, both one of the happiest and saddest days of my life. It wasn’t just that I was reflective about how it could have been my offspring growing in her ever-expanding belly (although showing me the 3 months scan of a squashed frog was probably above and beyond the call of duty!) That she had fulfilled her dream of procreating with a man she loved caused me genuine tears of joy but, of course, they were tinged with sadness as I thought of what might have been had I not decided to make a rather controversial decision around 2½ years ago and knock the engagement on the head.

At the pub the ex explained to me how in many ways we had both gone on to achieve what we had always wanted – she was about to settle into family life and I had written the best-seller I’d always hoped for as well as achieving a Z list celebrity status that gave me the platform to bore the pants off people with my preposterous (though potentially world-saving!) views. It made me reflect about life’s priorities and, call me an old romantic, but I reckon she may have worked out what is more important to genuine fulfilment. Martin Luther’s old adage that ‘he who loves not wine, women and song remains a fool his whole life long’ has been dictating my life for over 2 years but, and I hate to admit this, obviously the only way to prolonged true happiness is to be in a loving relationship … perhaps involving the odd rug rat too.

Interestingly, I mentioned this recent development to my oldest pal and ruminated on the fact that life occasionally throws you the odd curveball. He looked up slowly and said: “No Gez, life is just a series of curve balls’. Hot dang … I fear he may have hit the nail on the head!

Thoughts ?

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