2006-02-14 - 12:20 a.m.

I�m not in love.

So don�t forget it.

But you can�t be a snivelling little wretch of ailment and grieving every Valentine�s Day just because you�re not waking up with the panting, lithe-bodied soul mate of your wildest dreams (Christ, that sounds more like a prize Labrador), so gather ye round, and I�ll tell you about the first time I went all funny over a female of the opposite gender.

The year was 1988.

First things first, she was REALLY good at throwing the javelin. I know some of my ill-informed peers (inattentive know-nothings to a man) argued that Sue Norris threw it further, and that Clare Shevington had a more aesthetically pleasing run-up (slightly obvious and blonde for my taste), but it was Lisa T that had the whole package � grace, finesse and a flawlessly fitted gym kit.

She had very streamlined hair, moussed to within an inch of its life, that in retrospect resembled a kind of finely-coiffed ice cream cone. In the late 1980s, though, it was the epitome of high fashion, or at least as near as we got in a small north-west town at a time where badly-packaged German white wine was considered the height of culinary sophistication.

What else? She had these great, pin-hugging woolly socks, her hips jutted out when she stood around talking to her friends, and she had the coolest watch I had ever seen. In short, she was someone that I, even though we were in the same year, could never have even admitted liking, let alone have made any kind of move on, me being a bookish, mealy-mouthed little mook with all the social skills of a dropped kebab.

She was single as far as I knew, and I kept an ear out for news of any kind of competition to my non-campaign. I heard murmurs that Johnny Dezoer from two years above had been seen necking with her behind the bikesheds, and though that would be consistent with his depressingly predictable M.O., these were unconfirmed sightings, and since there were no filthy rhymes about her circulating the outer reaches of the playground (we were 15, but I don�t know what else to call it), I could safely assume she hadn�t gone beyond second base with anyone at all. Not like Annette �Finger of fudge� Doyle or Vicky �Fish finger� Bates (you see the misogynistic motifs that seemed to curry favour at the time).

I did in fact confess to one of my cooler associates (I was allowed to converse with the cool crowd without any physical violence being threatened as I usually had a good supply of insulting nicknames for their enemies � i.e. anyone with a scintilla of integrity and personal self worth), but he simply advised me to �bide my time�. It was a kernel of wisdom I now see as buying HIM time to make a move of his own, but in any case he got knocked back, and I hear he has now lost his hair and is on his third marriage, so look who�s laughing now, biding time boy? Bide THAT in your pipe and smoke it. The BIDE PIPER, that�s what I call you now, you filthy lying bider-adviser.

Ahem. Sorry. I�m not bitter, honestly.

This didn�t stop me from taking the advice to heart, though, and biding my time became like a mantra for me. However, with the last day of our high school careers fast approaching, time for biding was finished, and time for action was here.

A week before we went on our way to sixth form college (actually, Lisa wasn�t going on � she was a javelin thrower, not a thinker), there was the traditional Leaver�s Party, a famous occasion in that the staff got together to buy a round of alcoholic drinks (just one) for everyone who attended. The word had spread that the most alcohol you could get into one drink was something called a Green Monster, which consisted of 1/2 pint Cider, 1/2 pint Lager, 1 shot Midori melon liqueur and 1 shot Blue Curacao. It�s like a party in your mouth, only one where everyone has bought shit drinks and someone has mixed them altogether in an unwashed glass. They cost about five quid each and after about ten were ordered, the staff re-thought their buying policy, but I had been among the lucky few first to the bar.

So it was in this alcoholic forge that my determination was, er, forged. As the sickly liqueurs worked their magic, I decided to take my destiny into my own hands. I prepared myself mentally, physically and spiritually, and I knew exactly what I was going to say. And without even a second thought or moment�s hesitation, I strode purposefully across the dancefloor and�called four of my best friends into the toilets to tell them that I thought I might like Lisa T.

After they�d stopped laughing (the Green Monsters had obviously made them giddy), they told me to forget it, and we adjourned to the disco to make the most of our fast-fading cocktail buzz.

I glanced at Lisa across the floor. She was wearing a tight black dress with weird long sleeves that had a puffy bit and some kind of lacy attachment that even now I�m struggling to describe�in short, close enough to physical perfection. But I stayed my distance, and wasn�t even that excited when Paul Blackthorn sneaked us a couple of extra shandies out of one of the more gullible maths teachers.

Unbeknown to me, though, something important was happening. News of my crush was being carried at the speed of teenage gossip around the room. Whispers, careless and otherwise, were making their way slowly around, and towards the perfect alabaster shells of Lisa�s ears (actually, I don�t remember them too well, but I assume they were very hot too).

And then�somehow�it happened. There I was, having just finished dancing to some Spandau Ballet number, and looking a bit flustered as the slow-paced When I Fall in Love (Rick Astley version) came on. Couples coupled up, and as I turned to take my familiar seat, there was Lisa in front of me.

�I heard you might want to dance with me,� she said.

I�m not sure my reply was more than a high pitched whine of some sort, but she put her arms around me, and there I was, slow dancing with Lisa T. (OK, I realise at this point that most other 15 year olds have already snorted pureed monkey glands off their naked lover�s torsos, but this was fast moving for me, so back off!)

People were looking, it was that shocking. But I just thought, well, this will never happen ever again, and in I went for my first, not awkward in any way, open mouthed kiss. I wish I remembered angels singing and stars exploding, but what I mostly remember is banging teeth a lot and trying not to get excited in front of the religious education staff. But anyway, as the lights came up, and Rick reached his vocal climax, we stood there, shared a smile, and went back to our friends.

In my mind, I was welcomed as the conquering hero, handshakes from the boys and kisses on the cheek from the girls, and perhaps I have built this up in my own mind a bit, though I was definitely riding a wave of euphoria onto the bus home. I wondered where Lisa T was, and was told her dad had picked her up, and I didn�t care as obviously we were going to be seeing a lot of each other in the very near future, me studying at the local sixth form whilst she got a job in a cake shop or something to fund her international javelin throwing career.

The next day saw something of a downturn in the romantic idyll I thought I had achieved. I think the exact report that she had evidently given the braying harpies that made up her group of friends was that I was �A right freak who had tried to give her a fucking chewie�, her charming colloquial term for hickey, but let�s not get caught up in the semantics as it was an obviously hateful LIE that had no grounding in actual reality. I admit, there may have been some exploratory neck brushing with the mouth, presented as I was with an unprecedented opportunity, but in NO WAY was there any kind of oral suckage with intent to cause a skin-based blemish, and I will deny that accusation to my very grave. So chew on THAT, miss CHEWmermonger! I hear you got more chewies than, er, some kind of wookie groupie, you CHEWdas traitor!

Ahem. Like I said, I don't harbour any grudges.

Three days of unrelenting ridicule and frankly crude innuendo later, things had hit a rocky patch, and me and Lisa T went our separate ways for good.

I did spot her some years later working on the check-out of our local supermarket. I wanted to think that she was just funding her javelin training with a part-time job, and I could have swept her away with my slightly increased social skills and improved kissing technique, but more likely it was just the little taste of freedom that Johnny Dezoer, or one of his girl-winning, heavy-browed ilk, was letting her have before she churned out some babies for him. In any case, her javelin-throwing and my dancing to Spandau Ballet are ancient history, which can only be a good thing.

I could murder a Green Monster, mind.