Sweet, Lazy Phil, let us never forget him, bless his soul.
To protect his anonymity, I have used his real name. This is to prevent any other young women from falling prey to his idle, juvenile lure.
Men like Phil are unfortunately one in every ten, but watch out, they are not actually men. I have a name for this breed, adomen, not quite adolescents, but not yet men.
They’ve lived out their mid-twenties jumping from one spliff to the next, from paycheque to paycheque, emptying out their overdrafts until they’re -0 again. They show up to parties uninvited because a friend of a friend met the host once in an overpriced London bar. It is here where the adomen will drink your gin, and smoke your marijuana.
They assume their lifestyle is completely irresistable to the you, and have no issues showing you their true selves, because you’ll be dazzled by their lifestyle, wanting your own piece of broken-ass pie. Adomen live in small caves that usually look like rooms, but you’ll know when you’re in a cave by the yellow-stained walls, broken vinyl records, and pizza stains on their unwashed bedding.
They will ask for your Instagram handle, watch all of your stories, but never actually message you. You’ll also notice they follow about 400 other pretty young women they also never message. Their chosen profession is usually in hospitality, for example, a live-in pub manager in the depths of South London. This is the perfect environment for them to normalise their adomen behaviour.
I didn’t meet Lazy Phil in a pub, though he did run one, I met him at a punk festival. This is another place you’ll find the Phils of the world, a place where the misdirected run free of responsibility and conscience, between the overpriced pints and ditches.
We had both gained free access to the festival in exchange for working the backstage kitchen. It was here that we spent the weekend feeding festival bands and their rowdy crews. He was the chef, and I was the waitress, a love tale of dreams.
Lazy Phil spent the majority of that long weekend flipping vegan burgers, while I was serving them up to my favourite teenage punk bands on paper crockery. Me and Lazy Phil didn't really talk much all weekend, I was too busy chasing my childhood sweethearts backstage. He had made an attempt to get my attention once or twice, but I didn’t think much of Phil, he just made for pleasurable background viewing.
Once the long weekend was over, he added me on Instagram, he even slipped into my DM’s, for the one and only time that he ever would, and we’d decided to go out on a date. I was curious, but I didn’t have high hopes. He invited me to a comedy night, which I found impressive, something that wasn’t chugging pints in a dingy-Peckham pub. But of course, once I’d checked the address, that is exactly where it was. And not any seedy Peckham pub, the one he was co-managing. Though to Lazy Phil’s defense, due to the nature of his managerial status, we had the best seats in the house reserved for us, and were fed free beer on tap all night.
It didn’t take long for the man cave invitation of course, not before we huddled up together on his balcony to inhale a bedtime spliff. I cannot really remember much more about that evening other than a flacid penis and some awkwardly wooden lip smacks. I decided we needed to call it a night, and we drifted off into a marijuana-induced coma.
The next morning, Lazy Phil tried his luck again, but I was out of there faster than a horse on ketamine.
After our first fornication, he asked me out on another date, I thought, why not? Perhaps he was nervous in his grimy Peckham burrow, perhaps things get better from here? They didn't, perhaps it was the summer of losing all self-respect, but I continued to date Lazy Phil. One date even concluded in a stranger's living room while this group of highly-strung young professionals each ordered a bag of blow and sniffed themselves into a powdery jaw-munching oblivion, while I paid for my own £60 Uber home. He was romantic like that.
Our last ever date was a Jack The Ripper Tour in Aldgate, perhaps a fitting way to end an affair with an adoman. Shortly after I’d listened to an overly-animated tour guide speak to a small group of curious humans about the most gruesome ways to dismember a woman, he dumped me over a rum and coke. He told me he wasn’t looking for anything serious but was still up for a rumble back at his. I made my exit with what little dignity I had left, and that was it. Well, so I thought.
Lazy Phil continued to follow me on Instagram, proceeded to watch all of my stories, and was even the first like all of my posts. Shortly after our little un-romance, he moved back to Manchester, to manage another pub. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again until I took an impromptu trip to Manchester with one of my best friends.
The bars were cheap in Manchester, which is quite a novelty for us London folk. It was upon our fourth or fifth bar that I decided to send Lazy Phil a text, telling him where I was. Curiosity had gotten the better of me, as I proceeded to enter a state of temporary amnesia. I had no intention of entering any more of his caves, just a drink.
He was all over me when he arrived. Four or five tequilas later, we were in an Uber back to his place as I left my friend stranded outside of Manchester’s most famous drag bar. One thing I wasn’t prepared for, was a rendezvous back to Lazy Phil's parent's house. This is where he had been living out his last year, residing in the cave of all caves, the loft. Among the piles of storage boxes, there was no sign of life other than a very low bed frame, which was essentially a mattress on the floor. We snuck out into his mother’s back garden while the February snow fell around us to inhale a spliff before he guided me back to his darkened den.
This is the night Lazy Phil got his name. As I proceeded to undress while he lay flat on his floor mattress, I wondered if he'd fallen into a coma, as he stared at the ceiling overhead. I continued to take off my undergarments and climbed into bed next to him, he didn't flinch an inch, he just sort of stared through me.
At first I thought he had a concussion, then I realised he was waiting for something to happen, without any desire to move a muscle.
I don’t know what came over me, perhaps it was the unlimited drinks that I’d been ingesting for the last 6 hours, or perhaps it was the fact that I’d left my friend stranded in the middle of one of the best party towns in the North and it couldn't have all been for nothing.
So, I proceeded to clamber on top of him, while he proceeded to stare at the space behind my head. He was signalling that he wanted me to continue, but his body was completely static, not even a muscle spasm. This was an entirely new experience for me, his arms, legs, and hips were as if detached from his body, and he may as well have been a corpse. After I had attempted a few very awkward hip sways, I started to feel quite uncomfortable, I stopped in the hope of finding life “Shall I continue?”, he murmured a very dull sounding “yes”, which was the only thing he’d said in about 20 minutes, and I immediately jumped off. We laid in total silence on his floor mattress for another 20 minutes until he eventually drifted off into sleep, while I prayed for morning to come.
After one of the most uncomfortable night's sleep I've ever had, I lept out of bed with the first speck of sunshine through the window. I'd woken up to regret, a raging hangover, and another £50 Uber-dent in my bank account. I was stranded in middle-suburbia, on the outskirts of Manchester during their biggest snowstorm in 5 years.
Upon waking, Lazy Phil politely offered me a morning spliff, to which I graciously declined. He then scuffled me out of the front door before I could be seen by his parents. "Do you know your way back?", "No Phil, of course I don't, but I'll figure it out". Instead of even attempting to offer me any kind of wayfinding support, he closed the door in my face, and that was it.
It wasn’t my greatest walk of shame, not that there is such a thing as a great one.
I proceeded to hustle my way home through the snow in heels, with a dead phone and a thumping migraine. I weaved the streets of Manchester back to my hotel in desperate need of a personality transplant, and a hot shower. I apologised to my poor friend who was still in face-down position on his bed. All was forgiven over a greasy spoon breakfast, on me.
I was eternally ungrateful for the experience, I never saw Lazy Phil again.
Until next time bessies.