It's great when you date, yeah

First date tonight.

I am more nervous about it going well than going badly. If it goes too well then it’s a massive letdown for everyone concerned (except, you know, the person I’m dating but since when did their feelings come in to any of this?).

I’ll be writing the first date report tomorrow, so keep your eyes peeled.

Oh and this one is beautifully set up for a classic internet dating fall. She seems like the kind of person I would actually like to date. Which means she will probably be a pig-limbed horse frightener with electronic parts.

And so the usual fears come a-creepin’. There’s nothing like a date to make you completely reevaluate your life. Suddenly my clothes seem shit. The fact that I dress like an 8 year old boy doesn’t usually bother me but how will this attire convince my prospective loves that I am a suave, sophisticated man about town? So, the question is, do I dress to impress? Or be myself? Or do I find some kind of uneasy middle ground that will please no one? Yep, probably that one. Crap, I have to do some ironing. OH BALLS, I don’t even have any clean clothes. Oh this is going to be a bloody shambles.

Another problem is how to behave. Women want a gentleman who will treat them like a princess. No they don’t, they want someone sensitive who’ll treat them as an equal. Ah no hold on, they want someone who’ll be a real man and tell them what’s what. Baffling. It’s almost as if women are all individual beings with unique thoughts, feelings and desires. I know! Mental. Anyway, the point is, WOMEN, if you go on a date with a man and he simultaneously holds a door open for you then slams it in your face or pulls out the chair for you to sit down but then whips it away and forces your arse to connect heavily with the stone floor, then you only have yourselves to blame. HAVE YOU ANY IDEA HOW CONFUSED WE ARE? At least we men have the decency to be utterly one-dimensional and predictable. Make a decision about what you want, get Huw Edwards to announce it on the news and then we’ll take it from there.

Right now there is only one certainty as I waste time writing this blog and actively avoid getting ready for the date - the one thing women certainly don’t want on a date, is me.

Wish me luck. Lord knows I need it.

Romance is dead. Long live romance.

I humbly apologise for not updating this on Friday as promised. I have been sick. Love sick? No.

So, here’s where things are at, chappies. See below for an update. UpDATE! Geddit?!

But first, some anger.

Right. If I have to read the words ‘smiley’, ‘fun-loving’ or ‘loves life’ again I will personally find the founder of Match.com and drag him or her by their hair back to my house and show them my desperately lonely life and explain to them in stark and unflinching terms that it is ALL THEIR FAULT. Seriously, 95% of the women on Match.com have the following opening sentence on their profile.

‘I’m a smiley, laid back, fun-loving girl who loves life and loves to laugh.’

Good luck finding Mr Right then, sweetheart. Because the rest of us find the concept of fun terrifying. As for life, well, we just plain hate it. Abhor the whole concept. All life should be stamped out. Personally, I am so afraid of laughing that I walk around the whole time with my jaw in a clamp just in case someone, god forbid, amuses me or tickles me and forces me into an involuntary chuckle and my whole face caves in. I mean, honestly, they write these things as if the rest of us go around constantly sobbing and punching ourselves in the face. It’s as if they live in some kind of neo-dystopian London where happiness is banned and MY GOD am I like the only one in the whole world who likes being happy and laughing and the sunshine anymore?!!?! If you’re the ONE OTHER PERSON who still craves some kind of joy in their life then CALL ME. Fucknuts.

They dub themselves ‘fun loving’ as if that’s some kind of unique boast. And this waffle about being 'chilled out' and 'laid back' is utter gumph. Yes, we'd all like to think of ourselves as this wonderfully relaxed and open-minded individual who is so Zen that they're thinking of naming a religion in our honour. But in reality most of us don't open letters we suspect might be bills, we stay awake at night worrying about 'that lump' and we pretend we didn't see the pregnant woman get on at Holborn because we're tired and, really, would she do the same for me? Probably not. Anyway, she should've been more careful. In other words, most of us are neurotic, wound-up little beasties and this is precisely why we need someone else in our lives to use as an emotional dustbin and watch Lost with.

I am very very very tempted to change my profile to simply ‘Are you a brainless twat? I bet you are. Bog off.’

It would more accurately reflect my personality as well of the personality of 99% of the people on Match.com.

Whodathunk?!

Also, so many people in their profile burble ‘I don’t know what to write here.’ WELL IF YOU DON’T THEN NO ONE IS GOING TO KNOW ARE THEY? HELP ME OUT HERE. Great jumping Jesus.

I am starting to realise that the reason most of the women on Match.com are single is that they’ve read/seen Bridget Jones’ Diary just one time too many.

So, in answer to your question… No, I don’t have any dates yet.

But, crikey, am I trying. I promised I’d have 5 dates arranged by this coming Friday. And I shall do my damnedest to deliver. The main problem is that even if I were to ask out the people I am emailing regularly and am getting on well with, I’d still come across as uber-keen. But I will flirt with desperation just for you. YOU.

Due to popular demand, I have also contacted all seven of my 100% matches. Yes, even the one who thinks that ‘Scar Tissue’, the biography of Anthony Kieldis, is the greatest work of literature in the history of humankind. And, yes, even the garden gnome in NHS specs. I got a severe amount of abuse for turning her down in the first place. So. You squawk and I answer. Democracy in action that is.

So, keep your eyes peeled for dates galore. Oh yes.

But generally, how’s it going? Well, I’m glad you asked. Initially it was genuinely quite thrilling. I experienced a Match.com ‘bounce’. I felt good. I was going to be dating, oh yeah. It was going to be fun. I had a spring in my step and I felt more attractive (I even flirted with the outrageous possibility that I didn’t need Match.com to get dates, fool!). That was Week One. Week Two has been somewhat different.

It’s the statistics that grind you down. The cold, hard statistics that you can’t ignore, as Match.com kindly display them in enormous letters on your home page. In two weeks, five people have emailed me after seeing my profile. Not bad, you might think. Why, that’s even cause for celebration. WRONG. Because Match.com also inform in the same salty breath that 115 people have viewed my profile. So. 5 out of 115. Now, I’m no mathematician but that’s a poor return. You also have the pain of seeing the long, gloating list of people who've turned you down. In other words, the first thing you see when you log in to your Match.com profile is a list of your failures. Imagine if, every morning, over your cornflakes, the radio DJ (someone famous, for national exposure - Chris Moyles, David Humphries or, god forbid, Christian O’Connell) lists everyone you’ve ever failed to get off with, everyone who’s knocked you back….sod it, even everyone you’ve cast a furtive glance at in a bar. The whole list. Every morning. Whilst people text in abusive sentiments about what a chinless gibbon you are. That’s what Week Two on Match.com is like.

Roll on Week Three.

Remember - a week’s a long time in Love.

Love, Literature & Lies

In the post below I promised to date anyone Match.com rated me as a 90% match with. I must rectify this. Sadly I am already disappointed, saddened and slightly traumatised by Match.com.

For there are seven, SEVEN, women in London that I match 100% with. That’s all the percents! All of them! How can I Love them all?!

Hold your horses, Pancho Sam. Let’s take a quick look at them first.

But. Gotta date at least one, right? Yeah. But I’ll probably want to date them all. Who am I to argue with statistics? So, here they blimmin’ well are. Grab a wet towel, folks, because it’s going to get HOT in here.

Number One describes herself as an ‘average girl.’ Wild fucking horses couldn’t drag me away from this. Average! PHWOOOAAARRRR. Hold me back! Pass me the wet towel! I cannot reward this with a date. Sorry.

Number Two says her favourite book is ‘Scar Tissue’, the autobiography of former smack addict and self-styled king of slap-funk, Red Hot Chili Pepper lead man Anthony Kiedis. Your favourite book? EVER? Of all the books ever written in the history of writing books? That’s the one? Definitely? Sure? Want to change your mind? No? Magic. No Love to be found here, chums.

Warming to the literary theme Number three says her fave book is Harry Potter. I don’t know which one. I assume she considers all seven to be works of unparalleled genius. Good holy gravy. I’m beginning to suspect Match.com knows nothing. And that most people in London are barely literate. And that I judge people solely on their taste in literature. So. No date for you, matey.

Number Four describes herself as ‘nice’ and lists her interests as ‘music, cinema, going out, cooking, new places’. NO WAY! NO BLOODY WAY! Cos those things are, like, totally what I like doing too! Hey, do you like walking? And sleeping? And breathing? God , I love breathing, I really hope you like breathing too. Oh my god, this could be Love. Jesus…

We’re not doing well so far. 3 more to go. Fingers crossed.

Number Five dresses like a garden gnome. And wears NHS glasses. Not ironically. Going to have to turn this one down.

Number Six gushes that her favourite book is ‘It‘s Not About the Bike’, the autobiography of uni-balled former Tour de France champion and dater of skeletal jailbait Ashley ‘not Mary-Kate’ Olsen, Lance Armstrong. Your favourite book? EVER? Of all the books ever written in the history of writing books? That’s the one? Definitely? Sure? Want to change your mind? No? Just kill me now.

Number Seven sounds like she’d merrily eat my balls for breakfast and would spit on me for being poor. The most important thing to her, she says, is her career. That’s cos she ain’t met me yet. The main thing is she hasn’t listed any shit books. This is it! 100% Love! I’m going to email her.

So this doesn’t say a lot for Match.com’s matchmaking services. But maybe I am being too hard on them. These seven women may well be the seven women of my dreams. Should I date them all? Whaddya think?

On another note, I will now be updating the blog once a week on a Friday and when I have been on a date.

So have a good week, y’all.

It started with a simulated wink

The game has begun, ladies and gentlemen.

The profile is live. HOO YAH. And so am I.

So, there are many ways to do this. You can search for your one true Love, with a wide or narrow field as you like. You can stipulate that you want a 5’4’’, red-haired, blue-eyed, athletic librarian who likes cooking, wants 3 kids, has never been married….and so on… There’s almost no end to it. You can literally narrow it down to one person. But where would be the fun in that?

So you could do what I do and search for ‘women’. The results are surprising.

The other option is to trust Match.com. They send you an email every day with brand new ‘matches’. This is rated in percentage. I assume they only send people who match you 65% or so or more. I will date anyone who Match.com matches me 90% or more. That’s a promise. In their hands, my heart. Opposites don’t attract in this world, buddy. My top match today only rated 77%. Which seems high but it didn’t take me long to think about the 23% of this woman that I already know that I don’t want or like. That’s like both her arms and half a leg. I couldn’t do this to myself.

Or. My personal favourite. Sit about in your pants and wait for those lovely ladies to contact you. And, whaddyaknow, they only bloody well have. You’ve got two options when you find someone you fancy the look/style (mainly look) of. You can ‘wink’ at them, which is much like a Facebook post. I have been winked at by a few people but am uncertain how to react. What’s the etiquette when it comes to winking? Do I wink back? This runs the danger of turning into a frenzy of back and forth winking, like two strangers in a sandstorm. Or email them? This is the other option, you can email your potential Love. This is very forward. Isn’t it?

I have received three emails (the saucy wenches).

One merely pointed out that I like cricket. NICE ONE, COLUMBO. It only says that on my profile. I know, I know, she’s initiating a ‘hey, you like cricket, I like cricket, this could work’ thing. But telling me things I already know about myself is a major turn-off for me. My ex did this a lot - ‘you’re a narrow-minded sociopath’, ‘you’re crying', ‘you’re hurting me, let go’. That kind of thing. I have emailed Mrs Cricket back. Doing it was the same feeling as picking a nice juicy scab off your elbow - i.e. stupid.

The second two were very surprising. Mrs Cricket is 25, that’s expected, as I am 26. The other two are 34 and 35 respectively. I went into this thing moaning and moaning and moaning about how women like older men. And I get this thrown in my face. Typical.

One of them is also a Japanese divorced single mother who works in banking. I mean, I pretty much have to date her, right? I really don’t want to. But I might, just for YOU.

One more thing for today - whilst searching profiles I have seen so many women who have stipulated that their potential partner must be earning £50k+, 75k+ and even £100k+. Wow. I haven’t searched the men but I assume it’s the same on that side. THERE’S A CREDIT CRUNCH ON, YOU FLAPPING TWERPS. Some people.

I have set myself the target of arranging 5 dates with 5 different people by 29th May. Not go on the dates, just arrange.

Stick around, Lover boys and girls, it’s about to get socially uncomfortable.

I explore but I also negotiate. DATE ME!

Filling out the Match.com profile is like painting a giant naked self-portrait of yourself which will soon be unveiled in Trafalgar Square to thousands of cold unsympathetic eyes. Terrifying. Filling out this profile has had me plumb the depths of my deepest (previously subconscious, so thanks for that) fears and question exactly who I am and what I’m doing with my life.

I did not part with £65 for this. This is not Love. Is it? Is this Love?

So, in other words, my profile isn’t ready yet. I’ll let you know when it is.

Look, it’s difficult, right? Here are the sections and their individual conundrums…

Basics - in this section I have to stipulate what age the women I would like to date are. I’ve put 20-30. I am 26. Have I done the right thing? Am I being ageist? Do I want to date someone barely out of their teens? Do I divide my age by two and add seven? I have also had to admit to being a short weakling with the body of a child. Galling. To be honest. Absolutely galling.

Appearance - Match.com give you the opportunity to list your best feature out of a bizarrely limited list. So, is it my arms, belly button, arse, calves, chest, eyes, feet, hands, hair, legs, lips or neck? Come on people, don’t be shy - I need your opinion. Which one is it? There is an option for ‘none‘. Should you want to choose that. You’ll probably choose that. Thanks a lot.

Interests - I have 1000 words to describe what I like and what I do in my spare time. 1000 words is simultaneously not enough and far too many. This is existential madness. I need help here - how do I not sound like a twat?

Lifestyle - You can list how much you earn here. Is that necessary? Is that important? I earn very little so naturally I have ticked ‘no comment’, which is the same as ticking ‘less than £20,000’ and everyone knows it.

Background/Values - You are given 250 words to talk about your single favourite book but must choose your political leanings from five basic and very broad choices. I can only imagine that this is because Match.com have a simple equation. Books = sexy. Politics = conversation filler. And they’re right.

Express Yourself - the most baffling section. Five utterly unrelated tick box questions, each of which give you no option to ‘express yourself’. One of them is your favourite colour. If you, and by ‘you’ I mean my potential dates on Match.com, are searching with ‘favourite colour’ as one of your requirements then you can fuck right off.

Intro - 4000 words to tell people everything else about yourself. This section has brought me out in a cold sweat. The implications of getting this bit wrong are enormous and depressing. Suggestions would be nice. What could I say to capture people’s imaginations and make them believe I am an interesting yet humble yet intelligent yet exciting yet loving yet mysterious yet funny yet yet yet yet yet yet yet yet yet. YET.

Luckily you don’t have to do everything yourself. PHEW. There’s also Dr Helen Fisher’s personality test. WHO IS SHE? I done it. I am mainly an ‘Explorer’ but also a bit of a ‘Negotiator.’ Good news. Now this is nonsense but what I love about it is that on everyone’s profile is a little bit that says ‘According to Dr Helen Fisher I am an…explorer or whatever’. Brilliant. They should do more of this. ’According to my ex I am emotionally stunted’. ’According to my dad I am a grinding disappointment’. That kind of thing. Keep up, Match.com.

Love is...

...at best a balm to sooth the open wound we call ‘life’ and at worst a horrific, malicious practical joke. But what do I know? Let’s think about some descriptions of love from history and hopefully we‘ll get to the bottom of it.

So some people think love is a ‘good thing’.

The Roman poet Virgil said ‘omnia vincit amor’, love conquers all. This is ridiculous for a start. No, it doesn’t. H1N1 conquers all. The Beatles claimed that it was ‘all you need’. Utter madness. Beyond the obvious, food and water and all that, we also need to not be subjected to the cod-philosophy of Scouse hippies. The actual philosopher Bertrand Russell said that love is a condition of ‘absolute value’ rather than ‘relative value’. Not a fucking clue, mate.

Margaret Atwood said that we should have as many words for love in English as the Eskimos have for snow. That’s 52, Margaret. Fifty-two. We just don’t have time for that. I'm busy. F. Scott Fitzgerald believed love was the ‘beginning of everything’ (but he was an alcoholic, so…), Vincent van Gogh claimed love was eternal (self-mutilating alcoholic, so…) and Frank Sinatra crooned that love meant more than money (rich alcoholic, so…). And so on to the depressing end.

But not everyone has been so bleedin’ chipper.

Jean Baudrillard said to love someone is to ‘isolate them from the world’. This isn’t a nice thing to do. Is it? No. Our own womany Poet Laureate, Cazza Ann Duffy, decided she’d give her lover an onion instead of a rose. Onions make you cry. Crying is a bad thing. Bad onion, not happy rose. Sadness ensues. Boohoo. Philip Roth called love’ bullshit’. Charlie Brown said that love ruined the taste of peanut butter. And Plato denounced the whole shebang as a ‘grave mental disease’.

Yep. I am none the wiser.

But who cares what these people think. The point is, how can Match.com define love? How do I know if I can get my money back or not? Is there a test?

No. There’s a ‘Love Guarantee’ which is worded so cleverly that they basically guarantee you’ll get the thing that is guaranteed (which is guaranteed) or your money back. In a nutshell, if you show me someone who has ever successfully managed to get a free 6 months out of Match.com then I’ll show you a man who thinks you’re lying for no good reason. Why would you lie? Don’t lie. Stop it.

Anyway - love. Wahizzit? The poet and novelist Charles Bukowski described love as ‘a piece of paper torn to bits’ He also wrote ‘what counts now is one more tight pussy before the light tilts out’. But. We’ll stick with it.

Love my face off

Within six months from now I will be in Love with a woman I am yet to meet.

‘Aaaahh‘, I hear you splutter. ‘You can’t hurry Love‘. This is the propaganda we’re fed. ‘You just have to wait‘. This is what we mutter over and over to ourselves as we get onto buses or eat sandwiches or do whatever else it is we do to fill the time until Love comes along and takes us somewhere nice. Can’t hurry it, nuh-uh. Won’t be hurried. You can tut and look at your watch as much as you like but the fact remains, it won’t move any quicker for you. Especially not you.

Well, in your face The Supremes, because this is the 21st blummin’ Century and we haven’t got time to stand around waiting for love anymore. The pace of living is so speedy we barely have time to change our underwear, so thick and fast do the days come. And this is where Match.com comes in.

6 months. That’s it. That’s all it takes. With Match.com. 6 short months. And Love is yours. Yours! Even you, fatso! Doesn’t matter who you are. Sign up with them and in 6 months you’ll have Love seeping out of your every pore. Guaranteed. And if you don’t, you get 6 more months of misery and dating cretins for FREE. Oh happy, happy days.

So, this is what I am doing. I have signed up. I have parted with money to join Match.com to see if even an unsympathetic misanthrope like me can find love in 6 months. ‘Cos they’ve bloody well guaranteed it and my mum treats me like a leper because I have been single for so long.

Why read my blog? Why is it of any interest to you? Because, come the hell on, you’ve all wondered what it would be like. ‘Oh ha ho’ we say, ‘ Of course, I don’t NEED to join Match.com, oh ho ho no, I can date people whenever I want. I’ve got several people right here on my mobile phone would I could hook up with. But. You know. I’m curious. You know. Bit of fun. Blah blah blah blah blah’. Well, now you can find out what it’s like. I have debased myself so you don’t have to. Don’t thank me. Pity me.

I will chronicle every aspect of the whole process, giving you a blow by blow account of every romantic move I make. From choosing my potential Juliets to the dates themselves. I will often be offensive and I will rarely say anything insightful or helpful.

I will find love in 6 months or my money back.

Please be aware that I believe the chances of this happening are sickeningly low.

But.

It’s love or bust.

Wish me luck.