No, Phil you didn’t meet me in a cocktail bar working as a waitress. We bumped into each other in Sefton Park one Sunday lunchtime after I’d been waking the dog from its slumbers by trying to encourage it to jump into the lake and retrieve a large log I had lobbed in minutes earlier.
It wasn’t having any of it though. It just sat at the lakeside, staring off into the mid-distance trying to avoid my eyes. A bit like you Phil.
So, whilst I was doing the barking and yapping in an attempt to enthuse my hound, you just rode by doing a wheelie on that bike of yours, showing off as you are wont to do. Didn’t last long though did it? One look in my direction and you toppled over backwards onto the leaf slush at the edge of the lake.
Why didn’t you just ride on? Instead you tried talking at me, impressing me with your lack of knowledge of the local road system and the short cuts from A to B but which weren’t short cuts at all but just dead ends, leading us no-where but just going around in ever decreasing circles. A bit like you and me, Phil.
A cyclist you might be; a taxi driver you claimed to be; but a song writer? Never, Phil, never in a million years were you ever gonna be a song writer.
But then what do I know? I was just a waitress in a cocktail bar when I met you so obviously knew nothing.
Apart from what day of the week it was, where my shoes were stored and which end of my bank account was which. Again, unlike you Phil.
You may well have lived the high life of Sheffield pop god who made it good in the city for a few years, who emigrated to the big desert on the west coast and who had a voice which melted the coldest of hearts and who led me to understand ennui: but you were hopeless when it came to managing my feelings and looking after my dog. Why was that, Phil?
You may well have known about the things that dreams are made of Phil, but more often than not, your dreams became my nightmares; your sound of the crowd became my deafening din and your love action was my cue to pack my bags and hotfoot it out of town.
I didn’t realise you’d miss me so much that you’d pester me to death with those trite song titles and effervescent bass lines just to keep my attention. So enough was enough Phil and today’s the day where I’ve looked hard at the man in the mirror and realised I’ve stopped feeling the fascination.
There – you’ve got me at it too now Phil: quoting your songs back at you whilst you lay on that slab in front of me with that knife sticking out of your chest, slightly quivering in the evening breeze.
But I’ve waited for this moment for years and have at last found peace, free from your perpetually mournful doleful eyes and lopsided haircut which used to scare my mum. No, Phil. I don’t want you any more.