I've finally called time on a bad friendship – I feel liberated

In the end, it was a small thing, but it proved decisive. We’d all arranged to meet as usual for Christmas drinks last December, but Paul brought his new girlfriend. Did it matter that his old girlfriend would be among us, and that she wasn’t keen to see either of them?

Not to him, it didn’t. The world operated on Paul’s whims, Paul’s rules. He’d always been the sort of mate who needed propping up, picking up; indulged. The perpetual pressing of his own needs were so much more important than anyone else’s.

The evening grew quickly uncomfortable, and his ex left, quietly slipped away, later sending an apologetic text. I remained, foolishly anticipating from Paul some self-awareness, perhaps even remorse. But no. All I could see was his excitement. His new girlfriend! He wanted my verdict; he wanted approval. My role, as ever: to prop him up. Why would now be any different?

But it was different this time. I realised that I couldn’t do this any more, and no longer needed to. It was my children I indulged without question these days, not him. When I failed to respond to his morning-after text – no apology, because Paul never apologised, but simply asking: “What did you think of her, then?” – I didn’t respond. Surprisingly, he took the hint. Our mutual silence extended. It continues still.

We are told that men struggle to make and maintain lasting friendships, and I know, from personal experience, this to be true. I had plenty of friends at school and college, but my social circle has been dwindling ever since. Of the five that still live in my phone, one I see every few months, a couple maybe twice a year, the final two reduced to intermittent text messages, promises to meet up rarely kept, thumbs up emoji.

I look at my wife’s own friendship groups, which continue to thrive, and wonder what it is “we” are doing so wrong. What’s our problem? Perhaps we’re simply exhausted by the seemingly perpetual necessity of one-upmanship and bad jokes in lieu of a deeper, more profound, connection, afraid to show vulnerability as if such a thing constituted failure, weakness. Two of my most sustaining friendships have been with women. This might be pertinent.

We’d known each other, me and Paul, since the mid-90s, work colleagues in an industry that boasted a vigourous social life. We were out most nights of the week, to gigs, films and swank events. We had fun. But the terms of our relationship were always clearly delineated. He was the alpha male, me the beta. I’ve never been very good with alphas, and Paul could be terrifying – Liam Gallagher with haemorrhoids.

He was not a happy person. He’d grown up complicated, and emerged into adulthood forever angry about something. Among us, his mood swings were legendary. He could drop the temperature in a room just by frowning, and he spoiled so many of our collective nights out that several in our circle began to peel away. I imagine he’s probably bipolar: the very best company when he was up, the absolute worst when down. He was always more down than up.

Midlife did not suit him. He careened from one ill-advised relationship to the next (the new girlfriend I’d met in December didn’t last into January). I’ve lost count of the amount of times I sat with him in pubs while he stewed over either his latest broken heart, or his fury at how his career was progressing. Nothing brought him joy. I tried to be there for him, to help as best I could, but he needed a psychotherapist far more than he needed me, something he’d never countenance, because – as he used to joke – “I’m Northern”.

Things got progressively worse. He gatecrashed a dinner party, drunk, then slept over, howling tears throughout the night that he denied in the morning. At a restaurant, he suddenly bolted from the table and ran out the door. We’d only just ordered our food, so I remained – I was hungry – but my wife went after him, only to find him loitering on the pavement. “What took you so long?” his eyes pleaded.

These were all cries for help, of course. I knew that. But I came to dread his company. It was too much.

The best friendships are built on empathy and reciprocity. But when it’s only ever predicated on the feelings of one over the other, then sometimes it is perhaps best simply to admit defeat, and walk away.

His disappearance from my life has had an unexpected upside, though. I’ve become more talkative during the daily dog walk, casual interactions with fellow dog-walking strangers who become familiars, and who give my afternoons distracting shape and form.

Elsewhere, I’ve deliberately – even earnestly – reconnected with my remaining friends. We’ve met up a little more often, and I have appreciated – in real time – what they mean to me, and precisely why it might be a good idea to work hard to sustain them.

Losing one old friend is understandable, any more than that would, frankly, be careless.