So, the book is the things on this site, in book form, then?
NO, NO, NO, NO. Nothing that's in the book has ever appeared on this site – the book's a novel.
How did you and Margret meet?
Yes, I get asked this an awful lot. And here's the thing... there's no movie-script story to it. She didn't crash a truck into my house, we weren't matched by a War Games-style 'computer dating' computer that had spontaneously gained sentience and was now pursuing its own agenda, it wasn't some kind of Stockholm Syndrome affair where I fell for her after she held me hostage during a bank heist gone wrong. Really, it was all very low-key. Perhaps I'll cover it in one of the Mailing List mails one day, maybe.
Are you and Margret still together?
Lord yes. As I've said before, the secret of a successful relationship is to become irretrievably embroiled in a bitter struggle to the death. Anyway, if we weren't still together the title of the page would be Things My Former Girlfriend And I Argued About. Which, admittedly, would be a shame as it would mean losing the snappy acronym TMGAIHAA in favour of the clumsy and crashingly uneuphonic TMFGAIAA.
Will you send me some pictures of Margret naked?
Oddly enough, no.
I'm a twenty-two year old woman with jet black hair – can I send you some photos of me naked then?
Tsk, all right then, I suppose so. But just twenty or thirty – and nothing involving goats, understood?
Oh, OK, you can include one with the goats. But just the one and that's it.
Is the stuff on the page made up?
No. And yes. And 'haven't we covered this already?' It's absolutely all based on real incidents, but my only concern is to be funny for my own idle amusement: I'm writing humourous anecdotes here, not compiling reports for the news. But then, if you didn't realise that already, then you won't be reading this anyway, because you'll have headed straight to the Guestbook to share you perceptive insights with the world.
What does Margret have to say about the page?
Mostly she doesn't bother about it – it's an Internet thing (Margret on the Internet: 'It's rubbish.'). She does read it every so often, though, and thinks it's funny. Margret, you see, unlike some people, is smart, understands English – subtexts and all – and has a sense of humour. We've only ever had two arguments about the page and they were minor. By which, naturally, I mean that they were screaming, howling rows lasting about three hours each, but they were minor by our standards (they were also about things so tiny and incidental that no one else would have even noticed them, let alone managed to fan them into a row). The last time she read the page her only comment was 'You're such a liar.' Which she later modified to 'Oh. Right. I'd forgotten about that.' It is true, however, that lately, after she's done something Margret-like – trying to reverse the car over me or whatever – she has taken to saying, 'I suppose you're going to put that up on your page now, aren't you?' To which my reply, naturally, is, 'Darling – it's not my page, it's our page.'
This is a microcosm of all relationships, isn't it?
Nope, it's just about Margret and me. Some of you men might think you're in the similar situations, but, well, OK, go back to the earlier days your relationships. Did you ever have an argument with your girlfriend that resulted in her throwing you out of her flat and locking the door? Leaving you in a rather tricky situation regarding how to get home? There you go, then. We're similar there. Now, was it winter? Were you naked apart from a cotton t-shirt? And were you standing somewhere along the Swiss-German border? I do believe, however, that arguments – about stupid things – are not simply normal in long-term relationship, but actually a sign of intimacy. People only have these idiot rows with people they are genuinely close to: partners, siblings, parents. It takes time and real love to discover where someone's buttons are: but then you can happily push them until one or the other of you is institutionalised.
But also, it has to be said, regarding generalities – this:
Many years ago I was sitting watching a music show with my girlfriend of the time. Culture Club came on – it was their first TV performance, I think. After about fifteen seconds, Former Girlfriend punched my arm, hard.
Me: 'Ow – what was that for?'
Former Girlfriend: 'Because you fancy her.'
Me: 'Her? Who?'
Former Girlfriend: [pointing] 'Her.'
Me: 'That's a him. It's Boy George.'
Former Girlfriend: 'Oh. Right... Well, you'd fancy him if her were a woman – he's
