Proper Fucking Punk.

Jamie,






I spent part of last night soul searching.




It happened by accident; I was fucking around on specialist porn sites and trying to find the lyrics to 'American Pie' and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, I was on the our school section of Myspace. Which is where I spotted your profile. I've got to tell you it opened up the emotional floodgates for me.




The thing is Jamie – and this may come as something of a surprise to you – you're the only person I've ever knowingly bullied in my entire life. That one afternoon in 1993 haunts me to this very day. I've been on marathon drinking sessions at university, or enjoying intimate moments with new men, or watching Countdown and trying to solve the crucial conundrum, and your fourteen-year-old face flashes into focus and I can't get rid of it.




Ironically, in adulthood you're JUST the sort of person whose friendship I would seek. Your cavalier approach to fashion and sub-cultural appropriation was nothing short of punk. The thing is Jame – can I CALL you Jame? – at fourteen I was a very insecure young woman. I was looking after my brothers (you remember those cheeky bastards, right?), my Mother was after the Academy Award for her well-executed role as 'victim' and my Dad was AWOL on European sex rampages. Not that this excuses my behaviour, but my confident bravado was masking a wealth of domestic problems.




I'm not sure how it began really. It could be that day you brought in pictures of your parents at their Western Re-enactment nights. Your mother was in cowgirl gear and had pigtails. Your father was wearing a full Native American Squaw headdress. In retrospect, the howls of laughter emanating from my inner bowls, might have been hiding a more sinister observation. I mean, YES your parents were mid-forties cowboys in Central Manchester. But they were together, they were happy.




And that day at the end of term when we were allowed to bring in records from home. It was a wrench trying to find obscure rap records that would have the heady lure of offending our Born-again Christian form teacher, whilst at the same time obtaining the adulation of my peer group. So when you brought in Billy Ray Cyrus, and proceeded to line-dance to Achy Breaky Heart, I saw this as an affront to teenage codes of conduct.




I've watched Napoleon Dynamite, Jamie. I know I was in the wrong on this one.




Those fake Nike trainers your Ma got from Longsight market; they were called Nuke, Jamie. We all lived in relative poverty, so it seems absurd that your parents' two-fingers-to-corporate-America-and-tenner-in-the-back-pocket-of-a-Manc-Stallholder statement, would mean that for the next three years at school Nuke would become your nickname.




Which brings us back to THAT afternoon. Stacey Carter tried to make you smoke on the way back from school. When you refused, we stood around you in a vicious little circle, screeching, 'Don't break my heart, my achy breaky heart…' What utter cunts.



You looked at me for assistance, since we went to the same Primary School, and I just laughed along. Then you ran home crying. I want you to know that when I got home I couldn't eat my tea. And, in all honesty, it's not the only tea I've lost to the incident. If you've lost as many teas, then I'm really, truly sorry. Actually, I'm really fucking sorry anyway.




But listen Nuke, I should congratulate you on the birth of your daughter. She really is beautiful. And Dominique is a real conversation starter when it comes to naming a white child. Too few people stick to tried and trusted naming patterns, so 'kudos' on your non-conventional outlook, once again.




In other news, I went to see Dolly Parton twice in one week last month. So who had the last laugh, Jamie?




You're my childhood hero. No bollocks.




Yours faithfully,




Lucia x