Life is Swede

Around the world there’s a concept that the British a terrible lovers. We’re all backwards drunks, they trill, whilst quaffing their fancy soup. The men are boorish at worst and bumbling idiots at best (Hugh Grant did a great disservice to British men by making it seem not only acceptable but somehow desirable to act like the stammering, awkward, cripplingly shy agriculturalist that you are - note to all other British men who aren‘t Hugh Grant, you are not Hugh Grant), nothing much there to set the pulse racing. And, those foreign types quip, the women are all dogs. Well, two out of three ain’t bad (by that I mean we’re all drunks and British men are graceless hammers - sorry ladies, you are, without exception, hideous. I mean, seriously, have you not see The OC? WHY DON‘T YOU ALL LOOK LIKE THAT? ANSWER ME).

An American friend recently asked me why a British guy she was interested in (and was pretty sure was interested in her) was not actively pursuing her, as an American man might have done. That’s just British guys, I said, we’re not that forward. Oh, she said, so he does like me then? Yes, I said, he probably does. Oh, she said, right.

A week later she was dating an American. Right, I said.

With all this firmly in mind (especially the graceless hammers bit) I went on a date with a Scandinavian.


FOURTH DATE REPORT - 20/06/09

I believe we’re calling this one Mel.

Met Mel at the tube station where I once again managed to greet a date with all the suaveness and sophistication of a sexually aggressive Mr Bean. Look, give me a break here, I am already making progress from Date One. We managed to successfully negotiate ourselves into a very relaxed semi-hug kiss on the cheek kind of thing (which I hate so much it makes me physically nauseous). Fine. But the whole etiquette of the kissing on the cheek debacle still eludes me. Do you actually kiss them? I feel that landing a smacker, or even a gentle little peck, on the cheek of someone you have never met is a bit much (sorry, physically nauseous? How could you be mentally nauseous? Or spiritually nauseous? What am I, an NVQ student?). But missing their face entirely and making little kissy noises is something propagated by the French and people who live in Dalston even though they can palpably afford to live somewhere else. Seriously, don’t swan around Dalston as if you’re Vincent van fucking Gogh or something with a £75 haircut and £90 jeans. Cut both your ears off, and your nose for good measure, and fuck off back to Kent. So. Kissy noises are out. That leaves you with the option of slowly pushing your emotionless face against their cheek, lips un-pursed, as if you were falling asleep against a car window or checking the temperature of some freshly baked bread.

My main point, however, is that all three options above are a better bet than getting confused and kissing the other person RIGHT in their ear. It gets you off on the wrong foot.

Now, before I get to the internal pain you’re waiting for, let me say this. Mel was beautiful and we clicked.

So this is blog over, yeah?

Nyaah. I’m not nearly so flighty. I know, I know I know I know, I’ve got on well with Geri and Emma but this was an actual, natural bit of chemistry.

Or I just fancied her.

Yeah, probably that. I mean, come on, she’s from the Baltic coast. They’re basically genetically perfect out there.

So, I started out intimidated by the fact that I assume all Europeans are dazzling cosmopolitan urbanites and went on by being intimidated at how attractive she was. God, I’m a catch. On top of being beautiful she had a very wry sense of humour that allowed us to openly mock some live performance art together, she mispronounced words in a heart-melting manner and she described Professor Stephen Hawking as a ‘randy spasmo’. HAH.

But.

But but but.

But but but but but but but but.

Apparently we, us ‘umans, accentuate the negatives far more easily then the positives. When asked how are day was we reel off a list of things that upset or angered us and leave out all the moments that made our lives better, happier, fitter, stronger. Oprah Winfrey encourages her audience to go through a common counseling exercise - listing three things at the end of each day that made us happy. I’ve tried doing this. And fuck you, Oprah. I’d have a list the size of your arse if I had your bank balance. Three things? Are you serious? Ah, no, apparently you’re meant to include all the ‘little things’. Like the sun shining, seeing ducklings on the canal, an old woman smiling at you on the bus, someone unexpectedly bringing you coffee at work. But all this does is make you realise that these stupid little things don’t actually make you happy. They are tiny and inconsequential. They are the icing on a cake you‘ve already wolfed down too quickly. You can put icing on a piece of shit but it’s still a piece of shit.

You wouldn’t talk someone down off a window ledge by encouraging them to appreciate the view.

So, I’m going to dwell on the negatives, ifthat’salrightwithyouthankyouverymuch.

We talked liked old friends. That’s not bad is it? Nope. Unless you’re me. The conversation was natural, flowing, mutually beneficial. But, partly because (I guess) she’s not British, and partly because we went to an exciting fairground/circus/festival/thing instead of to the pub or to dinner, the conversation didn’t take the normal question/answer/question format of most first dates. We barely talked about ourselves at all. There was no ‘getting to know you, what do you do for a living?’ business. Great. You’d think.

I couldn’t handle it. It was like an itch I had to scratch. The more free-flowing our conversation, the more I craved to bring it onto more traditional ground. I was resolutely convinced this would not impress her at all and, in fact, would be a conversation killer but I. Could. Not. Help. It. Eventually I started to develop crap-conversation tourettes, randomly blurting out pointless questions and dull remarks, sometimes cutting her off mid-sentence to do so. Feeling the pressure to fill a void in the conversation that didn’t exist I started crow-barring questions into the proceedings like a drunk hairdresser.

She didn’t like it. She swatted most of these questions out of the air (with visible displeasure) and continued on her own track. Every time I upended our conversation with a stupid question she would give me a look so withering you’d think that I’d just admitted to accidentally unplugging the sea or losing Spain or something.

At one point my brain became so utterly fixated on a certain question (which she wouldn’t answer - it was something utterly banal) that I found myself turning into an unkempt Jeremy Paxman, hounding her over and over until finally demanding she ‘just answer the question’. Curse you, you relaxed Europeans. Look what you’ve done to me.

The other major problem was our location. As we were somewhere ‘fun’ I felt pressure to be ‘fun’. Walking about a funfair, even if you are the kind of person who is happiest re-writing code for Spectrum ZX games, you feel an unnatural desire to impress the person you’re with by acting like some kind of free-spirited, fun-loving gadabout.

Even though we were trotting about very happily it still felt as if we could have been having more fun, and I could come across as a more cool and relaxed person, if we had been shying coconuts, or testing our weight in an ironic way, and then laughing as we eat candyfloss (which would inevitably get all over our faces), guffawing on the dodgems, tittering on the teacups, winning giant cuddly toys (conveniently ignoring the fact that it’s sewn by minuscule Burmese fingers, even though we‘d rather jump on a spike than not recycle our Independent on Sunday) at duck shoots and then running freely across a field with the sun going down and slowing down into each other’s arms as the sun goes down. All to the latest release by Jack cockguts Penate.

Listen. Just because I don’t spend my life playing blackjack with tramps or dancing on tables or conversing with Peruvian octogenarians does not mean I am boring. So tit off, Mrs Lonely Planet (emphasis on the lonely).

Hah.

I would seriously recommend you all start a blog where you can air your insecurities. It’s as refreshing as it is embarrassing.

I’d like to see Mel again. We’ll see. If anything, I need to make amends for how relentlessly uptight I was on this date.


So. 4 dates in 9 days. Fun diddly fun fun. More to come. Eyes peeled and all that.

It’s been 6 weeks and already my Match.com standards have plummeted violently. All I want now is to meet a woman who doesn’t list her favourite book as The Kite Runner or The Time Traveller’s Wife.

It's not much to ask. It certainly ain't love. More on that later.