The world is shrinking. I’m just a simpleton without an astrophysics degree, so maybe it’s also expanding. Let’s all agree on this instead: we live inside the internet-machine now. The internet-machine laughs in the face of city walls. We co-exist with an online and offline life. Offline, moving around is easier than ever before. You can fly from New York to London in six hours. The barriers which traditionally separated communities are being eroded. “Cool, I didn’t realise I’d clicked on an A-Level Sociology essay, isn’t this meant to be about sex, mate?”
I didn’t start having good sex until my early twenties. I lost my virginity at sixteen, complying with government legislation on the matter. I’d wrongly been led to believe that if I consensually did the sex before my sweet sixteenth, a police squad accompanied by a Channel 4 film crew would burst through my door. I’d be behind bars, watching myself star in the fictional documentary “Britain’s Teens: Young, Dumb and Full of Cum”, probably narrated by Dr Christian Jessen.
The friend zone isn’t real. You can’t jump on the number 18 bus, ride six stops to the friend zone and buy yourself a KFC Zinger meal. The friend zone is a fairytale and KFC has run out of chicken. Welcome to the world, baby. For the benefit of those without Google and my wide-eyed mother, I’ll quickly describe the friend zone.
At primary school, friendships were easy. You befriended the person who sat next to you in registration. This secured your bond for the next seven years through the alphabetical order of the British schooling system. You slowly killed your Tamagotchis together. You traded Pokémon cards illicitly on the playground. You stole pick ‘n mix from Woolworths, thus ensuring the collapse of the franchise. Then, breasts, Twitter and iPhones happened. We’re not on the playground anymore, Dorothy.
If you think about feet for too long, they start to look really strange. Why do we have this other pair of hands at the bottom of our legs? Why is my second toe stepping out of line and acting like it’s the big toe? Who are these people picking up pens with their toes and how do we kick them out of our homes?
The same is true of love. Stay with me.
Some kids on the World Wide Web refer to the number of sexual partners a person has had as their “body count”. When I discovered this, I wanted to delete today’s blog and just publish this sentence instead: the only time a body count is relevant is if somebody has died. Then I could have logged off, sipped on a sweet Rubicon and spent the rest of my afternoon watching Frasier instead.