Feuding is such fun

There is nothing more blissful than falling out with one’s friends, writes expert feuder Damian Thompson

Two words are scorched into my memory. ‘If she knew how much I hated her, she wouldn’t leave the house.’ The speaker was a pink-cheeked, elderly lady on the top deck of the bus, talking to a friend. Her tone of voice – chatty and companionable – implied a gentler message: ‘Dorothy does bake a lovely, moist sponge,’ that sort of thing. My heart warmed to her immediately. I recognised a fellow feuder.

The conversation drifted on to other matters; so I never discovered why this woman hated the third party, but I had no doubt that she hated her very much indeed. On the other hand, I suspect she’d be disappointed if her enemy really cowered indoors on account of the hatred. Because, if she did that, then the pink-cheeked antagonist would have been deprived of the opportunity to snub her. Natural-born feuders – and, as I say, I’m one – are theatrical creatures. When it comes to put-downs, we are endlessly inventive. But this is performance art, and feuds cry out for a stage and an audience. Deprive us of the appropriate setting, and we sulk.

A friend of mine tells the story of encountering me at a party given by a Catholic organisation at the supremely comfortable Brown’s Hotel in Albemarle Street, in the heart of smart London. ‘Why are you looking so gloomy?’ my friend asked. ‘It’s a lovely party.’ ‘It’s terrible,’ I apparently said, ‘There’s only one person here I hate.’

When my friend told me this story, I had to run through my telephone directory of historic feuds to remember who that person was. I think I’ve worked it out; I didn’t exactly hate him, I just objected to his presence. He’s a saturnine figure in the Catholic sect Opus Dei. He materialises at smart Catholic parties, falling into conversation with bright young men who would be prime catches for Opus. So, if possible, I disrupt things on the spot, by warning his targets of the dangers of signing up to the outfit. Failing that, I give my foe the evil eye as he slithers round the room.

That’s a very low-level feud by my standards. But it amuses me if people notice. Feuding is a spectator sport, and we participants have an endless repertoire of tricks. Cutting someone dead, for example. It sounds crude – but, executed skilfully, it can be a thrilling pas de deux, a real treat for nosey parkers. Polly Toynbee is a prima ballerina of the public snub. I know this because my friend and Oldie contributor Mary Kenny once gloriously re-enacted being cut dead by the grande dame of the Guardian. Pressed up against Mary at a soirée, Polly had to resort to limb-threatening contortions in order to avoid meeting her gaze. I don’t know whether the two women had once been friends, in Mary’s long-distant, Lefty past. But it’s likely.

In my experience, if two people are ostentatiously not on speaking terms, it’s a safe bet that they were once the best of pals. I speak from experience. All my most flavoursome feuds have been with ex-friends. I would love to name them, but I mustn’t. It wouldn’t be fair because, more often than not, I was the guilty party. More importantly, I’m too much of a coward. Most of my friends, and therefore my ex-friends, are journalists. They have platforms on which to give their own version of events. And it works both ways. It’s called mutually assured destruction. Much safer to stick to death stares across the vols-au-vent.

So you’ll understand why I don’t name the miserable, treacherous enemy, a friend for 25 years, whom I had to avoid at a bash before Christmas. Nor can I give the reasons for our falling-out. But it’s a pretty intense feud. I didn’t shoot him a death stare: I didn’t trust myself to go near him. But, as I watched him boasting pathetically to the grandest people in the room, I visualised myself as American Psycho’s Patrick Bateman. I could feel my heart thumping as I walked away from the party. But then I asked myself if I’d enjoyed myself any less because the treacherous enemy had been there. And the answer was that, on the contrary, I felt refreshed by my white-hot rage.

A feud isn’t fun, exactly, but it does make life more interesting. For the feuder, anyway. But it’s also a dangerous habit. Nurturing grudges is as addictive as self-pity – and as unattractive. Lots of people enjoy watching a ‘scene’, some melodramatic ‘unpleasantness’ they can chew over on the drive home. But feuders can easily turn into bores. As I say, we’re talking about addiction: for some of us, rehearsing grievances is so delicious that we keep banging on, despite the chorus of ‘Is that the time?’ from fellow guests.

What makes it addictive? The broken friendships are a clue. It’s a less extreme version of rejected love: there’s the same urge to scratch a wound until it bleeds. A married friend of mine has a theory that homosexual men are instinctive feuders. ‘My gay mates won’t let go of a grievance,’ he says. I didn’t take offence, because I remember being at parties in the 1990s given by a rich, gay businessman. Everyone seemed to have a bitter enemy lurking across the room. The guests were almost exclusively older men, ‘not of the marrying kind’ (though, these days, they may well have Latin American husbands young enough to be their grandsons). Never have I seen such a display of theatrical snubs, ‘oldfashioned looks’ and suddenly-turned backs. Everywhere I looked, nattily-dressed gentlemen were weaving and ducking to avoid former friends who were now dead to them. The choreography was worthy of Balanchine.

Alas, I haven’t been to one of those parties for years. Perhaps they are dying out naturally. Then again, now I come to think of it, my former host and I aren’t currently on speakers.

‘Never have I seen such a display of theatrical snubs and turned backs’