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.