Don't look back in Anger

When you look back over your romantic history: the fumbling snogs of youth, the drunken sex of your 20s (just me then?) the love affairs in your 30s etc etc - you always remember the really HOT ones, don't you? The ones that caused you to do all kinds of weird things - like pretend to be interested in a band you hated, or going to a bar because you knew they'd be there, or arranging to film a male model for a day for a feature on the fashion show you worked on, because you were basically stalking them (oh, just me again...). The ones that stick in your memory because they were so damn cute that if you didn't snog the face off them, then you would have died right there on the spot.

Now in my time, I have (thank you god) kissed a couple of hot guys. Obviously in my mind, they were all hot - or at least looked luke warm after I'd sunk enough tequila. But I have a kind of list in my head of 3 that were particularly gorgeous - whom I am most proud to have locked lips with.

I was discussing this at work the other day with a colleague, and launched into the tale of the boy I would have put at a very respectable NUMBER 3. His name was Matt, and I met him when he was 16 and I was 18 - the summer of '91. Smack bang in the middle of my A-levels. When I should have been studying for exams.  

Instead, my Mum mentioned that there was some tennis tournament on down at the local tennis club, and the books immediately took a back seat. For a hick from Belfast, to suddenly be surrounded by all these strapping tanned tennis gods from all across the globe - it was well worth chucking Hamlet to one side for an evening. I dragged my mate Jules along and pitched up at the club. I noticed him immediately. Swarthy, with twinkly brown peepers, cow like lashes, blonde hair that flopped to one side and with a cheeky grin - he was so freakin' hot! I could barely look at him. Now, around boys I fancy, I get all tongue-tied and bumbling and my palms sweat. So when he joined our table and chatted away in his soft cockney tones, I barely glanced in his direction. I seem to remember my Mum dropping him and his mates at their hotel and he asked for my number. (This in itself was a miracle - as this is me pre-dental work, with bad hair). 

We traded calls the next day - me shoving 10 and 20p pieces into the payphone at school... eventually arranging to meet that night at the Eglantine Inn - a pub across the road from my school.

He stood me up. 

I was FURIOUS. Later he told me he'd been on court until 9:30 and couldn't call me (damn those mobile phones for not being invented yet) and so had gone for a KFC bucket. This - the mere fact he chose greasy chicken over me, should have been my wake up call.

But no, I pursued him even harder. 

The day after was Saturday (oh yeah, it's all in my diary too - tragically) and I left the library and headed to the same squash and tennis club where I was working behind the bar that night. He appeared and I blanked him. That'll show him eh? He blanked me back. Hadn't counted on that one... So I hung around, pretending to chat to my friends, until finally, he apologised and I forgave him in a heartbeat. (I want to go back and slap my younger self, but that was then...).

He spent all evening propping up the bar where I served and trying to get me on the dance floor. Some girls flirted with him but he turned away quickly, focusing all his attention on me. Instead of glass collecting, i was too busy giving him free beer... He was flying back to London the following day - he lived in Woodford - and he invited me back to his hotel when I finished my bar shift. I had an A level in Eng lit that Monday to study for and he had STOOD ME UP.

Off I went. 

I kissed that boy for an entire night (but nothing more I add). He had soft stubble that eventually felt like it was scrubbing off my chin - but no matter - who cares about stubble rash when you are kissing such a hot boy!! He gave me his number, kissed me goodbye, (Ow!) wished me well and told me to look him up when I went to Uni in London the following term. 

I was smitten. Until weird blisters appeared in my chin that evening, and then more and more. He gave me what rugby players call scrum pox - impetigo. Nice. My Dr told me it was the 'kisser's infection.' I had to go into school with my chin covered in cream and my mates pissed themselves at me... Nice parting gift, I agree.

Worse still, he had given me... the wrong number. Oh yes. He hadn't wanted to see me in London again after all. Which he kind of made clear, when I bumped into him at Wimbeldon a few weeks later. He was playing Wimbeldon boys and looked surprised to see me. Not in a good surprised way either. As in a 'what the hell are you doing here?' way. 

The impetigo cleared in a few days. I got an A in my English A level. The boys in Belfast seemed dull in comparison... 

I never forgot Matt. His big brown eyes and his cheeky grin. His sharp cheekbones and his floppy fringe. Until this week. When my colleague, who heard this sad tale, decided to look him up. Bless her. 

And here he is, today, as a tennis coach.....

HE WAS MY NUMBER 3!!!!!!!!!

I mean seriously! What happened?? Who does he remind you of? Oh that'll be......

Greg Wallace from Masterchef. In fact Greg looks better!!!

The moral of the story is this: Never tell anyone about the hot boys/girls of your youth as they most certainly do not look that hot NOW. Or if they look even hotter, that is almost worse, no?

I now feel much much happier that he never gave me the correct last digit to his number, and even more bitter about the impetigo. Will I be asking him for tennis coaching? That, would be a resounding.... No.