It was always going to happen at some point.
Rumbled.
Was the subject line of an email I received last night. I didn't need to open it to understand its contents.
So. Date report No.6 has not been written by me. Oh no. No no no.
The least I could do for the unmasker of the phantom Match.com dater is give her the privilege of thundering me a great dose of my own unpleasant medicine. And I must having the tables turned is not a nice experience. But hey ho.
I haven't changed a word of her report, I haven't omitted a single thing, I haven't added or embellished. I have split it up into nice, bitesize paragraphs though. Sorry.
And, for I wish not to muddy the waters, all I will say in response to the following is this - my rudeboy accent was in no way exaggerated. It was awesome. Aiight?
SIXTH DATE REPORT - 19/07/09
'Match.com. It attempts to help you sort the wheat from the chaffing chaff. Makes for more auspicious dating. You find people with similar interests. I, for example, have a love for the theatre and will look twice at a 'wink' or an email if they too share this as an interest. But beware, dum dum duuuuuuuuuuuum! (dramatic music), just you beware potential dating bloggers that the next person you meet might, let's say, share a mutual friend on the theatre scene. They might know someone who knows someone who MIGHT just rumble you and your blog.
Yes avid readers, this has been the fate of young 'Romeo'. I was said date and 'Romeo' has humbly allowed me to write this entry for him....I think he's a little scared. I think he thinks I'm going to mention the fact that he talked in an exaggerated rudeboy accent for at LEAST two thirds of the date. I won't.
So, we met at Latitude Festival and here is my account.
In our brief email prelude whence we discovered that we were to spend the weekend in a the same field in Southwold, 'Romeo' had suggested we;
"could meet late on in the weekend (to keep awkward bumping-into incidents to a minimum if it all goes horrifically wrong)."
'Ok', I thought, 'possibly a tad cynical but I'll forget the pressure of it for a while and I will have plenty of really great stuff to talk about then'. Friends there are suggesting it would have been better to meet earlier on because, lets face it, I will look and smell better. I think it's pretty brave to go on a date having not showered for 3 days. Yep.
Or stupid. But it's happening.
We meet on the Sunday. I feel like a pig shat in my head, by all accounts he does too. He asks how he will recognise me. I assure him that he will not be able to miss me then proceed to sit timidly on a log, in the woods, pretending to watch some theatre that I've dragged my friends to in the rain. We eventually work out where the other sodden person is and I proceed to look passable in a kagool. Hmmm.
He brings a friend. Lets call him Mercutio. Mercutio works out he has seen me on stage in London in a play. We talk about this and discover we've a mutual friend. (The mutual friend is the little birdie that later told me about this blog). All get on extremely well with soggy beer cups and even soggier grey matter. This is great! But, I'm nervous and my friends do a lot of the talking....Now, although I'm an actress this does, contrary to most of the general population's belief, allow me to be shy in certain circumstances, especially upon meeting strangers in the woods! I'm fine with this. Romeo is talkative and confident. I try hard to feel comfortable and conversationally on fire! despite the fact that I am on a date having not showered for some time, supporting an excruciating hangover, with four friends, in a gale. He has a contagious laugh. The presence of my friends and his adds to my need to impress. The need to impress suppresses me. I remember a lesson at drama school - the more you try to be interesting and funny, the less you will be.
But this is not a performance, this is me trying to be me. I wish we had met alone. But for the rest of the evening we hung out as new group of festival friends. It got drunker, we laughed a lot and I genuinely had a great time. I will aim to continue this friendship as I'm finding this all pretty darn amusing. My first blog - see what rich experiences online dating can help you stumble into....you bugger!
The End'
Wednesday 22 July 2009
Wednesday 15 July 2009
Loving for the weekend
Just a quickie as I’m naffing off to Latitude festival in the morning to roll about in mud and pretend to be relaxed for four days despite the fact that all I’ll be thinking about is the pikey that is probably be robbing/pissing on my tent. As thousands of free spirits around me soak up the bohemian atmosphere and revel in the cultural offerings all I will be able to do is fret myself into coma over the second test at Lord‘s (cricket, for the uninitiated) and slowly but surely develop irritable bowel syndrome due to the constant fear about how much money I’m spending and the continual diet of lager and super noodles. I;m already starting to worry about Tuesday, when I go back to work. Part of wishes this festival was over already so I could just get the work-based misery over. Oh christ, I may as well stay at home. I’ve got Sky Sports. Fuck culture. Seriously, I would have far more fun at home with no company other than a packet of Kettle chips, The Times and a televised projection of Nasser Hussein frightening bird-like face.
Why can’t I just relax?
I’ll tell you WHY. Because I am a dating HOUND hot on the scent of LOVE. It’s as if Love was nothing more than a terrified fox, tearing it’s way through the knotty wood of Life, as I, the frenzied bloodhound of Romance, track it down with all the mercy of a Nazi concentration camp guard with Asperger‘s, eventually tearing it’s guts out as if the meaning of life itself was buried somewhere deep in it‘s vertebral column, as it squeaks and twitches and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.
So fuck you, Love, I’m coming to get you. Like it or not.
So the old batch are out (I’m losing 2-3 in rejections, incidentally) and the new recruits are lined up. There’ll be a few dates over the next 2-3 weeks. This has no immediate impact on your life but it means for me that I need to wash some clothes (but not my sheets, not yet) and practice not being a total spaz in front of women.
Sorry, what’s that, mate? Does that mean you won’t be able to have a date over the weekend? Oh ye of little faith, fat chops. I’ve only gone and lined one up for Latitude, ain’t I? First date at a festival. Lovely stuff. This means I’ve got another fucking thing to worry about this weekend. Great.
Yeah thanks, everyone, I’m off to have FUN now.
Bye bye bye bye bye and bye.
Why can’t I just relax?
I’ll tell you WHY. Because I am a dating HOUND hot on the scent of LOVE. It’s as if Love was nothing more than a terrified fox, tearing it’s way through the knotty wood of Life, as I, the frenzied bloodhound of Romance, track it down with all the mercy of a Nazi concentration camp guard with Asperger‘s, eventually tearing it’s guts out as if the meaning of life itself was buried somewhere deep in it‘s vertebral column, as it squeaks and twitches and bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.
So fuck you, Love, I’m coming to get you. Like it or not.
So the old batch are out (I’m losing 2-3 in rejections, incidentally) and the new recruits are lined up. There’ll be a few dates over the next 2-3 weeks. This has no immediate impact on your life but it means for me that I need to wash some clothes (but not my sheets, not yet) and practice not being a total spaz in front of women.
Sorry, what’s that, mate? Does that mean you won’t be able to have a date over the weekend? Oh ye of little faith, fat chops. I’ve only gone and lined one up for Latitude, ain’t I? First date at a festival. Lovely stuff. This means I’ve got another fucking thing to worry about this weekend. Great.
Yeah thanks, everyone, I’m off to have FUN now.
Bye bye bye bye bye and bye.
Saturday 11 July 2009
Short, angry man seeks, oh god, anyone now to be honest
Things are drying up.
That’s how it is. I’m struggling. The people I have dated seem to have lost interest and my luck in securing new dates has all but run out. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. But clearly it’s the same thing I’ve been doing for the previous 26 years that has lead to my permanent state of howling loneliness.
But FEAR NOT, you. This is terrible news for Love but great news for your horrible judging eyes, as this means I am going to have to set my sights a lot lower and start dating some horrors. Speaking of which, see below for the latest date report. Hoo hah.
But before you do that, a quick word…
There is something that is starting to annoy me more than the literary taste of the ladies of Match.com. And that is the blatant and, frankly, criminal heightism that is going on. Not only on the venerable dating website I have joined, the broken basket into which I am firmly chucking all my Love eggs, but also in general everyday life.
Now. I am not a tall man. I admit this. And, perhaps, like other diminutive chaps in history I have a complex when it comes to this (the ‘short man syndrome’ is something which is said to have lead people to perform unspeakable acts - think Hitler, Mussolini, Cruise). But I am getting sick and tired of looking at someone’s profile, thinking ‘ooh, they seem nice’, then scrolling down to see that they will only date someone above 5’10” or 6’. It happens. And it happens a lot.
Many women I know will only date someone taller than them. God forbid that they should be seen with a man a couple of inches shorter. WHAT WOULD PEOPLE SAY? They’d probably spit on you. I’m not kidding, I have seen dozens of profiles that read like their written by a beautiful angel until the final paragraph which usually blurts something like…
‘Oh yeah, one more thing. Sorry, I don’t want to seem really superficial, and I know this sounds really bad, but you really have to be over 6 foot, cos I really like wearing my heels!’
Well, don’t worry, missie. You don’t seem really superficial, you just seem like a cunt. And really superficial. If a man went about saying he’d only a date a woman with a DD cup and the pert arse of a 15 year old Brazilian table dancer, he would, rightfully, be pilloried. But women can trot about (in their fucking 4 inch heels) merrily proclaiming that it’s ‘tall men only’, as if men under 5’9” are some kind of unpalatable untermenschen.
Honestly, it’s only because during your formative years, when you were an ickle girl, your father was significantly taller than you. At least us men have the good grace to accept the reason that we’re obsessed with tits is because we were breast-fed.
Pfffrrrr. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em (and you can’t beat women anymore, apparently it’s ‘not cool’ - I know, I KNOW). So, in response to this body fascism I’m changing the final paragraph of my profile…
‘Oh yeah, one more thing. Sorry, I don’t want to seem really superficial, and I know this sounds really bad, but you really must look identical in every small way to my ex-girlfriend because I really like to close my eyes and pretend she’s still with me and I’m getting tired of bumping into things. If I could call you by her name as well, that’d be a bonus. No timewasters.’
Sigh.
FIFTH DATE REPORT - 02/07/09
What can be done in ten years? The world can become unrecognisable. Empires can crumble. Legends can be created. You could change history. Or you could spend that time getting a ten year head start on someone, growing and living and that, then spend another 25 years growing and living a bit more, whilst the other person also grows and lives a bit too, and then date them. You could do that. Cheryl did.
So. A ten year age gap. That’s fine, right? Nothing wrong there. Look at all the famous couples with a large age gap. Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutchner. Jerry Lee Lewis and his cousin. All beautiful romances.
Why, even one of my flock of sisters has married a man 13 years her senior, so what’s a mere decade when it comes to Love?
I was nervous. How could I, a man in is mid-20s who acts like he’s in his teens and dresses like he’s 7, impress a well-travelled, cosmopolitan 35 year old like Cheryl? I was also worried that we would want wildly different things. A single 35 year old woman is thinking of one thing and one thing only. A single 26 year old man is thinking of one thing and one thing only. They both involve the same body parts and, more or less, the same actions. But significantly different long term results.
Plus, what would we talk about? Would she want to reminisce about the Great War? Or describe how she felt when she saw her first ‘talkie’? Perhaps she would go on long, rambling monologues about ‘the good old days’. I bought some Werther’s Originals, just in case.
This isn’t quite fair. From our email exchanges it was clear that we had a lot in common, that she was not a biological clock-watcher and that it would interesting to meet her. In fact, I was very excited about meeting Cheryl. We really seemed to connect and our personalities, over email, complimented each other’s perfectly. This could be the one, I thought. So soon!
We met. The what-do-you-do-when-you-meet-someone saga continued. Desperately trying to learn from my previous blunders I decided confidence was the order of the day. There is, however, a big difference between being confident and being just plain weird. Hello, we said. We leaned in, kiss on the cheek. Perfect. Great work. She leaned for a second kiss on the other cheek. I decided to take charge. ‘No’, I said, ‘Just the one.’
Cheryl did not like this. Not one little bit. Her face resembled that of a foreign ambassador fielding cultural questions from Prince Philip.
I tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Maybe later’, I said.
She did not like this. Her face resembled that of Prince Philip asking questions to some dusky chap in a hat who talked funny.
My confidence waned, drooped. I became a burbling idiot. On the way to the bar I think I asked her how she was about eight separate times. She dutifully answered each time, perhaps reasoning that I had severe learning difficulties and should be treated with kindness.
At this point I should mention that our email exchanges had been spectacularly good. Witty, erudite, philosophical. I was tempted to suggest we simply became penpals, instead of meeting up at all, so good was our written relationship. So, each of us was expecting someone witty, erudite and philosophical. Oh cruel world. Instead, she got Wurzel Gummidge and I got someone who has read far too many self-help books. We were as incompatible in real life as we were compatible in writing.
And, to be quite fair, we were both stunned. The wine went down very quickly as we furiously drank to get over the shock. It wasn’t simply the age difference (although it was palpably clear we were at severely different stages of our lives), we just didn’t really get on.
I don’t mind people who are introspective, who analyse themselves, who have buckets of self-knowledge. But I don’t really want to hear about it. All about it. She knew exactly who she was, exactly what she wanted from life, exactly where she was going. She used the word ‘exactly’ like a dagger, punctuating each of her points with a little stab to the ribs.
I tried to move the conversation onto lighter topics. So I went into an amusing, and well-rehearsed, monologue about the ridiculous paranormal investigators I encounter regularly in my job. I ridiculed their silly little ways, I skilfully dissected their hopes and beliefs, I stood open mouthed as she told me how she firmly believes in the paranormal.
Backtracking at an alarming rate, I explained ‘oh no, not you, I mean, that’s fine, what you said, no problem with that, it’s just these guys seriously, I mean, yeah, paranormal, yeah, we all believe that, naturally, it’s just these guys are too much, not you, no no, I didn’t mean people like you, nope.’ She didn’t buy it.
The evening ended with a collective shrug. I felt like consoling poor Cheryl. For starters, I knew exactly how she felt. I was as disappointed as she was. ‘I’m sorry’ I should have said, ‘I’m rubbish, aren’t I? I know. You’re a bit rubbish too. Good luck with the search.’ What I said was, ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, I’ll see you again soon.’ She nodded. She knew I didn’t mean it. She was glad I didn’t mean it. I’ve never seen a nod that looked more like a sorry shake of the head in my life. We went our separate ways into the London night, each wondering where that witty, erudite, philosophical person we had been emailing had got to.
Sigh.
That’s how it is. I’m struggling. The people I have dated seem to have lost interest and my luck in securing new dates has all but run out. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. But clearly it’s the same thing I’ve been doing for the previous 26 years that has lead to my permanent state of howling loneliness.
But FEAR NOT, you. This is terrible news for Love but great news for your horrible judging eyes, as this means I am going to have to set my sights a lot lower and start dating some horrors. Speaking of which, see below for the latest date report. Hoo hah.
But before you do that, a quick word…
There is something that is starting to annoy me more than the literary taste of the ladies of Match.com. And that is the blatant and, frankly, criminal heightism that is going on. Not only on the venerable dating website I have joined, the broken basket into which I am firmly chucking all my Love eggs, but also in general everyday life.
Now. I am not a tall man. I admit this. And, perhaps, like other diminutive chaps in history I have a complex when it comes to this (the ‘short man syndrome’ is something which is said to have lead people to perform unspeakable acts - think Hitler, Mussolini, Cruise). But I am getting sick and tired of looking at someone’s profile, thinking ‘ooh, they seem nice’, then scrolling down to see that they will only date someone above 5’10” or 6’. It happens. And it happens a lot.
Many women I know will only date someone taller than them. God forbid that they should be seen with a man a couple of inches shorter. WHAT WOULD PEOPLE SAY? They’d probably spit on you. I’m not kidding, I have seen dozens of profiles that read like their written by a beautiful angel until the final paragraph which usually blurts something like…
‘Oh yeah, one more thing. Sorry, I don’t want to seem really superficial, and I know this sounds really bad, but you really have to be over 6 foot, cos I really like wearing my heels!’
Well, don’t worry, missie. You don’t seem really superficial, you just seem like a cunt. And really superficial. If a man went about saying he’d only a date a woman with a DD cup and the pert arse of a 15 year old Brazilian table dancer, he would, rightfully, be pilloried. But women can trot about (in their fucking 4 inch heels) merrily proclaiming that it’s ‘tall men only’, as if men under 5’9” are some kind of unpalatable untermenschen.
Honestly, it’s only because during your formative years, when you were an ickle girl, your father was significantly taller than you. At least us men have the good grace to accept the reason that we’re obsessed with tits is because we were breast-fed.
Pfffrrrr. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em (and you can’t beat women anymore, apparently it’s ‘not cool’ - I know, I KNOW). So, in response to this body fascism I’m changing the final paragraph of my profile…
‘Oh yeah, one more thing. Sorry, I don’t want to seem really superficial, and I know this sounds really bad, but you really must look identical in every small way to my ex-girlfriend because I really like to close my eyes and pretend she’s still with me and I’m getting tired of bumping into things. If I could call you by her name as well, that’d be a bonus. No timewasters.’
Sigh.
FIFTH DATE REPORT - 02/07/09
What can be done in ten years? The world can become unrecognisable. Empires can crumble. Legends can be created. You could change history. Or you could spend that time getting a ten year head start on someone, growing and living and that, then spend another 25 years growing and living a bit more, whilst the other person also grows and lives a bit too, and then date them. You could do that. Cheryl did.
So. A ten year age gap. That’s fine, right? Nothing wrong there. Look at all the famous couples with a large age gap. Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutchner. Jerry Lee Lewis and his cousin. All beautiful romances.
Why, even one of my flock of sisters has married a man 13 years her senior, so what’s a mere decade when it comes to Love?
I was nervous. How could I, a man in is mid-20s who acts like he’s in his teens and dresses like he’s 7, impress a well-travelled, cosmopolitan 35 year old like Cheryl? I was also worried that we would want wildly different things. A single 35 year old woman is thinking of one thing and one thing only. A single 26 year old man is thinking of one thing and one thing only. They both involve the same body parts and, more or less, the same actions. But significantly different long term results.
Plus, what would we talk about? Would she want to reminisce about the Great War? Or describe how she felt when she saw her first ‘talkie’? Perhaps she would go on long, rambling monologues about ‘the good old days’. I bought some Werther’s Originals, just in case.
This isn’t quite fair. From our email exchanges it was clear that we had a lot in common, that she was not a biological clock-watcher and that it would interesting to meet her. In fact, I was very excited about meeting Cheryl. We really seemed to connect and our personalities, over email, complimented each other’s perfectly. This could be the one, I thought. So soon!
We met. The what-do-you-do-when-you-meet-someone saga continued. Desperately trying to learn from my previous blunders I decided confidence was the order of the day. There is, however, a big difference between being confident and being just plain weird. Hello, we said. We leaned in, kiss on the cheek. Perfect. Great work. She leaned for a second kiss on the other cheek. I decided to take charge. ‘No’, I said, ‘Just the one.’
Cheryl did not like this. Not one little bit. Her face resembled that of a foreign ambassador fielding cultural questions from Prince Philip.
I tried to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Maybe later’, I said.
She did not like this. Her face resembled that of Prince Philip asking questions to some dusky chap in a hat who talked funny.
My confidence waned, drooped. I became a burbling idiot. On the way to the bar I think I asked her how she was about eight separate times. She dutifully answered each time, perhaps reasoning that I had severe learning difficulties and should be treated with kindness.
At this point I should mention that our email exchanges had been spectacularly good. Witty, erudite, philosophical. I was tempted to suggest we simply became penpals, instead of meeting up at all, so good was our written relationship. So, each of us was expecting someone witty, erudite and philosophical. Oh cruel world. Instead, she got Wurzel Gummidge and I got someone who has read far too many self-help books. We were as incompatible in real life as we were compatible in writing.
And, to be quite fair, we were both stunned. The wine went down very quickly as we furiously drank to get over the shock. It wasn’t simply the age difference (although it was palpably clear we were at severely different stages of our lives), we just didn’t really get on.
I don’t mind people who are introspective, who analyse themselves, who have buckets of self-knowledge. But I don’t really want to hear about it. All about it. She knew exactly who she was, exactly what she wanted from life, exactly where she was going. She used the word ‘exactly’ like a dagger, punctuating each of her points with a little stab to the ribs.
I tried to move the conversation onto lighter topics. So I went into an amusing, and well-rehearsed, monologue about the ridiculous paranormal investigators I encounter regularly in my job. I ridiculed their silly little ways, I skilfully dissected their hopes and beliefs, I stood open mouthed as she told me how she firmly believes in the paranormal.
Backtracking at an alarming rate, I explained ‘oh no, not you, I mean, that’s fine, what you said, no problem with that, it’s just these guys seriously, I mean, yeah, paranormal, yeah, we all believe that, naturally, it’s just these guys are too much, not you, no no, I didn’t mean people like you, nope.’ She didn’t buy it.
The evening ended with a collective shrug. I felt like consoling poor Cheryl. For starters, I knew exactly how she felt. I was as disappointed as she was. ‘I’m sorry’ I should have said, ‘I’m rubbish, aren’t I? I know. You’re a bit rubbish too. Good luck with the search.’ What I said was, ‘Thanks for a lovely evening, I’ll see you again soon.’ She nodded. She knew I didn’t mean it. She was glad I didn’t mean it. I’ve never seen a nod that looked more like a sorry shake of the head in my life. We went our separate ways into the London night, each wondering where that witty, erudite, philosophical person we had been emailing had got to.
Sigh.
Monday 6 July 2009
For Sale: Love - bit battered, one wreckless owner, less mileage than I'd hoped for
You know those little Chinese finger traps? You stick your finger in and the harder you pull the tighter it gets? The only way to get it off is to completely relax. But your instinct is to panic and keep pulling. The more you pull, the less chance you have of getting the thing off. In the end, filled with a unique sense of embarrassment and a niggling fear that you’ll have to wear the stupid contraption forever - like some kind of massive floppy finger extension, rendering you partially disabled and a complete laughing stock - you wrench the thing off, breaking it forevermore.
Trying to find Love in a limited time period is very much the same. With every date I go on I seem to get further away.
Confucius said - 'It is hard to find a black cat in a dark room, especially when the cat is not even there.'
I can't even make a joke about this. This so accurately and profoundly sums up how I currently feel about Love that you're lucky I can still type, so overwhelmed am I.
I think I’ve broken Love. Sorry everyone. I know how much you were looking forward to it.
The point is, I find this all very unfair. Because I have been following the accepted advice for years - relax, don’t look for it, don’t force it and you’ll find it. When you least expect it. Like when you’re in the bath or breaking the news to a 4 year old boy that Daddy won’t be coming back from his holiday in Afghanistan. Suddenly love will leap out at you like Jeremy Beadle, possibly wearing a novelty costume. And a little withered hand.
Well. WELL. I have sat here. I have waited. Patiently. I put all thoughts of finding Love out of my mind. I tootled about in my ivory tower as everyone I knew embraced Love with a big, warm sigh. No matter, I said, when I least expect it, it’ll happen.
SO WHERE ARE YOU? Are you dead or something? Oh that would just be my luck. That's probably it, isn't it? The love of my life probably died of leukemia when she was eight. 'Cos we've only got one each.
So. Waiting patiently hasn’t worked. Yet actively searching for it seems to be burying it deeper than ever.
Which simply leads me to the conclusion that either a) I am incapable of love, or b) I am incapable of being loved, or c) the whole love thing was made up in order to sell estate cars and riverside condos and that the rest of you are lying to me or idiots.
My head says a), my heart says b). I’ve ignored both and am plumping for c). In your meaty faces, internal organs.
Anyhow. Since we last talked, I’ve been on two dates. One report below, the other to follow in the next couple of days. And, believe me, it’ll be worth the wait. Oh boy.
GERI’S SECOND DATE - 30/06/09
Ah ha. The second second date. The last one didn’t go fabulously, if you recall. Surely I will have learned from my experience? If there’s one thing you nice people have learned from this blog, it’s that I am incapable of learning from my own, or other people’s, mistakes.
So. Geri. Remember her? Thought that I looked like Wilf from The Bash Street Kids and whom I didn’t so much engage in conversation with but rather subjected her to, and received in return, the vocal equivalent of a sustained and fascinatingly violent assault. We ended the evening like two perfectly matched prize-fighters, trading exhausted swings, praying the other would just fall their knees and succumb before one of us actually died. Lots of talking. Not a lot of listening.
I vowed that this time things would be different.
I also once vowed to stop playing Championship Manager. But. Once you’ve got Torquay United to a Champions League final, quitting would only make all those hours perfecting formations and scouting the Belgian lower leagues seem like a tragic waste. Plus in real life I’m not a professional football manager. In Championship Manager, I am.
People call it ‘verbal diarrhoea’. However, to suggest that it was liquid shit that flowed from my mouth all evening would be very generous. Very generous indeed.
I get ahead of myself. What I should first mention is that it was a really hot day. Really hot. A scorcher. Glorious stuff. And I wasn’t meeting her until 8. And there’s this pub near my work with a great little beer garden. And my colleague suggested we have a drink after work (it may or may not have been my suggestion).
Now. You’d think that turning up late and a little bit drunk (empty stomach, that’s my excuse) for a date would be a bad thing. But given the circumstances, I think I covered rather well. It may have even worked in my favour.
At first I even listened (yes!) as she talked words at me. I asked thoughtful questions, allowing her to elaborate on her chosen subjects. However, once we had relocated ourselves to a delightful little spot by the river I suddenly realised, with a jolt, that I hadn’t heard quite enough of my favourite sound that evening. My own voice.
Plus, with the sun going down over London, it was the perfect setting for my lengthy pontifications on life, politics, the arts and fact that Woolworth’s was shit anyway and the only people that went in there were shoplifters or the deranged or people in those little provincial towns where they still have, you know, a Wimpy and everyone is overweight and it's not surprising as there's a Greggs every two yards.
Yup. I was drunk and getting drunker.
Maybe it was the drink but we got on very well. I started noticing little things about her that I found attractive. The wrinkle of her nose when she laughed, the way she held her drink, the fact that she treated most of what I said with a slight sense of disapproval.
After ending our first date by suggesting she had had a terrible time and that I shouldn’t call her, she ended the second by suggesting we definitely see each other again. Bang. What’s that? No, Adonis is over there. This is just little old me. Smoother than a pane of glass. Hotter than a crematorium in the summer.
That’s it, fellas. That’s the secret to wooing a lady. Just turn up drunk. It really works. If this turns into a full-blown relationship I’m going to be necking stolen nail varnish remover this time next year.
Looking forward to that. Looking forward to seeing Geri again too. Whenever that’ll be. Might even turn up sober for the third date (I know, I must like her).
Although I shouldn’t rest on my laurels. Victoria couldn’t see me this week because she’s ‘going to Germany’, Mel couldn’t see me because she’s ‘going to Sweden’ and a couple of other people took rain checks on meeting up this week because they’re ‘going on holiday’.
Hmm.
Now, it has been pointed out to me that this is ‘the summer’ and people ‘go on holiday’. But I’m not listening to this guff (the facts). I prefer to let natural paranoia kick in and believe that they’re either all lying or I am literally forcing the women of Britain to emigrate one by one until the whole country becomes one massive sausage-fest and I’ll be publicly lynched in Hyde Park by 20 million very angry, sexually exasperated men. If I’m lucky.
Check in later this week for Date Five. It’s a date with a whole decade of age difference. Fruity.
Trying to find Love in a limited time period is very much the same. With every date I go on I seem to get further away.
Confucius said - 'It is hard to find a black cat in a dark room, especially when the cat is not even there.'
I can't even make a joke about this. This so accurately and profoundly sums up how I currently feel about Love that you're lucky I can still type, so overwhelmed am I.
I think I’ve broken Love. Sorry everyone. I know how much you were looking forward to it.
The point is, I find this all very unfair. Because I have been following the accepted advice for years - relax, don’t look for it, don’t force it and you’ll find it. When you least expect it. Like when you’re in the bath or breaking the news to a 4 year old boy that Daddy won’t be coming back from his holiday in Afghanistan. Suddenly love will leap out at you like Jeremy Beadle, possibly wearing a novelty costume. And a little withered hand.
Well. WELL. I have sat here. I have waited. Patiently. I put all thoughts of finding Love out of my mind. I tootled about in my ivory tower as everyone I knew embraced Love with a big, warm sigh. No matter, I said, when I least expect it, it’ll happen.
SO WHERE ARE YOU? Are you dead or something? Oh that would just be my luck. That's probably it, isn't it? The love of my life probably died of leukemia when she was eight. 'Cos we've only got one each.
So. Waiting patiently hasn’t worked. Yet actively searching for it seems to be burying it deeper than ever.
Which simply leads me to the conclusion that either a) I am incapable of love, or b) I am incapable of being loved, or c) the whole love thing was made up in order to sell estate cars and riverside condos and that the rest of you are lying to me or idiots.
My head says a), my heart says b). I’ve ignored both and am plumping for c). In your meaty faces, internal organs.
Anyhow. Since we last talked, I’ve been on two dates. One report below, the other to follow in the next couple of days. And, believe me, it’ll be worth the wait. Oh boy.
GERI’S SECOND DATE - 30/06/09
Ah ha. The second second date. The last one didn’t go fabulously, if you recall. Surely I will have learned from my experience? If there’s one thing you nice people have learned from this blog, it’s that I am incapable of learning from my own, or other people’s, mistakes.
So. Geri. Remember her? Thought that I looked like Wilf from The Bash Street Kids and whom I didn’t so much engage in conversation with but rather subjected her to, and received in return, the vocal equivalent of a sustained and fascinatingly violent assault. We ended the evening like two perfectly matched prize-fighters, trading exhausted swings, praying the other would just fall their knees and succumb before one of us actually died. Lots of talking. Not a lot of listening.
I vowed that this time things would be different.
I also once vowed to stop playing Championship Manager. But. Once you’ve got Torquay United to a Champions League final, quitting would only make all those hours perfecting formations and scouting the Belgian lower leagues seem like a tragic waste. Plus in real life I’m not a professional football manager. In Championship Manager, I am.
People call it ‘verbal diarrhoea’. However, to suggest that it was liquid shit that flowed from my mouth all evening would be very generous. Very generous indeed.
I get ahead of myself. What I should first mention is that it was a really hot day. Really hot. A scorcher. Glorious stuff. And I wasn’t meeting her until 8. And there’s this pub near my work with a great little beer garden. And my colleague suggested we have a drink after work (it may or may not have been my suggestion).
Now. You’d think that turning up late and a little bit drunk (empty stomach, that’s my excuse) for a date would be a bad thing. But given the circumstances, I think I covered rather well. It may have even worked in my favour.
At first I even listened (yes!) as she talked words at me. I asked thoughtful questions, allowing her to elaborate on her chosen subjects. However, once we had relocated ourselves to a delightful little spot by the river I suddenly realised, with a jolt, that I hadn’t heard quite enough of my favourite sound that evening. My own voice.
Plus, with the sun going down over London, it was the perfect setting for my lengthy pontifications on life, politics, the arts and fact that Woolworth’s was shit anyway and the only people that went in there were shoplifters or the deranged or people in those little provincial towns where they still have, you know, a Wimpy and everyone is overweight and it's not surprising as there's a Greggs every two yards.
Yup. I was drunk and getting drunker.
Maybe it was the drink but we got on very well. I started noticing little things about her that I found attractive. The wrinkle of her nose when she laughed, the way she held her drink, the fact that she treated most of what I said with a slight sense of disapproval.
After ending our first date by suggesting she had had a terrible time and that I shouldn’t call her, she ended the second by suggesting we definitely see each other again. Bang. What’s that? No, Adonis is over there. This is just little old me. Smoother than a pane of glass. Hotter than a crematorium in the summer.
That’s it, fellas. That’s the secret to wooing a lady. Just turn up drunk. It really works. If this turns into a full-blown relationship I’m going to be necking stolen nail varnish remover this time next year.
Looking forward to that. Looking forward to seeing Geri again too. Whenever that’ll be. Might even turn up sober for the third date (I know, I must like her).
Although I shouldn’t rest on my laurels. Victoria couldn’t see me this week because she’s ‘going to Germany’, Mel couldn’t see me because she’s ‘going to Sweden’ and a couple of other people took rain checks on meeting up this week because they’re ‘going on holiday’.
Hmm.
Now, it has been pointed out to me that this is ‘the summer’ and people ‘go on holiday’. But I’m not listening to this guff (the facts). I prefer to let natural paranoia kick in and believe that they’re either all lying or I am literally forcing the women of Britain to emigrate one by one until the whole country becomes one massive sausage-fest and I’ll be publicly lynched in Hyde Park by 20 million very angry, sexually exasperated men. If I’m lucky.
Check in later this week for Date Five. It’s a date with a whole decade of age difference. Fruity.
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