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Man wonders what it would feel like not being the one getting dumped

A MAN who has been told by his girlfriend it is over between them has idly wondered what it would be like to say those words rather than hear them. 

Jordan Gardner, aged 31, knows the script so well after countless dumpings he can mouth along, but for the first time found himself imagining actually being the one to end it.

He said: “I’m not relationship material. They all tell me that. Which is a shame, because I quite like having someone around to shag.

“I’d never end it with a woman, because why would you? I don’t really know what incompatibility is. None of them enjoy ten-hour Championship Manager games or a beer sesh with my mates, so maybe it’s them that’s incompatible.

“Nonetheless, because I’m a gentleman, I carry on dating them anyway until the end comes. But the idea it could be me who calls that end has never really occurred to me before.

“It must feel glorious to actually finish with someone, a real power trip. To be the one saying ‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ and ‘Let’s make this a friendship and see where that goes’ while meaning the exact opposite.

“But it’ll never happen. It’s not me. I’m just too much of a nice guy and too grateful for sex.”

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Seven key differences between Christmas markets and hell: A guide for melodramatic twats

IT is now obligatory, on visiting a Christmas market, to pronounce it ‘hell’, ‘hellish’ and that Beelzebub himself was operating the churro stall. Here are some key differences worth noting: 

A distinct lack of torture

Every vision of hell involves torture of the medieval kind. At a Christmas market the pain is limited to crowds, aching feet and paying 25 quid for a f**king candle. The distinction between this and having a hot poker thrust up your arse is pronounced. If you sincerely can’t tell, have a think about your grasp on reality and sexual options.

You can’t get out of going to hell with a lame excuse

Flu, a decorator coming round, needing to plump the cushions; there are plenty of believable excuses for not going to a Christmas market. You can’t fib your way out of hell. Medieval theologians would really have f**ked up on the ‘terrifying threat’ aspect if you could just excuse yourself because you’re expecting an Ocado delivery.

90 minutes is not eternity

An hour and a half at a Christmas market – nobody has ever lasted longer – isn’t comparable with infinity. It may feel like that, as you trail behind your partner while she searches for a present for her sister and the same brownie stall seems to roll past again and again, but that’s an illusion caused by how boring and repetitive it is.

No ironic punishments for sins

Satan loves irony. He’s always making gluttons eat tables of delicious food until they burst, or fornicators bone each other raw. At a Christmas market the only irony is you wasting your hard-earned money on shit. It isn’t a cuttingly ironic to blow a day’s earnings on hand-knitted Austrian bedsocks. It’s just stupid.

Christmas markets have no confusing system of morality

Hell is where bad people go, but also good people who aren’t Christians, despite a supposedly loving God giving you no rational reason to believe in him. The confusion engendered by a Christmas market is on a much smaller scale, such as wondering how they can charge £12 for a portion of chips in instant gravy and call it ‘poutine’.

No demons

Christmas markets feature no demons whatsoever. Admittedly this is just as well, because grudgingly handing over £18 for two hot chocolates lightly graced by Baileys is bad enough. What cackling demons would charge to pour hot lead into your stomach through a long funnel doesn’t bear thinking about.

Hell has no unexpected wins

Hell is a daily grind of being torn limb from limb, stints in the lake of fire and flaming pitchfork violations. There really isn’t a hidden upside. However going to a Christmas market can prove worthwhile, like when your wife decides a wooden cuckoo clock is what she’s always craved and it’s £80 so that’s your shopping done. Nice one.

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