Thanks England, you complete and utter bastards. I waited four long years to see you and then you do this to me.
My mistake was in getting involved with you again. I knew I shouldn’t. I’m too old, I told myself, to get sucked in to this nonsense again – you’ve broken my heart too many times before. But I keep coming back for more. I’m like one of those women who can't resist boomeranging back to a rotten relationship with the same old wanker. He’s changed, I hear myself telling my friends. This time, he promises to be good to me. I’m pathetic. Leave it, they say: “England’s not worth it.”
You know what it’s like though. You haven’t seen them for ages – well not at a big party like this. They’re looking good, dressed in white and acting all cocky and there’s that old charm that’s impossible to resist. You have a few drinks and all your resolve disappears along with your inhibitions, and then before you know it you’re calling their name. Over and over and over again. It feels so right – how could it possible go wrong?
It’s just like the old days and you revel in it because it makes you feel young again. Of course nothing can beat that first time. You thought they were the greatest thing in the world and really believed that this relationship would actually go somewhere. It wouldn’t just be a summer holiday fling but something you would both cherish forever.
Before you know it you’re calling their name. Over and over and over again.
But inevitably after a few weeks of fun in the sun they start behaving differently; like they don’t want to be with you anymore. You’re desperately trying to make it work but they don’t look interested. You get angry and shout and scream at them in frustration but none of it makes any difference. Then inevitably after a terrible fight one night, they slink off. Fly home without even a goodbye, leaving you angry and crying and complaining to your friends. Leaving you with a bad taste in your mouth: bitter salted tears mixed with stale lager.