It hasn’t been read by tens of thousands of people – it’s been read by two hundred and fifty thousand. And I haven’t received hundreds of responses. I’ve received thousands.
Most have been just well-wishers. A few have been people taking the piss, because that’s how the world works.
But I’ve also had dozens and dozens of emails from people keen to tell me about their stories of heartbreak, and how they managed to move on with their lives.
It’s been quite incredible.
The last time I remember anything taking off online like this was that ‘Dry Hard’ thing last year. That went viral in a matter of days. I ended up interviewing the Temple family for Actual Life. They seemed nice, if a little bewildered by the whole experience.
It took a little longer for ‘Dumped Actually’ to gather any pace. For the first week or so, it was bumping along quite nicely, the way I thought it would. It certainly got a lot of clicks, but nothing that out of the ordinary for one of Actual Life’s more popular stories.
But then, inexplicably, after about a fortnight, it started to gather steam.
There’s some weird alchemy to the way social media and the internet work that I don’t for the life of me understand. One minute something can be just another feature in a sea of billions, and the next it can blow up – for no discernible reason.
Erica thinks it’s because what I’ve written is a fantastic piece of work, but I’m sure there’s something weirder and less tangible going on that none of us truly understand. There are probably scientists somewhere, dedicated to trying to make head or tail of it. Possibly underground at Facebook, where a picture of Mark Zuckerberg hangs so they can all pray to it in the morning.
By the time another two weeks had gone by, ‘Dumped Actually’ had been read and shared more than any other feature in Actual Life’s entire seven-year history.
I had to stop looking at the website’s statistics, because it was starting to give me vertigo.
I also had to stop googling my name. It’s fun to start with, don’t get me wrong. The thrill of seeing lots and lots of hits appear is quite incredible. But after a while it starts to become ever so embarrassing.
I poured my heart out to the world in that story. I didn’t think it would be read by quite so many people. If I had, I would have never got past the first paragraph.
I have become something of a minor, and no doubt temporary, celebrity in cyberspace – all because I can’t hold down a bloody relationship.
Some people get to be famous online because they climb a mountain, or record a song about a kitten riding on a miniature golf cart. I get to be well known for being a complete and total loser.
Oh joy.
But, I have to confess, a part of me was very happy to see ‘Dumped Actually’ do so well. The part of me that has to worry about the rent and electricity bills, mostly. Also, I have some professional pride as a writer and journalist, so to see something take off in such a fashion was a great boost to my cratering sense of self-worth.
Towering embarrassment and abstract pride are a strange combination, I have to tell you. It’s like being nervous and on edge, while at the same time feeling relaxed and easy-going.
I’ve been taking a lot of ibuprofen the last few days.
I had imagined that I would be doing a follow-up feature to ‘Dumped Actually’ about all the feedback I’d received. A nice easy piece, highlighting the best of the responses, and my feelings about them.
Erica had other ideas.
‘You’ve got to try them!’ she tells me, over another cup of bean-to-cup coffee.
‘Excuse me?’
‘You’ve got to do them, Ollie! The ideas they’ve suggested. That’s the best way to keep the whole thing going.’
‘But . . . But I was just going to do a follow-up article about them.’
Erica waves her hand dismissively. ‘Boring! That won’t hold people’s attention for long, I can tell you that. But if you actually give their ideas a go . . . Now that could be something we could keep going for months!’
‘Months?’
‘Yeah! Months and months!’
‘Oh God.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s not like it’ll be a new thing for you. You always go and do research for your stories.’
‘Yeah . . . but going to a bar to drink a mocktail is not like camping for a month in Scotland, or getting an unwanted – and probably permanent – makeover!’
Erica smiles broadly. ‘It’ll be fine, Ollie! Trust me!’
‘But . . . I . . . But . . . I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’
Oh bugger.
Bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger.
I emailed Monica Blake and asked her for the contact details of the man she went to for her makeover. Unfortunately for me, his salon was only a forty-minute drive away.
I tried to make one final protest to Erica, but she was quite adamant that I should follow up ‘Dumped Actually’ with some personal experiences of my own – and she is my boss, so I drove the thirty-mile journey with a resigned and heavy heart.
I have never had a makeover. I have never wanted to have a makeover.
I consider myself to be a tidy bloke. I have a decent haircut. I mostly wear clothes that are in good condition. I have clean teeth and use an expensive deodorant. I have never once felt that my physical appearance has been of detriment to my mental health, so the idea that having a bit of manscaping done could help me get over being dumped by Samantha is ludicrous.
And yet, here I am. Stood outside The Scissor Misters with a doubtful look on my face.
When I walk into the salon, I am immediately greeted by a man in a kilt.
Now, the word ‘kilt’ may conjure up images of a big, burly Scotsman with tree-trunk legs and a beard you could lose a red squirrel in, but that is not the person who has bounded over to me as I close the door.
You wouldn’t think bounding was all that advisable for a man wearing a kilt, but this guy takes it all wonderfully in his stride.
‘Ach! You must be Oliver!’ he cries with excitement, in a lyrical Scottish accent, as he reaches me.
This is Laughlin McPurty. He looks exactly the way he does on the salon’s website.
I ask you, have you ever seen such a moustache in your life? Look how it curls at the ends. Look how well maintained that tiny hipster beard is. Look at how thin the wire rims on those achingly fashionable spectacles are. Laughlin McPurty is every inch the bang-on-trend style guru.
His sporran is probably full to bursting with quinoa and chia seeds.
And yes, sporrans are not usually bright yellow, and kilts are not generally aquamarine in hue, but Laughlin is clearly not a man afraid to break with convention.
‘It’s sooo good to meet you!’ Laughlin exclaims, and throws his arms around me like we’re long-lost brothers. ‘I was so excited to get your email!’ he tells me, finally breaking the embrace. ‘I read your article. Thought it was terrific. So sorry to hear of what happened to you and your lady. More than happy to show you some of the fantastic treatments we have. I’m sure they’ll make you feel much better about yersel’ . . . you’ll see.’ Laughlin throws his hands up above his head like he’s just scored the world’s campest touchdown. ‘All free as well! Being on Actual Life will be great advertising for us!’ He takes me by one arm. ‘So, c’mon, c’mon, let’s get a nice cup of bergamot, orange and mint rooibos tea in your hand, and we’ll talk about what we’re going to do with you today.’ Laughlin looks me up and down. ‘It’s clear you badly need my help,’ he tells me in a sympathetic tone.
Eh? I thought I looked quite good today. The skinny jeans are freshly out of the wash, I’m wearing my least battered pair of Adidas, and the chequered shirt is from H&M’s most expensive range. What’s he on about?
Laughlin leads me over to a row of chairs at the back of the salon, past another row in front of some enormous mirrors and a range of fiendishly complicated-looking contraptions that look like they’ve c
ome straight off the set of a science fiction movie.
‘Now, sit yersel’ down here, and I’ll get one of the girls to prepare you some tea. My partner, Clyde, is away for the day, so he sends you his apologies. But there’s more than enough of us here to make sure you get the best level of service. The place doesn’t start to get busy until about lunchtime, so we’ll have plenty of time for you.’
Laughlin looks up as a young woman emerges from a door to my right-hand side.
‘Ah, Tina! Get Oliver here a bergamot and mint rooibos, would you?’
Tina nods, smiles at me and scuttles back through the door.
Laughlin then comes and sits beside me. ‘Now. What would you like to start with today, Oliver?’
I open my mouth to say something but, before I can, Laughlin lets out a little high-pitched gasp and thrusts out a hand.
‘No! Don’t you say anything! I know just what we should do for you first.’ He then grabs my right hand and holds it up to his face. He’s quite strong for such a scrawny bugger. ‘These nails need a good work-over, Oliver! A good work-over, indeed!’ He then points at my feet. ‘And I bet the ones down there are no better, are they?’ Laughlin then bends and starts to yank at my trainer. ‘Off! Off with it, Oliver! Let’s have a wee look at how bad things really are!’
Before I know it, I am divested of both Adidas trainer and Primark sock. Laughlin lets out another gasp. This one in horror. ‘Look! Look at those, young man!’ he cries, pointing accusingly at my feet.
I look down and inspect my toenails. Okay, they’re not what you’d call particularly neat. That’s what happens when you only have a pair of scissors with which to cut them, but they’re not dirty or a weird colour, or anything else that would cause Mr McPurty such obvious distress.
At this point Tina returns with whatever the hell Laughlin told her to put in my tea. Burger mat orange and mint robot boss tea doesn’t sound all that appealing, if I’m being honest.
Luckily, Laughlin’s priorities have changed from making me drink a weird herbal concoction to doing something about my apparently hideous foot talons.
‘No! No!’ he says to Tina, waving her away. ‘No time for tea! Oliver needs these nails taken care of . . . stat!’
Laughlin yanks me to my feet and drags me over to a large black leather chair, with an odd-shaped footrest on a metal stand in front of it. ‘Sit!’ he commands.
The chair is extremely comfortable, and I’d like to take full benefit from this comfort, but right now I’m too concerned about what’s about to happen to my feet to do so.
‘Stacy! Imogen! Bring out my personal pedicure kit! The special one I keep in the back!’ Laughlin roars, before sitting himself in a chair in front of me. ‘Right foot up, Oliver!’ he tells me, whacking the footrest.
I do as I’m told, and the instant my foot is on the rest, Laughlin is immediately bent over it, examining it so closely and with such intent that he kind of reminds me of Gollum with the One Ring.
He starts to tut under his breath and shake his head. ‘Ach, no. This is dreadful,’ he intones. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ he continues, under his breath. ‘Would you just look at the state of – oh God.’
From the same door that Tina emerged from with my tea come two other girls – Stacy and Imogen, I presume. They are both carrying a large silk roll between them. This looks frankly ridiculous. The thing is only about eight inches wide. They resemble two disciples carrying an important religious artefact over to the high priest.
Laughlin grabs the black silk roll from them and opens it out on the floor beside him.
My eyes widen as I look down at what can only be something recovered from Guantanamo Bay. There are implements in here that I don’t want to guess the use of. I don’t want to, but I’m still going to.
That thing there – the one with the scoop at one end – that must be for prising out eyeballs. The long thin one with the spike on the end is no doubt used to stick into soft places in the groin area. The less said about the thing that resembles a bird’s claw the better. I hate to think about where you’d stick that, and what would happen if you started to spin it around.
Laughlin grabs another implement, this one quite small, and with a flat scoop on the end. It’s certainly not the worst looking of the bunch, by any means. Maybe I’m going to get away without too much—
‘Bloody hell! What are you doing?!’ I screech as Laughlin gets to work on my big toe. This is the first thing I’ve actually managed to say in this entire visit so far. It’s taken an assault upon my cuticles to give me the chance to get a word in edgeways.
There is scooping going on. There is scraping going on. There is – and I can barely bring myself to say this – rootling being done upon my person.
Rootling.
Is rootling even a word?
I don’t know, but it’s what Laughlin McPurty is doing to me, of that I have no doubt.
None of it is actually painful. Not yet, anyway. But it is massively disconcerting. I feel like a small-scale, but very determined, invasion of my privacy is being undertaken.
A man’s foot is his own private kingdom, and he should not have to—
‘Uuurgggh! What’s that??!’ I exclaim, looking down at whatever it is Laughlin has just worked out from under my nail. It’s kind of brown and squidgy.
Nothing under one’s nail should be brown and squidgy.
‘That, my boy, is what happens when you don’t treat your poor feet well!’ Laughlin says, disposing of the offending article in a small bin parked by his side. He then goes back to his Gollum-like examination of the rest of my toes, peering at each one intently before carrying on with his rootling and scooping.
This goes on for another couple of minutes until he seems satisfied. Then Laughlin brings out a small electric drill and the world goes grey.
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV goes the drill.
‘Haaarruuugghhhh!’ goes Oliver Sweet.
I’ve never had a problem going to the dentist, but from this day forth the sound of a dental drill will make my toes curl in terror.
I can barely bring myself to look down at what Laughlin is doing. Through trembling fingers that cover my eyes, I can see him going to town on my big toenail. His tongue is stuck out to one side in concentration, and I haven’t seen a Scotsman’s brow this furrowed since we knocked them out of the World Cup.
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Ah yes, here we go,’ Laughlin mutters under his breath to my toes. I’ve never had someone directly address a body part of mine without including me in the conversation before. It’s a strange experience.
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Come on, you beauty.’
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Get that right there, ye little bugger.’
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘You’ll no be giving us trouble any more, ye wee pernickety.’
Laughlin McPurty has now dropped into some hardcore Scottish patois that I have no chance of ever understanding. I just want this misery to be over with as quickly as possible.
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Aye. That’s how we do it, ya little beggarin’ mincer.’
I have no idea what a beggarin’ mincer is, but I certainly don’t want it anywhere near my poor old toes.
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Right! That’ll about do it, then!’ Laughlin eventually proclaims, stopping the drill.
I look down to see that, rather incredibly, my toes are not five bloody stumps. Instead, what stares back up at me are the shiniest of shiny toenails, each one more pristine than the last.
‘Wow,’ I say quietly.
‘Aye! That’s the way!’ Laughlin laughs, before picking the scoop back up again. ‘Now . . . time for the left foot, Oliver!’
Oh God.
We’re only halfway done.
I sink into the chair as Laughlin forcibly removes my other shoe and sock. If I can just imagine myself somewhere relaxing and
comfortable, I might be able to get through the rest of this.
A nice desert island somewhere.
Yes.
That’s it.
I can feel the warm tropical breeze on my face. I can smell the scent of jasmine on the air. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my body. I can hear the gentle lapping of the waves as they caress the beach. I can—
AAAAAWWWWWVVVVVVVVVVVV.
‘Aaaargh!’
I’d like to say that the pedicure was the worst thing to happen to me that morning, but it wasn’t. Not by a long shot.
When Laughlin was done with my feet, he moved on to my hands. My fingernails received the same rootling and buffing as my toes, only this time the whole thing happened a lot closer to my eyeballs, and was therefore ten times worse.
When that was done, I was forced to endure a haircut and shampoo.
And I mean the word ‘endure’. No one has ever been forced to endure a haircut and shampoo before. You sit through them. You put up with them. You even sometimes quite enjoy them.
But when Laughlin McPurty wields a pair of hairdressing scissors, it’s like watching Freddy Krueger having a seizure.
Quite how I’m not decapitated is beyond me.
Even the shampoo that Tina gives me afterwards is something that will haunt me in my dreams for decades to come. Tina is rather large of breast, you see. And she really leans into her work. I’m not averse to a pair of breasts in my face, but when they are that fulsome, and accompanied by having your head squeezed like an over-ripe melon, it becomes incredibly claustrophobic, incredibly quickly.
For a few moments, I feel like I’m in danger of my sanity being lost in the embrace of Tina’s bosom – forever to wander detached and alone betwixt those wobbling mammaries.
Before that can happen, though, I am thrust under a hairdryer by Stacy, who is thankfully flat-chested. My head gets boiled in hot air for a minute, and then Imogen starts to pull me towards the door at the rear of the salon.
‘Where are we going?’ I squeak, still trying to shake off the boob-related claustrophobia.
‘Private room, luv,’ Imogen tells me. ‘Laughlin wants to give you a nice waxin’.’
Dumped, Actually Page 8
