OIORPATA: PART ONE.

He was a good kid, Paul. One of those guys on the fringe of your life in a polo shirt with good intentions. Not a crowd-pleaser, but a people-pleaser for sure. At this point we’re singing some hymn or other, and I’m staring at the closed coffin to avoid the gaze of anyone I know. Two weeks ago none of us gave a shit about Paul. We would see him out, and we would talk to him in brief stints not qualifying as conversation, but we never gave him a second thought. No invite from us, now standing at the back of his funeral done up to the nines. I don’t think the formal dress is out of respect. I’m almost certain the majority of guys here are in suits to pick off horny mourners later. Why else does a 19-year old travel 40 miles?

And we’re singing:
Where shall my wondering soul begin?
How shall I all to heaven aspire?
A slave redeemed from death and sin,
A brand plucked from eternal fire,
How shall I equal triumphs raise,
Or sing my great deliverer's praise.

We men sing it like a football chant, we’re so afraid of showing humanity. The girls sing it like Mariah Carey, a finger on one ear. We’re all using this funeral as a way to boost social status. At least I’ll admit it.
Paul was a huge Portsmouth FC fan, so a flag hangs over the coffin. It looks so tacky I want to shake someone. A football club can surely never be the biggest aspect of someone’s personality, can it? It seems crass that the parents would think it a good move. It looks as though they agree with us: ‘yes, Paul wasn’t outstanding, and, if he’ll be remembered, it’ll be for his one love: Portsmouth.’
I feel atrocious being here. I shouldn’t have come. It’s a mockery of teary relatives for us to be here. The last time I saw him alive was in some sleazy pub/club place, where drinks are cheap and women are cheaper. He looked like he was having the time of his life, hovering on the edge of a circle engaged in conversation without him. He waved to me, and I waved back. He was pathetic. I remember thinking, ‘that guy there, he is pathetic.’ Even as I remember this a chill of anger runs through me. Why are we here?
We are here out of guilt.
We are here out of fear.
We are here because there’s a wake with an open bar.
We want to seem empathetic. We want to show ourselves what we’re not – a dead nothing. But most of all, we want one night stands. It sickens me to be here. I feel itchy noticing the company I’m keeping.
The guy on my right, John, he’s a cunt. He’s told everyone we know here he’s wearing his Grandad’s suit from the ‘50s. That’s his approach: the ‘quirky’ lay. He might read a book you haven’t heard of and tell you it’s oh so romantic. He might take you to see an art installation that means nothing to anyone. But that’s fine. Better a cunt than a snake. Nobody wants romance any more; women watch Sex And The City and forget it is fiction. How many times have you heard someone say ‘oh we are so the Sex And The City girls’? And how long have you then taken to speak to the one who identifies with the bookish wallflower? You go straight for the slut. Nobody is above what John does. John looks like every pop-rocker ever, but mostly Bryan Adams. I use this against him in most of our confrontations.
On my left we have Luke, and he is a snake. He’s a stalker, he uses small observations about women to his advantage. He’s all about the long game. The ‘oh you like that band? Let me play you their new album as we slowly descend into hatefucking because you think it’s fate or something.’ Luke is the most normal looking person you could ever be unlucky enough to meet. I wish someone would slash his face so it was less of a wallpaper.
That’s what Paul had. Paul had innocence and looks. Paul needed no tactics. Paul didn’t know he was going to get laid until the chick asked him if he had a condom. He got laid by being trusting and friendly enough. He wasn’t overloaded with women falling at his knees, but if more than ten women were drunk somewhere, it was guaranteed he was having regrets the next morning.

On the other side of the church are the girls. About twenty girls from our university bothered to come. I think at least fifteen had to see the boy they’d fucked this year’s descent into the mud. Six of them lived together – the five that hadn’t slept with him, and another one. Emily was the crossover girl, bawling her eyes out into Kleenex after Kleenex - one of only three girls consistently crying. She had this beautiful blonde hair like a 60s model, and even as she cried I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I wanted with all my heart for her to mean those tears. I just don’t think she did.
Of the twenty women that came, I’ve fucked five of them. ‘Fucking’ and ‘sleeping with’ are, in my eyes, entirely different. I slept with Emily, the sixth. I wouldn’t say we ‘made love’, that implies a creation of something wonderful, and I don’t think I’ve had that experience yet. But we didn’t fuck. Fucking leaves a bitterness. When you sleep with someone it’s middling. You can say hello after sleeping with each other. I wanted to say much more, but that wouldn’t be very appealing of me.
She was the only girl who’d done anything more than put on that ‘little black dress.’ I hate that women all have a ‘little black dress.’ It’s boring. It makes it hard to distinguish between those you have and haven’t fucked - the five here of which would be entirely interchangeable with any other five women in the room.

And I’m a terrible person for thinking all this as the priest does his ‘ashes to ashes’ bit, and I should really be remembering Paul, but it’s too much. I light a cigarette as the coffin descends into the pit, and I think of what my first free drink is going to be. Regardless of what I’m thinking, I’ll double it. So will everyone else. And we’ll avoid the question on everyone’s mind. Why didn’t we notice he was missing?