Of COURSE we talk about other things.. but you couldn’t stop me talking about men with my best friends if you PAID me

There’s a kind of rumour going round that it’s not very ‘good’ for women to talk about men all the time. As if it trivialises us. Well, meh. OF COURSE we talk about other things: Like Brexit, the threat of Donald Trump, and how would you genetically engineer a unicorn?.. but you couldn’t stop me talking about men with my friends if you paid me.

It is. SO. MUCH. FUN. And it’s so much less about the men themselves than it is about having fun and being girls. I love obsessing. I love analyzing. Especially over other people’s predicaments: SO much of the photo album on my phone is taken up by screenshots of other people’s text conversations.

It’s even fun when it’s awful. There was a particularly bleak period for myself and my best friend back in the winter, when we were both seeing these dreadful men. Dreadful as in, moderately attractive but very charasmatic men who were both quite horrible to us. (Unfortunately I think this is the only reason we liked them).

‘He wrote on another girl’s wall saying she was beautiful, just after he had sex with you?’ ‘Yea, but maybe he’s doing it to make me jealous?’. 
‘That’s too many layers of thought. He’s a fucktard’. 

For about a fortnight, we would call each other at 1am, me after a gig and she after cashing up at work, and talk about all the terrible but LOLsome things these men had done. These conversations often went the following way: Friend 1 would say the bad thing, Friend 2 would say, ‘you must block this man on all social platforms and never speak to him ever again’, and Friend 1 would reply,  ‘yes, I will do that’ (with absolutely no intention of doing that). Friend 1 then calls up the next day with the exact same story, and Friend 2 of course passes no judgement, does not say ‘I told you so’, and insists it is of course all the awful man’s fault and remember, it’s for the best because it had to end sometime and isn’t it better sooner rather than later and anyway remember you don’t want to marry someone who has droopy balls.


‘He hasn’t noticed that you’ve removed him from Facebook? That means he doesn’t even Facebook stalk you. Which means he probably wouldn’t care if you died’.


We’d take it in turns giving each other totally ridiculous but fun-to-believe pieces of advice. My friend said she’d read in a magazine that there was this thing called the 30-day-rule, where if you ignore a man for 30 days, then he’s yours. ‘Does it work?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know, I’ve never been patient enough’.

We both knew we weren’t in lasting courtships:

‘He hasn’t noticed that you’ve removed him from Facebook? That means he doesn’t even Facebook stalk you. Which means he probably wouldn’t care if you died’.
‘I know. But he’s really good at sex’. 

But we still had so much fun talking about silly, insignificant things. And after the courtships ended, as trivial courtships are wont to do, not with tears but with excessive and hyperbolic sad face smilies, I did not miss this man remotely.. but my God did I miss those nightly calls with my best friend.

It was like being 12 again and sitting on the cordless phone for ages after school discussing who had said what on MSN, and when are you going to kiss William for the first time and should it be behind the Year 7 Music Room or in the park after the bell and can we all watch?

These are precious times between single friends. I love being someone my friends can call when they have boy troubles, and I feel privileged that they would do the same for me. Less amusing, but still great, is when it’s positive...

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Tamar Broadbent

I’m a musical comedian living and gigging in London and all around the UK. I’m forever making cups of tea, letting them go cold, and then having to throw them away and make more cups of tea. It’s literally how I spend all my time. Doing that, and avoiding all the people trying to wink-murder me for bringing my keyboard on the train in peak time.