someone I wanted to lose my snogging virginity to.
Crushes are such strange things, and more often than not, they can go horribly wrong. If I ever have kids I will tell them not to stare at someone you like, which I was guilty of. I was a fortified starer. When I was a bit older I also had a habit of drawing hearts and putting mine and a girl’s name inside. Trust me, that was cool in the 90s.
Olivia was the first girl I properly snogged, but I can’t remember it in much detail. I remember that we were in the living room at my mum’s house during a weekend break, and I was desperate to kiss Olivia. The only problem was that Ricky was also there. He was one of my best friends at the time, so we took turns going behind the sofa to snog Olivia. Which now sounds very slutty …
I was horrified that Olivia spent more time kissing Ricky than me. He had already kissed Melanie Bell three times so he should have at least let me take the lead on this one. Heartbreak number two. I blame Ricky for tainting my first kissing experience and I’m not sure I’ll ever truly be able to forgive him. I know he lives in America now, so at least he’s on another continent …
I honestly couldn’t tell you whether or not that first kiss was a good one, but I’m pretty damn sure it was awful. It’s entirely possible I’ve blocked it all out in the name of self-preservation and not to harm my ever-so-fragile ego. I suspect I used the dreaded ‘washing machine’ technique favoured by so many, or even the infamous poker kiss, or, my favourite, the face licker. These days I pride myself on being a reasonable kisser. I’ve had nearly 15 years of practice, so if I was still crap I should probably retire now!
None of us really knew what we were doing back then, so we just opened our mouths, moved our tongues around a bit and hoped for the best.
I continued to spend a lot of time with Olivia and had become so smitten with her that I even tried to ride a bike without stabilisers past her house to impress her, but sadly I would often fall off my bike and look like a twat.
She really fancied this guy called Ben Ridgeway, who was by far the coolest guy at school and I envied everything he had. His father was one of the heads of Virgin Atlantic and he had beautiful older sisters. But above all, he had a centre parting, which was the epitome of cool in the mid-90s.
If you could train your hair to have a centre parting in 1995 you pretty much had girls on tap. For the best part of a year I worked on training my hair so I could look more like Ben, and convince Olivia that I was every bit as cool as him. Annoyingly, even now, in 2013, if I let my hair fall naturally it will go straight into a centre parting, making me look like a complete bell end, because I was so persistent with training it.
Olivia went through the whole of school as the popular girl, and even though I was a loser, the fact that I knew her out of school raised my coolness stake. Even though I never did get to make her my girlfriend, we became best friends and I always loved her. When we reached our mid-teens we made a pact that we would lose our virginity to each other in a caravan my mum owns in Cornwall – it’s more romantic than it may sound.
We never did have sex. If only it had happened. Maybe then I would have been able to avoid the horror of what happened on that fateful day when I eventually had sex for the first time. I still shudder slightly at the thought of it. Don’t worry, we’ll come on to that a bit later.
Although we don’t see that much of each other now, I still speak to Olivia and she occasionally comes to stay in my flat in London, and she will always sleep in my bed. I don’t love her any more in that way. In fact, we help one another through all our relationship trials and tribulations. I can’t imagine not having her in my life, though we never discuss how much I used to love her. I’m hoping she’s forgotten about it all by now.
It’s funny how some people you meet when you’re young will later shape your future, whereas others you swear to stay friends with forever seem to disappear off the face of the earth once you all grow up. I still bump into people from my schooldays around Chelsea night clubs, and although I have done the drunken polite exchange of numbers and promise of a drink many times, we both know that the moment’s passed and we probably no longer have anything in common. Or, to be honest, we weren’t that good friends back then so why would we be any better friends now?
My tenth year was something of a disaster all round when it came to the opposite sex, as it was also the first time I ever got slapped by a girl. It was a real slap, like the ones they give out in EastEnders, and unfortunately it wasn’t the last.
The girl in question was called Hermione Little, and looking back now she was very overdeveloped for her age. Hermione had boobs by the time she was 10 and it was all the boys could talk about. We all thought she was beautiful back then, and my sister tells me she still is. I was completely intimidated by her – everyone was – but I didn’t let that put me off pathetically trying to flirt with her.
One evening before the bell for bedtime rang she was on the payphone to her mum. I was waiting in the queue behind her, feeling really homesick and desperate to talk to my own mother before bed.
Hermione was taking forever so I tried to hurry her up by banging on the door. She stormed out of the phone box, turned around and slapped me clean across the face. I was in total shock, but at the same time I rather enjoyed it. I had never seen anyone be slapped before, or been on the receiving end of one. It was the stuff of movies, like a glamorous 80s film with me in the role of the handsome phone-hassling hunk.
All other poor attempts at seduction were soon forgotten the moment I first saw Jemima Hoare (I’ve always pitied her name. Her teenage school years must have been a fucking pain in the ass).
Everyone else paled into insignificance. After lots of long looks, fluttering eyelashes and love notes across the classroom (all from me), I finally persuaded her to become my girlfriend. Yes, at the tender age of 10, I had found ‘The One’.
I wanted everyone to know that we were ‘going out’ with each other and that I was in a very serious, grown-up relationship. As a result I insisted that we kissed every time we saw each other so that other people knew we were both off the market and that Hoare was mine.
I don’t think she was particularly interested in me if I’m being honest. I think she mainly liked me because I was quite the rollerblader. But I also wanted her to like me for my dazzling looks and sparkling personality, neither of which I was blessed with at the time. I had half a centre-parting and half a bowl haircut, no family money, and I was weirdly obsessed with goldfish. Quite the catch, I was!
As soon as school finished I used to put my blades on and go outside the design technology block to the big open car park with my friends and we’d spend as long as we possibly could blading. Jemima always used to come and watch me and I am very happy to admit that I showed off massively to impress her.
We only ‘went out’ for about three weeks, but it seemed like forever back then. We broke up following an argument after I mistakenly snapped her favourite pencil. It had a troll on the top and everything so I think she felt she was left with no choice but to dump me. I was devastated, and humiliated. Heartbreak number three.
Most of the other pupils in my year had brothers and sisters who were older, so we were taking our lead from them and snogging anyone we could. I was on the rebound as a snoggingly active 10-year-old. We used to go to the local woods to run around and play kiss chase and anything else that gave us an excuse to kiss each other. I remember our teachers warning us to be careful because local yobs may be lurking in the woods. Yes, that’s how posh my school was. But I was more scared about ‘our’ girls falling for those ‘yobs’ than being beaten up by them.
There was a lot of integration between the girls and boys at my school. I wasn’t sporty and I wasn’t wealthy like some of my dorm mates. All in all, I didn’t feel like I had a lot going for me. I was also a big crier and used to get upset a lot. My only saving grace was that I wasn’t anywhere near as bad as Paul Flynn when it came to the tears. He literally cried at everything. Even if he was late for a class he’d be sobbing in the hallway. I looked like Vin Diesel in comparison. For that reason, I will always be grateful to him.
Even though