Goodbye James
It’s the North London Derby today and it’s Remembrance Day, so it should be no surprise that you would show up, James. Interrupting my delicious sex dream with your criticism on my technique was a bit over the top though, even for you old mate.
When we were lads together, Remembrance Day was a massive deal to you. I remember thinking you had so much reverence for the men, but I know now the only reverence you had was for the war itself.
As for the Derby, even though you were a Toffee fan, on Derby days you’d take up the cause with me and cheer for my Gunners. We could rant against the Spuds together, and we did it well. Remember the time in the pub when we told those Spuds fans we’d buy them dinner if they won? Thank fuck that didn't happen, because we had maybe a fiver between us.
You’re not supposed to be here in my head any more. I went away to Australia to learn new ways to prevent that from happening. Can you fucking believe that? I went to fucking Australia to deal with my post-traumatic stress. The length of pain and reign of terror you've caused knows no end.
Your actions and my mind — they don’t mix well together. Like Chambord and Guinness. Nauseating. For nearly a decade.
But remember — yeah, fuck yeah, I still remember. Chasing Spuds fans down alleyways, singing Gunners songs at the top of our lungs, and sneaking fags at half-time. You and me, James, we had us some childhood times. But we grew up and we made some difficult adult decisions that changed us.
So it’s time James. Time for me to walk away and leave those memories. Permanently. They do me no good. I can’t waste the energy on hating you any more. I can’t waste the energy on the past; I have a future I’m planning.
So yeah — go Gunners. Kick some Spuds. And remember the future is ahead not behind.
