H IS FOR HANDEL

The controversial and outspoken music critic Bob Koppelman hated the music of Handel and unusually for him had no rational way of explaining why. In his early years he'd felt quite the opposite. That was when he still had the vigour of youth on his side and hadn't buried his soul with the world weary cynicism that had become synonymous with his online brand as troll provocateur par excellence, frequently raging against the classical music barons who ran their machine like record companies.

His video rants against Handel, however, were considered a rare misstep for a man by those who nearly always respected his opinion on all things classical and opera related. Nevertheless, Bob enjoyed infuriating many of the people (period instrument zealots mostly) whose feathers he especially like to ruffle with his attacks on the composer of the sacrocsanct Messiah. Though it must be said, these were nowhere near as controversial as his famously repeated attacks on the authenticist brigade (specifically conductor Roger Norrington) who he felt treated Beethoven like Bach and pretended to be as pious about music making as an English priest.

The Handel problem for Bob was less easy to understand for his loyal subscribers who often left bemused queries below his uploaded videos that mostly got deleted by the touchy Koppelman, not understanding the reason for his hatred of the universally acclaimed genius composer.

"It's just too relentlessly beautiful, I'm afraid. It makes me pine for atonality."

But when he turned off his camera after filming his rant, he knew he was being a phoney. He didn't really hate Handel at all.

He hated the man who introduced him to Handel.

David.

David, utter self-proclaimed bitch that he was, would often project Koppelman videos on the expansive back wall of his living room to bemused dinner party guests and mock his former lover as if he was providing a director's commentary on the overweight sad sack whose heart he had proudly broken decades before.

It didn't occur to him that what he was doing was in any way malicious or spiteful. He just saw it as fair game. Bob had made himself a public figure by choice and lent himself therefore to public ridicule.

As a music critic himself and a far more recognised and wealthy one at that, David knew all too well why Bob was grinding his axe vis a vis Handel in numerous videos. He remembered their first date watching Handel's Giulio Cesare (on his insistence) in the South Downs where they had both coincidentally made their first pilgrimage as music tourists to Glyndebourne one perfect English summer evening which David had been told by one barely comprehnsible local were as rare as hen's teeth.

With the blissful midsummer's evening accompanied by the heavenly Handel music, one thing led to another and David and Bob became an item, perfectly matched in sharing passions both carnal and musical. The young Bob had been just as much seduced by the music of Handel as he had by the somewhat more experienced David.

But although they would subsequently spend endless nights arguing about their favourite recordings of the great works of the canon, David would always end their spats with the closing argument ... "ah, but Handel."

For David, Handel was beyond everything else. It was easy to love Handel and his works, free of the political angst of Beethoven, Wagner and the pseudo, over wrought spirituality of Mahler who Bob seemed weirdly devoted to.

"Mahler is like eating too much Sachertorte. I'll meet you half way at Bruckner. At least I can zone out in those cathedral like spaces he makes with his music. Mahler is just simply too neurotic, I'm afraid, for my taste."

Bob considered himself far more egalitarian than David when it came to embracing the broad church of classical music and preferred not to insist on a hierachy of genius. He loved Handel too, especially as it had come to symbolise the love and electric passion he shared with David as his partner. Sometimes Bob would even wrap a white bedsheet around his torso and serenade David (to the best of his limited ability) with a rendition of Ombra Mai Fu from Handel's Serse.

But when things became toxic for the two critics in love, musical divisions were brought to the fore as if they were challenging for custody of their favourite composers in the divorce court. It was clear to Bob that he was never going to share Handel in that bitter battle between them. David made it abundantly clear to Bob that he could keep Mahler and all the "grubby musical masturbators" of the second Viennese school whom he had little time for.

And now, decades later, watching Bob's rants on his streaming platform, David knew exactly why he denounced Handel and his music and though it amused him, it also made him feel sad. You might even say he pitied the fat fool and felt that maybe it was time to draw a line in the sand so that Bob could enjoy the Messiah, and all the other oratorios and operas, to say nothing of the magnificent organ concertos once more.

"He shouldn't die without listening to Handel once again with love in his heart," he said to his current partner, Julius, who often wondered why David still found Bob so fascinating. All he saw was an angry, sexually frustrated, bug eyed man clinging onto the last vestiges of his career as a music critic by engaging with classical  music loving incels.

"You're getting soft in your old age David," Julius teased David.

"Not where it matters I'm not," he retorted to him quick as a flash.

Bob was in the middle of recording one of his latest videos when his phone rang.

"Fuck!"

He usually put it on mute when he was recording but perhaps through some sleight of pre-destiny, it was meant to be, as he heard the familar voice of David down the other side of the line.

"I'm downstairs, Bob. Let me in if you will."

Without thinking about the hugely complicated and conflicted feelings he had towards David, he buzzed him up.

Waiting for his ex-lover turned nemesis to arrive, Bob quickly checked what remaining hair he had left on his head in the hallway mirror.

"It doesn't grow back Bob!"

Bob turned to face David, who was looking as smug and self-satisifed as ever.

"I assume you're talking about my hair."

"Well I'm not talking about your virginity."

David offered his gloved hand to Bob who looked immediately suspicious of it.

"What's the purpose of your surprise visit, David? I thought we agreed that we would avoid each other at all costs."

"I've come here on a mission of mercy."

Bob pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose which one of his therapists had observed was a nervous tic when he was anxious.

"What mission of mercy?"

"Handel. I can't bear to see you cutting your nose off to spite your face. You're not hurting anyone but yourself with these insane rants that make absolutely no sense. I find it sad that you should use your platform to passively agressively attack me by hating Handel. It's just ridiculous. Whatever disagreements we had, whatever failings that led to us not working, it's time you moved on and accepted that Handel had absolutely nothing to do with it. Why deny yourself the pleasure of his genius as a way of lamenting our doomed love affair?"

Stunned, Bob took a moment to process the short monologue David had just fired at him.

"I simply don't like Handel."

"Liar!"

"I don't like him, David!"

"You're lying, Bob!"

Re-thinking his approach to the argument in the heat of the moment, Bob conceded coyly that perhaps David had a point.

"Let's say for a moment that I do truly hate Handel because of what happened to us. Do you honestly think I could just simply start listening to Il Trionfo or some other work without it reminding me of the disaster that was our relationship? Impossible!"

He punctuated his reply with a somewhat infantile rapsberry, putting his tongue out and blowing.

"Look. All I ask if that you try and separate the two things. Yes. I championed Handel and introduced you to some of his lesser known works back when we first dated. But even I, bitch that I can be, would hate to see you continue with this insane self-sabotage."

Koppelman, feeling exposed by David's forthrightness, was lost for words.

"I hereby declare that you are free to enjoy Handel without it diminishing your hatred of me. That's how much I've matured, Bob. You see? I'm not a complete cunt after all."

He did a mock bendiction sign directed at the wordless Bob, before leaving Koppelman alone in his apartment.

It had been a few weeks since that unexpected conversation with David in his apartment that had left Bob feeling self-conscious about recording any more Handel-related rants.

Instead, he decided to test the water and see if he could listen to some George Frideric without it prompting deep feelings of hatred for David and remembering the cruel and clinical way he left him.

A shrink wrapped CD of Andreas Scholl had remained unopened in Bob's overflow room. He'd always been curious to hear it and swallowing his pride he finally decided to give it a listen.

Pouring himself a large glass of milk and sitting in his favourite recliner, Koppelman put the disc on and closed his eyes, trying to listen to the "heaven sent" (David's words) music without prejudice.

As the strings introduced the familar theme of Ombrai Mai Fu, Bob knew it was time to let go. It was as if a great burden had been taken off his shoulders and he felt at peace again,

"Ah, Handel," he exclaimed after wiping the milk moustache from his upper lip.