Bad Boyfriend A-Z.... 'A is for Absenteeism'

Elmonalissabeth's bad boyfriend A-Z

The following is a handy in-depth guide to bad boyfriend behaviour. It is entirely based my lived experiences. In writing this I discovered A-Z doesn't cover everything, for example... B has been tricky (beer, barmaids, bums, bellybutton fluff, bitching, beastiality). 

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

Disclaimer - if you happen to notice any of these traits in your own bad boyfriend, I would advise you start planning a handy escape fund, perhaps 50 quid a week or so, so when you finally come to your senses and realise his lack of full potential, or the fact that you will never change him, or you find that photo of a minge on his blackberry, or he admits he'd like to kill you... You can easily escape with enough cash to rent a secret hotel until the coast is clear!  Saying that, if cash is tight, get down to the council on the next Monday morning, they can set you up a nice safe house... With a crime reference number of course.

Disclaimer 2.... I am blogging about real men... real experiences, and even though most of these guys deserve a name and shame, that's not what this is about, so I have changed everyones names, some particular boyfriends have several new names... (I have suffered a tragic love life, but have not had 26 boyfriends).  I must add that 'A' discusses the behaviour of 'Rick'... now... I have a mate called Rick...


Dear Rick...

Although we all know you like a cider... and there are many occassions where you have no relocollection of what you did the night before... we have never dated and this is not about you, I love you to bits, but due to your continued comsumption of ale and pork scatchins we will never be compatible.

'Absenteeism'

You are at home, Eastenders is on and you are nursing a glass of Pinot, in the smug knowledge you have the whole sofa to yourself. His dinner is in the oven because he had to rush to his poorly mums, she was out of painkillers and needed a hug from her best son. He said he'll be home by 9, and that's cool, all he does is hog the tele and fart anyway.

It's 10pm, you call him. He doesn't answer.

                              Some years ago he would have seen this on his mobile telephone.

It's 10.45pm, you call his mum to make sure he hasn't died on the way home.

"Alright Brenda, where's Rick, he said he was popping up with your painkillers and he's not home yet", you casually enquire.

"what are you talking about, I've been at Doris's Ann Summers party all evening I just got home" says Brenda.

(GILFS IN LATEX.... WHERE IS HE.... GILFS PLAYING PASS THE DILDO.... WHERE IS HE.... REALISATION THAT YOU ARE MILF AGE... IF HE'S IN THAT PUB.... vomit enters mouth.... )

                                                  Never let me get a perm like this.

*calmly hang up the phone.... put pinot down on side... take deep breath...*

FUCKING PRICK!

So where is he?! Is he actually dead... 

"I hope he's dead...."

11.45pm you call again and he answers...

"Alright Rick, hows your Mum?!"

"Oh yeh she's alright so I popped out for a pint on the way home" - He says without one single frickin ounce of guiltyness.

                                                          But I don't even drink?

"You are so fucking dead"

".....'ere love could you leave a tenner out for my lunch tomorrow"

"Why?"

"Ahhh well, I kinda owed a mate a few quid and I can't find my bank card"

"Are you playing poker???"

"nah.., I'm done with all that, it's for mugs"

"Oh right because Kates out and she saw you" (obvious bluff)

"Oh right... well yeh I did have a few games yeh"

"Screw your tenner". Hang up phone. 

 *kick washing machine*

                                          He's rolling doubles again....

4am

VERY LOUD DOOR KNOCKING

... You open door, you shouldn't but your too eager to knock his stupid face off.
 

"Alright darlin, want some kebab it's extra garlicy".  Said with a big stupid grin and rolly eyes whilst swaying like a erm... Massive dickhead.

He proceeds towards the toilet where he spends the next 15 minutes trying to piss and eat kebab at the same time, some might call this multi-tasking but I just call it, being a humongous cockjockey.

You make him sleep on the sofa, which in turn smells 'extra garlicy' and of fart for the next 10 days. You hate his guts. You wish you had taken that smelly sofa with said pissed boyfriend still comatosed on it and dropped it in a giant 3-piece-suite sized grave in the back garden...  You get the picture....

Look at this idiot I found on google images... why the hell didn't I ever do this?  The opportunities were abundant.

                                            Wrap 'em in plastic and drop 'em in a hole.

It doesn't get better. You end up going out one night to find him leering over a dirty barmaid whom everyone knows has syphillis.

                                          Head in vice anyone?

Trust me it never gets better.

Let's move on... It gets better than this... trust me I'm still in therapy :/

Muchos Lovos from EL xxxx

This book thing...

Every time I find myself single, somebody says....

"Hey.. You should write a book"

It's almost as if my life is just one more chapter of Bridgett Fucking Jone's diary... by the way... I have never read that book, and find the films absolutely horrendous viewing.... perhaps because I can relate a little too much... perhaps it's just because they are actually shit, who knows.

Hugh Grant does my head in and if he came to me with a blank cheque for 40 million quid and a whole farm of kittens, and the promise of my life exactly how I pictured it before I became disillusioned and bitter, I would without question send him packing... Bye Hugh... bye love.... off you pop.....

As for the other bloke... he would get it, but only after a couple of pinots and I couldn't see it happening as a long term arrangement.

Rennee Zellweggerrrrr... well... I'm not convinced by the whole 'I'm quite happy to play a fat chick.... just so long as I'm back to a zero for the red carpet attitude'.  Wench.  I did like her chicken strangling in Cold Mountain though.. best part of the whole epic wrist-slittingly endurance.

You know, yesterday  went for a drink with an old friend (well a diet coke to be exact due to embarking on the craziest pre-acting in an amateur musical diet - I have ever encountered - another story), and we discussed this hitting 30's single, tragic turn of events stuff... it's sad you know, when people around you are all 'grown up' and they all have perfect little families and marriages and white picket fences and you have found yourself continually shelved for what seems like no reason at all.  It hurts, it hurts a lot.  Sometimes I really don't get it, like what is so wrong with me?  People tell me how I am kind, caring, honest, good looking, funny, talented... etc... etc...

This is all very difficult to believe when you wake up alone, with nobody to say good morning to, or if there is somebody to say good morning to, you know it won't last. 

I think I have finally reached a place where I kow that my life is different, that it will not feature white picket fences and 2.4 children and a run of gerbils, and maybe that is something to embrace? 

I have this... potential.. date lined up for the weekend, and the sensible part of me is saying it's way too soon, but the creative, energetic spirit inside of me is telling me to get back out there.... just meet people, make friends.  Hiding in my flat at 31 is not going to give me anything excitng to blog about is it!

Here's to the future *as I toast you with a diet coke*

EL xxx