I WAS THINKING about a lad I was friends with at sixth form college. He had a rare charisma, both naughty and academically clever, a kind of Mancunian lad that was new to me after arriving from a depressed Catholic comprehensive in the middle of Europe’s largest council estate where brightness manifested itself mostly without a library card. He looked like he could handle himself in a fight and answer the questions on Blockbusters. We sat next to each other on our first day of A-level Law class. After three weeks, we’d save seats for one another. He’d always say the same thing when I sat down. “Alright, handsome.” By week four, I’d even learned how not to blush at it. After two years, he got an A. I got a B.
By 17, I could spot the difference between the young men distractedly catching my attention who were already sexually experienced and those who weren’t. He didn’t talk about it much but had that sensational first swagger that suggested, yep, he definitely was. We argued about music, films, where we were going that weekend and what we’d wear. He was my Inbetweeners buddy. I told him a good place to get his hair cut in town. He laughed at me for not caring about football, an oppositional distance I’d cultivated largely to delineate a comfortable emotional gap between me and my dad so as to avert attention away from the uncomfortable one. I laughed at him for loving U2.