Jon Richardson - It’s Not Me, It’s You

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© Jon Richardson 2011

Guardian Weekend cover and ‘Not Looking for Miss Immaculate with a GSOH …’ article by Jon Richardson © Guardian News + Media Ltd 2010

Jon Richardson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007414949

Ebook Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780007414956

Version: 2016-10-21

My name is Jon Richardson. I am an extreme perfectionist and I live on my own in the Wiltshire town of Swindon. I make my living as a stand-up comedian, travelling the country and talking about my life with what I intend to be hilarious consequences. In February 2010 I was asked by the Guardian newspaper’s Weekend supplement to write an article on romance for their Valentine’s Day special. I wrote the only article I felt able to write, namely my thoughts on the other side of the dating coin from the point of view of someone who is not in a relationship, has not been in one for some time, and feels more than a little trepidation at the thought of ever being in another one. Here is what I wrote and what was printed on 13 February.

NOT LOOKING FOR MISS IMMACULATE PERFECTION WITH A GSOH …

My last girlfriend was a loser. Literally. A wonderful and beautiful person, but prone to losing things: keys, money, credit cards, mobile phones. Each time she lost something, she would get upset and come to me for help and reassurance.

I, on the other hand, am a keeper. Not in the American sense that women throw themselves at me. Rather that if you were to ask me to lay my hands on a receipt for a pair of shoes I bought in 1997, I would be angry if it took me more than 90 seconds to locate it. Over to the filing cabinet I would stroll, R for Receipts, S for Shoes, and work through chronologically.

Had our relationship taken place in a sitcom, this juxtaposition would have led to hilarious consequences, as we laughed and joked about what a couple of cards we were and what kind of mixed- up world could ever have brought us together. Instead, we argued frequently over what she saw as something she was powerless to change, and I saw as a correctable weakness in her character.

In general I would say I find it difficult to accept other people’s shortcomings. I am not an unfair person but I do think more effort is the solution to most problems. Not losing things is simply a matter of trying harder to remember where you put them, isn’t it? Popular music is no help here:

If you love something,

Let it go, If it comes back it’s yours,

That’s how you kno-o-ow

Nonsense, Christina Aguilera! I say, ‘If you love it, file it away under “Things I love”. If it’s required at a later date, you’ll know exactly where it i-i-i-is.’

Wanting things my own way is not something I like about myself. From my love of right angles to my stubborn, black and white views on complex issues, I recognise I can be a very difficult person to be around. I also cannot fail to recognise many symptoms of obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. I have countless habits that I know serve no purpose but am powerless to avoid. I arrange my coins into ascending size in my pockets, for example, and nothing gives me more comfort than the knowledge that my forks, knives and spoons are all in the correct place, tessellating magnificently in their drawer.

I like to think that we’re all on a scale where these tendencies are concerned. I am sure many people find it difficult to settle down to watch a DVD with a cobweb hanging behind the TV. But what if the cobweb isn’t behind the TV – or even in the same room – but lurking nauseatingly in the room next door? Could you still relax and enjoy the film? As a child I remember marvelling at how neatly my dad’s sponge used to fit into the sponge-nook in his Ford Escort, but I don’t know whether this was an early warning of who I would become or the reason for it.

If I were to have a catchphrase (and I like to think I don’t), it would be, ‘Fun must be sacrificed for efficiency.’ It’s harder to try all the time, it’s harder to be monogamous than to sleep with whoever you want and it’s harder to be disappointed by failure than it is to laugh and move on. That said, I have definitely crossed a line.

I no longer attempt new things because I am too afraid of failing. In my garage there exists a shrine to the person I promised I would become: scores of broken musical instruments, squash rackets and computers carefully boxed up to prevent them from hurting me any longer. I enjoy meals out, but limit my menu choices to things I’ve eaten before to reduce the risk of wasting money on a meal I don’t enjoy.

For me there is no pleasure to be had in an experience unless I complete it perfectly first time. I’m not just talking about golf here, or bowling, but simply eating a biscuit, which can be done the right way or the wrong way in my world (depending obviously on the biscuit in question). But there is another part of me that wonders why, if my way is so right, it has brought me to live alone, far from family and friends, in Swindon.

Swindon, which is somewhere between Bristol and London, is a town that is synonymous with comedy, not that anything famously funny has happened here, but people seem to laugh when you say that you live in Swindon. Like Slough, it simply inspires the pity that is such a constituent part of British humour. ‘His life is clearly shit, this is going to be brilliant!’

I moved here when I dropped out of university, stepped off the treadmill and took control of my future. I wanted somewhere I could be anonymous, where there was nothing to distract me from what I wanted to achieve. Unless I developed a sudden fascination with round abouts, Swindon seemed the perfect place to reinvent myself. At no point in my teens did I think, ‘I can only hope that by my late twenties I will have my own place, close to a big Asda and with equally handy transport links to Cirencester or Wootton Bassett.’ Yet here I am.

I should point out here that there are many positives to be had from taking life as seriously as I do. For example, I don’t remember the last time I fell over. Even in the recent snow and ice I stayed upright, although less by stealthy catlike grace than by steadfastly refusing to leave my house. I would rather stay at home than take a tumble on my way to Morrisons and be laughed at by passers-by. Falling is a good example of something that can be seen in one of two ways: either it is an unavoidable consequence of our get-up-and-go lifestyles, or it is an inability to perform such a rudimentary task that it cannot be tolerated. Needless to say, I subscribe to the latter ideology.