Coldplay, ketamine and how to use a bum shower as a weapon
By Terri Cramer
Reading time: 5 mins
My 21st birthday was a bit of a mixed bag. After four months galavanting around Asia, I was feeling on top of the world. My confidence was sky high. There was just one problem. Back in England I’d left behind my total dickhead of a boyfriend.
Before I left the UK I was in my first year of uni in Bristol and after a few short-lived flings in my halls, I’d met a guy in the flat below who was a bit troubled and totally self-obsessed. In my consistently less-than-sober state, I’d decided that he was the one for me. I was in love with Johnny Flynn at the time, and this guy reminded me of him, so that was enough to sweep me off my feet.
He had this kinda scruffy look so I assumed he was as skint as I was, but when he took me to meet the parents, I realised that he was one of those fake hippies who are actually mega rich. His family owned this incredible mansion in the Welsh countryside. It even had its own maze. Yet he chose to wear clothes that looked like they’d been handed down a few generations, and ate out-of-date food that he’d foraged from bins in the night. I remember having to tell him once that he couldn’t wear a pair of mud stained checkered chefs trousers to meet my parents. The worst thing about his style was that he had this weird ratty braid thing in his hair, which I eventually cut off later in the relationship when the disgust got too much.
We spent a few summer weekends at the mansion swimming in the river and strolling through the hills with the dogs and despite his flaws, I was actually smitten. He was really romantic and impulsive, and at first it felt like a fairytale. I got to know his family and friends, and they seemed to love me. But bliss didn’t last long. He dropped out of uni, moved back home and started to unravel in a combination of k-holes and threatening calls in the middle of the night about how he couldn’t lose me. And honestly, there’s nothing less attractive than your boyfriend tripping over his own feet and slurring that he loves you while doing fat lines of ketamine.
Luckily I’d had my trip to Asia booked for a while so in my mind that was my ticket to freedom, but before I left he booked a flight to visit me at the end of my trip so we could be together for my 21st. I wasn’t chuffed about this, but I kinda hoped he’d let our relationship die over the next few months and that I’d never really have to see him again. I took the ‘ignore him and he’ll go away’ approach.
As I was saying goodbye to him he gave me an envelope and told me to open it on the plane and said he ‘hoped I wouldn’t cry too hard.’ I opened it immediately after he left to find a four page love letter telling me again that he’d ‘never let me go’, and a photograph of him to look at when I was homesick where he looked particularly stoned. I didn’t cry. I shuddered and shoved it back in the envelope.
Anyway, fast forward four months into my trip and I was having an absolute ball. I’d done some things I maybe shouldn’t have – including a sneaky whirlwind romance in Laos with a guy who was incredibly attentive and then never spoke to me again. And I’d realised that at this point in my early 20s, that’s all I actually wanted from anyone. But, my assumption that my obsessive boyfriend back home would just disappear hadn’t worked out. He sent me non stop messages and insisted on knowing what I was doing the entire time. It was almost time for his visit.
I’d chosen the Gili Islands as the place to spend my birthday as it had incredible beaches and plenty of booze. In theory it should have been perfect. He’d been insisting on booking somewhere really nice to stay for a couple of nights as a treat as I’d been slumming it in hostels for months, but when he arrived I found out he hadn’t actually sorted anything. We traipsed around in the sweltering heat with my backpack from place to place until I was ready to collapse and then picked a crappy beach hut. He was pissed off that I hadn’t done any research but I was just happy to lie in an air conditioned room.
In the build up to coming to visit he’d gone on and on about this present he got me and how it was the best present EVER. I was a bit puzzled because there wasn’t anything I really wanted that much and I hadn’t given any hints. Once we were settled in our crap shack he passed me an envelope with a huge grin on his face and I tore it open feeling excited and scared in equal measures. The gift was honestly the worst I’ve ever received. Two tickets to see Coldplay live in London. Coldplay. Live. That’s when I knew I really fucking hated this guy. I had to break it off. I couldn’t go to watch Coldplay with him.
That evening we got dressed up for my birthday night out and headed out to the bars. I started necking shots immediately to try and numb the pain of listening to his incessant whining all evening. The storm from earlier in the day was still raging on and we were now wading in ankle deep water in the beach bar. He kept insisting we needed to go home because of the weather but I wasn’t having any of it. I was going to have a good night. As I did my final tequila shot I managed to projectile vomit over the bar in the direction of the hot Australian bartender. My boyfriend dragged me off by the wrist like a naughty child to put me to bed.
But I didn’t go to bed.
I went completely feral.
Soaked from the rain I ran into the bathroom of our hut and locked the door. I decided I needed to take off my wet clothes immediately and in my drunken state I fell, and knocked the little shower thing off the wall by the toilet that you are supposed to use to wash your bum. It fell on the floor wouldn’t turn off and started spraying everywhere. He was on the other side of the door shouting at me to open it and asking me what all the commotion was about.
I thought that this seemed like the perfect time to tell him what I really thought of him. Naked and wrestling the bum shower I told him, very loudly, that I actually hated him and I wished he’d never come to see me. I imagined he’d go away but instead he kicked the door in.
The scene must have been pretty hilarious when I think back to it. I don’t know why I didn’t just do the normal person thing and go to bed angry and discuss it in the morning. But I was totally fucking wasted so instead of just giving up the fight and going to sleep I gave it one last bit of energy and tried to use the bum shower as a weapon. I hid around the corner of the shower and sprayed it at him, as if that would make any difference.
And that’s the last thing I remember of my 21st birthday.
I woke up the next morning in a soaking wet bed on my own with a serious headache. It hadn’t quite dawned on me what had occurred but as I ran into the bathroom to throw up I saw the bum shower on the floor and remembered what had happened.
I saw that all his stuff was still in the room so I went outside to check if he was there. He was reading Kurt Cobain’s biography in his shorts and said he wasn’t going to talk to me until I apologised. I didn’t.
It was a long flight home.
