Thursday, 16 December 2010


Some things we know:

Toast will always land butter side down.

Your phone will cease to ring the second you reach it.

Spots are malevolent bastards that lie in wait for hot dates.

Animals and children are highly skilled bringers of shame.

It is therefore perhaps fortunate that my own desire to have children declines in direct correlation with the seemingly endless number of sprogs spawned by my friends. Animal shame on the other hand has dogged me throughout my life. For example, being an over-privileged Pony Club type enabled me to experience the kind of mortification that can only be achieved by mixing teenage girls, skin-tight white jodhpurs and boys. No wonder I didn’t get to kiss a boy ‘til I was 14 and then only because he thought I went to the girl’s school up the road. Yes, at half an hour (most of which was spent getting the bad news from his friends that I was actually in his class) that was officially my shortest ever relationship.

But I digress. Somehow animals have always been intrinsically linked with my love life right from the early days of pony club and Sunday school - when I first fell hopelessly in love with the vicar’s son - through the Jilly Cooper jockey romp years (no, really) to my narrow escape from becoming Mrs Baimbridge: the farmer’s wife. But lo! in the nick of time I cast off my Hunters, eschewed the pearls, turned my collar back down and set off purposefully for the bright lights of London town. And so began 7 animal-free years during which time I embraced my inner urbanite, the freedom to wear boot-cut without being asked what was wrong with ‘normal’ trousers (true story) and revelled in the exceptionally lengthy lie-ins only available to the pet and child-free. Until one day I found myself wondering if the reason I was still in bed at 11.30am was in fact because I had nothing to get up for. And perhaps what I wanted, what I really, really wanted was . . . a puppy.

And so there was Arnie. The Terminator; the Urinator; the Defecator; the turner-upside-downer of my life. He was a one-in-a-million dog. And not long after he met an untimely end so did my relationship, but not before I’d had a chance to fill the void with not one but two ‘replacements’. . .

And in case you weren't aware, the advantages of dating with dogs really are endless. For example, being able to say “I’ll be the one with two irritating, yappy pooches attached to me” really helps aid that awkward first date recognition moment. And they’re great at filling those uncomfortable silences by howling along to live music. Yes, yes they did do that. But perhaps my favourite ever moment - from the creatures that brought you the grisly death of Daffy the Duck – was a few weeks ago when the dogs and I stayed over at the new boyfriend’s place for the very first time. Picture the scene if you will: the lights are low, the mood romantic. It’s a blissful, post-coital moment of peace. But what’s that I smell? “Have you farted?” I ask sweetly. Apparently he had not. Neither had I. Conducive as the stench of dog fart is to romance I felt perhaps this was an opportune moment to take them out to the garden. Hastily clothed therefore and with a dog under each arm I strode purposefully across his dimly lit bedroom. And landed, SPLAT, straight in the most repulsive stinking pile of diarrhoea dog turd I have ever encountered. I have two words for you: cream rug.

I do not have the words, or the stomach, to describe the aftermath and clean-up operation. Be glad this blog doesn’t have a scratch-and-sniff function. And never, ever mix dogs and dating.

Wednesday, 3 November 2010

Love, Rupert (I know it sounds a bit posh, but I'm actually a down to earth sort, with friends from different walks of life)

Slightly awkward and borderline psychopathic men of the world, rejoice! The Man Ban is over!
Yes, the Man Ban. In the age old tradition of ‘it’s funny cos it rhymes but it’s not quite accurate’, this was the name I gave to my self-imposed withdrawal from the world of internet dating. Frankly, I was exhausted. And jaded. And although I amused myself for an afternoon by thinking up synonyms for ‘shagged’ that rhyme with synonyms for ‘being dumped’ (my favourite was SCREWED and ESCHEWED), my first foray into internet dating didn’t end well.

But that was boring, and so three months later, I have picked myself up, dusted myself off, ritualistically burned a copy of The Game by Neil Strauss whilst mentally castrating its author, and here I am again.

My objectives for my first week back online are two-fold:
Get some poor hapless male to buy me a gift subscription. I am poor. Get myself in the top 20 most popular profiles on Guardian Soulmates.

I know, I’m far too interesting and cool and intelligent to be up there, and my hair is not nearly flicky enough. But Hackney Girl has given me a mission, and it seemed churlish to refuse – and hey, it’s all in the spirit of knocking a few of the ‘cherrylipz’ and ‘hazeleyze’ off there for five minutes.

So here’s my strategy – I’m favouriting as many men as possible, so that they favourite me back, and I’ve specified in my profile that I am impressed by men who can fart on demand. Trust me, it’s genius. Also, if they email me, I will tell them they are ‘like a ninja’. This never fails.

Mass favouriting is a tiring task, made more manageable by some sub-categorisation. So far I am ‘a fan’ of all the ginger men within a 40 mile radius of my house, as well as all the ones that speak Welsh, all the Geminis and all the doctors/dentists/vets. Also all the vegetarians, and all the freakishly tall ones that I missed the first time I went on there. Next I am finding all the Norwegians and anyone who ‘really likes tea’.

So wish me luck, fans of dating disasters. I’ll let you know how it goes . . .

Friday, 29 October 2010


Ok folks apparently I may have been a wee bit melodramatic recently. It’s just possible that I may have let this whole dating thing get a smidge out of perspective. Maybe. So - drum roll - I am turning over a new leaf. Actually make that an entire tree. Henceforth I shall be the embodiment of calm. An unflappable, unsinkable, zen-like force of pure serenity. Stop sniggering. I will, honest.

So, in the spirit of acceptance and the realisation that I chose to put myself on the dating conveyor belt, an intrinsic part of which will always be rejection and indeed rejecting, I come to the sticky subject of brush-off techniques…

Is it better to be honest? Or do you favour the old disappearing trick? How do you read between the lines of that vague text? Are they trying to be cool or are they sending you the old don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you? If you’re on the receiving end of any of these at least it is fairly clear cut...

There’s the classic: It’s not you, it’s me…Which is true of course – it’s not you, it’s me…I don’t like you.

Or the whole My ex is back on the scene and now I’m really confused approach. Surely the perfect get-out-of-jail-free card. I may even recycle this one myself.

If you like your brush-offs slightly more creative, and frankly unbelievably pompous you may enjoy this recent gem: I'd hope you could use this experience to narrow and further define future choices, as I will.

But the prize for most creative effort has to go to the man who came up with…I’m moving to Damascus to be a war correspondent. There’s no way I’m that bad a kisser.

And what if you want to leave the door open in case your first choice drops out? How long is too long between dates? Or indeed texts. Well if the man I recently second dated is anything to go by apparently it’s fine to not contact you AT ALL after said second date for 2 whole weeks and then reappear with a chirpy invitation to third date without even so much as a nod to the vanishing act. Maybe he’s been in a coma?

That’s the thing with internet dating – you’re juggling so many balls that occasionally you’re bound to drop one. Or get them mixed up. As was the case for one man who contacted my friend after their date to say, "it was lovely to meet you but I just didn’t feel that elusive spark". Have a nice life yadda yadda. Never a nice message to receive but we were impressed by his honesty and resolved to try and emulate him in future. The effect was slightly undermined however when he texted her weeks later saying, “Hey! What happened to you?” I imagine he was slightly mortified when she pointed out his mistake.

So, it’s pretty clear. No matter how you spin it. And no matter how much you want him to love you. If you’re on the receiving end of a mix-up, a vanishing act or just a vague text there’s no getting around it: HE’S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU.

Sunday, 10 October 2010


Warning: this post may make you feel sad. Or it may make you want to punch me in the head for being a self-indulgent twat. Either way probably best you read some Charlie Brooker or something instead.

I am heartbroken. A saggy, baggy, listless, staring-eyed blubbering blob of rejection. And all because of a man I met ONCE.

When I first embarked on this chapter in my life the main difficulty was getting the dates in the first place – see previous post for details of how to fix this problem. Then I had a run of men falling in love with me while I callously toyed with their hearts. Ok, slight exaggeration but I certainly felt pretty bullet-proof.

And then. And then.

And then a great big, shiny, super-clichéd lightning bolt struck last week when I met a man who felt like the one I’d been waiting for my whole life. My missing jigsaw piece. A man who, after just a few hours in my company, looked deep into my soul and told me things about myself that it’s taken me 30 years – and great vats of wine - to figure out. Even before I met him it was apparent that he was different. Just writing to him made me jettison 4 of the 6 dates I had set up for the forthcoming weeks. I couldn’t imagine the point of meeting with anyone else now I knew there was someone this wonderful in the world. And naturally he was going to think I was wonderful too, right?


Not that he hated me. Or thought I was a dick. Apparently he “totally liked" me but he just “didn’t feel it”. The lightning bolt that knocked me off my feet didn’t even ruffle him. Bless him, he tried desperately to make me feel better about the whole thing but you can’t make yourself fancy someone. I know; I’ve tried. And at least he had the decency to be honest. Still, whenever I catch sight of his profile, or see he's online, I feel sick to my stomach. I am trying hard not to reread his texts. More than once a day anyway.

It probably seems a bit crazy feeling this strongly about someone you barely know. And there is an argument that internet dating is not real life. But I don’t agree. I think it’s real life on hyper drive. The whole rollercoaster experience condensed and repeated ad infinitum. And it's exhausting.

Hurry! Hurry! No time to waste. Hear that sound? Yes it's the hollow sound of my rapidly emptying ovaries weeping.

And you know what? I don't think I even heard them before I jumped on this crazy cyber conveyor belt. But now the pace is frantic. I'm being shunted around Yo Sushi being peered at and occasionally picked up before being rapidly put down again. And from time to time someone will try me and think, yeah, nice, but I'm sure there's something better on here. And I'm doing the same thing. Only what I really want right now is a big plate of comfort food. Nothing fancy; no chopsticks. Something I can eat with a spoon. On the sofa. In front of X Factor.

I'm not sure how many more times I can wonder what it was about me that wasn't apparent from my photos or write up that just didn't appeal. Have I made the brochure too glossy?

Wednesday, 29 September 2010


Not that I’m suggesting you are idiots you understand.

I’m the idiot. Me.

I must be, after all in the past 5 months I have thrown my love life open to the scrutiny of friends, colleagues, boyfriends of friends and colleagues and even one or two random readers along the way. You’ve been with me through highs (mojitos in the park and country jaunts in a Ferarri) and lows (dead ducks and empassioned betrayal emails). You’ve learnt to respect the power of the passion kiss - as have I – and you’ve even helped me wave goodbye to my twenties and embrace my inner cougar (as well as a hot 25 year old Norwegian model-a-like. Yeah, that should have been a lot more exciting than it was. I felt like his mum).

And I have done it all in the name of the blog. Goddammit I even went to the opera with a man I met in a dodgy bar at 2am. And what I learnt from this is that when you ask your friend and erstwhile wingwoman (yes Rachel – you’re fired) whether that man who asked you to the opera last night was cute and they reassure you he was, DO NOT BELIEVE THEM. Cue excruciating three hour opera with two, yes TWO, intervals, lots of fake yawning and a hastily employed exit strategy to get out of dinner afterwards.

But I digress. Four dating sites and innumerable profile revamps later I feel I have earned my dating stripes and being a renowned public spirited individual, ahem, I am now going to share my tips with you. And for those of you smug marrieds insulated by the knowledge that you will never need to pimp yourself out online, listen up - it can happen to us all. One day you may clutch this guide to your bosom as a drowning man reaches for a piece of flotsam . . .

In the beginning God made man and God made woman. But woman couldn’t meet man because woman worked in publishing/teaching/Outer Mongolia, and so God made the Internet to bring together man and woman and so Internet Dating was born.


But not all dating sites are born equal. Some are the equivalent of a squalid 5am fumble in the Dalston Jazzy (, others are a repository for the “broken biscuits, the Raggy Dolls”* if you will, of the dating world ( is a light-hearted canter through a fairly representative cross-section of society and Guardian Soulmates is an opportunity to flex your writing muscles and dazzle London’s wannabe intellectuals with your sparkling wit and repartee. Or alternatively to read other people’s genuinely original and clever profiles and weep green tears of jealousy at your own pale offering.

*genuine quote describing ‘us’ ie him and me, from a man on Soulmates. Pah!

Ok, so you’ve picked your weapon of choice. Let’s assume you forwent the fumble and eschewed the Raggy Dolls but whichever you chose it’s time to perfect that pout because the MOST important thing for internet dating is a set of killer photos. But take note:
1) under no circumstances should you include a picture of your pet(s).
2) if your habitual photo face gives World Gurning Champion Tommy Mattinson the willies you might want to get practising in the privacy of your own home.
3) Try to avoid taking the very best photos of yourself ever then realising there’s a toilet just behind your right ear. In every single photo.

Boys only look at the pictures, right? Wrong! It turns out that some of them can read too. So, here are some possible approaches:

The numbers game: paint yourself as sport-mad (man alive boys love sport) with a passport to rival Michael Palin’s; name check a few lowest common denominator bands, tv shows and comedians, and pilfer some funny lines from other people’s profiles and Bob’s-your-uncle your inbox will be heaving with mail. Can’t vouch for its quality though.

The fantasy: an entirely fictitious profile gives you free reign to showcase your eloquent prose and highly original sense of humour. Must be done with conviction but can net interesting results. Seems to attract a mix of the very good and the totally nuts. Nothing in between (they’re all emailing the girls who went for the approach above).

The truth: Now, go easy with your use of the truth. And as mentioned above – don’t admit to any crazy woman pet-owning tendencies, but you never know – you might actually be a genuinely cool and interesting person. In which case you don’t need my help. Go away.

And there, dear readers, I shall leave you - polishing your pout and your prose, poised ready to launch yourself onto the unsuspecting dating world - as this post has rambled on far too long already. Part deux shall follow anon.

Wednesday, 22 September 2010

He looked like a capuchin monkey

Some dating statistics for the past 5 months:

Birthdays: 1 (now aged 30. Gah)
Wrinkles: multiplying. The stress!
Spots: bloody loads of them. The booze!
No. of men dated during this time: 9
Passion kisses (of the 9): 5. Kerrist. That’s quite a hit rate.
Dead pets: 1
Accusations of betrayal: just the 1, thanks.

However, to date I have been lucky enough to avoid any real horrors . . . Unlike today’s guest blogger who sent us the scoop on just a couple of her recent dates.


... within five minutes of meeting up with him he had told me that his wife had left him because of their huge financial problems where he'd lost £200,000, which understandably caused problems between them. How he'd been conducting a mental love affair for the past nine years (not physical) but that she died of bowel cancer last October. And how three days into their only holiday in twenty years his wife decided she'd rather live on her own!! I felt like slashing my wrists!! and wondered why she'd been with him at all. Then, when pressed, he admitted he was still living under the same roof as his wife....NEXT!!!!


This guy was a Jewish architect - but we'd managed to have a good line going on in email exchanges for a week or so, and although in his sixties I thought he looked pretty good - not suspecting of course that the profile photograph of himself was a good 25 years old!

I felt like running when I saw him tip toeing towards me - he looked ancient! I towered above him. He had the physique of a six year old, and I'm not sure whether his hair was real or not but it was very bouffant and bigger than his wizened little face which looked rather like a capuchin monkey . . .

As he has an interest in art I made the mistake of inviting him along to my stained glass teacher's private view of her glass exhibition. I'm not sure what she thought but I saw her looking. Twice!! So embarassing...

Friday, 3 September 2010


Addiction. Obssession. Compulsion. No, not ridiculous names for over-priced perfume, but words that perfectly describe my current state of mind.

It’s high time I checked into rehab.

But the very idea of going cold turkey brings me out in a sweat. And how could I possibly escape? Even if they wrestled my beloved laptop off me and confiscated the iPhone that’s permanently welded to my hand I’d still be able to get on the internet at work. And that’s 9 solid hours of access to my drug of choice. Yes folks, my name is (well, you know what my name is but I’m not writing it down here in case any men I’ve dated google me) and I am a DATEAHOLIC.

You know you’re a dateaholic when:

You check your email between alarm snoozes in case someone ‘favourited’ you while you slept.

Your ugly mug is posted on no less than 3 dating websites at any given time.

You ‘relaunch’ yourself on a dating site and the old familiar faces (of people you have never met) feel like friends.

And it’s at this point you find me, slumped and shivering in a corner (quite literally for those of you who have seen me at my desk on a Friday afternoon) casting around for my next fix. It doesn’t help that I’m kind of in between sites at the moment. I’ve been MSF clean for a month now, Guardian Soulmates isn’t working for me anymore and Eharmony was heavily cut with ugly people. In fact the most enjoyment I had from that site was filling out the survey about why I was cancelling my subscription.

But the drug keeps calling me so while I try to find an untapped vein I’ll take anything to keep the withdrawal at bay. I guess that’s how in the last couple of weeks I’ve dated Pube-Arms, Lady-Fingers man. And Teeny Tiny Shoulders boy or was he Extra Large Head boy? I couldn’t decide. And how last night I came to reply to an email that was sent to me no less than 2 ½ months ago, in a desperate bid to dull the craving. I’m seeing him on Sunday (it’s not a good sign is it? He should have told me to sod off). Which should just about see me through while I hone my new MSF profile in anticipation of a fresh delivery of class A men. And if that doesn’t work? I guess I may have to try real life again. Or there’s always speed dating!

Friday, 30 July 2010

What The Duck?

Other titles I considered for this post included: Duck’s Sake!, Ducking Unfair!, oh and of course I Found The Catch. There had to be a catch - after all no man is that perfect - and Duck Man, as he shall henceforth be known, turned out to be no different from the rest. So I shall now attempt to do for you what I couldn’t bring myself to do for him and that is summarise ‘in straight forward sentences’ what he did wrong.

Two words: hence why.

Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I could have learned to live with it. Except I know I couldn’t. I had already mentally corrected his English, rearranged his apostrophes and glossed over instances of random capitalisation. And in fairness he took it in good part when I corrected him. He even went on to use ‘hence’ without the redundant ‘why’ tagging along but his look of utter confusion when I explained to him why it was wrong told me we could never be soulmates. Still, even a grammar nazi like me doesn’t throw away a perfectly good man just because he capitalized the word 'Freezer' in an email. No, no I managed to pick all sorts of other ludicrous holes in his personality and indeed the very fibres of his being.* These holes include, but are not limited to, the following:

The fact that he bought 9 chickens just because I mentioned I had always quite wanted some.

His ability to expound on a subject at length without needing me to interject more than once every half an hour or so.

The fact that he doesn’t believe in global warming.

But he does believe his house is haunted.

And most disturbing of all: the fact that he didn’t laugh once when I played him the Flight of the Conchords album. So shocked was I in fact that I played it again in its entirety just to check. Nothing. Not even a chuckle.

And so the awful truth began to dawn that perhaps I wasn’t going to marry this man and have his babies after all. In fact I was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic.

This probably wasn't the best time therefore for my dog to attack one of his ducks. His son's favourite duck no less. I say 'attack' - she merely playfully pinned it to the ground by the neck and then looked up at me as if to say, "What? We're just messing" before letting it stagger free outwardly unharmed, if a little disgruntled.

I was due to see Duck Man a couple of nights later when I got a last minute phone call to say he couldn't make it. The duck had gone into shock and he had to stay at home and care for it.

Four days later the duck died. In front of his 8 year old son.

My dog killed my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's son's favourite duck.

Now I’ll never get to drive his Ferrari.

*I realise these are ridiculous reasons to dump someone. I may have been a bit picky.

Tuesday, 27 July 2010

Shit My Mum Says

Move over Craig David my new inspiration and muse is the great Justin Halpern of 'Shit My Dad Says' fame. If you haven't come across this phenomenon yet I urge you to google it pronto. And in the meantime I shall shamelessly rip him off for your blogging pleasure...

So....mothers, mums, mams, mas and mummys. Whatever you call them they gave life to us all. They nurtured us, fed, bathed, cuddled and cared for us; showering us with a seemingly endless supply of love no matter how stinky our nappy, or embarrassing our tantrum. What could be more sacred than the bond between mother and daughter?

Except I don't think my Mum read that bit of the idiot's guide to motherhood. I think she got bored and started reading 'how to lose friends and alienate people' instead. How else can you account for some of the shit that my Mum has said in the six months that I have been single? For example:

On living alone with dogs in London:
I'm just worried that your friends will stop asking you to go out because you always say no and that you'll end up a lonely old spinster. You don't want to end up like that woman who had her toe chewed off by her dog.

On my brother and his wife getting a divorce:
Well who knows what their reasons are. Maybe she wasn't giving him sex?

On relationship advice:
You do say sorry don't you? Never forget the power of sorry. Because I remember a certain young lady who swore that hell would freeze over before she would ever say sorry.
(MUM! I strongly suspect I was 16 when I said that!)

On needing her mother-of-the-bride moment:

If you DARE run off to Vegas and get married I will kill you.
(I had been seeing this man for TWO weeks)

On enjoying my independence:
Oh my god! You're not going to be a single parent are you?

On why I'll never keep a man:
Mum: I do worry about your black moods.
Me: What black moods?
Mum: Well you told me you were in a black mood last weekend when you went to see J.
Me: I was in a grump. It took me a whole hour to travel 1 mile in Friday evening traffic. A grump. It's different.

It's clear my Mum knows just where to stick the knife. And twist it. Truly - it's an art form. Are all mothers so skilled? What shit does your mum say? Answers on a postcard please. Or in the comments section below. Yep, down a bit and to the can't miss it.

Love is Blind...LITERALLY!

Hello blogettes! Long time, no see. Sorry about that. HackneyGirl has been "otherwise engaged" and I've been...well...on holiday perfecting my negress tan. All I can say is thank fuck for Datefatigue holding the fort and selflessly subjecting herself to some serial courtship!

Alas I bring you sad news, for I have just this week retired from the terrifying world of dating. No, not because I have finally accepted my destiny as terminally single cat-lady but because...STOP PRESS...I have met my match. The truth is, after all these interweb dating shenanigans and hours of my life devoted to making my profiles appear cool and my emails appear cooler, it turns out I'd been unwittingly dating my now boyfriend for months. Sound retarded? Yes, well that's because it is.

The best bit is that absolutely nobody found this news suprising apart from me. Actually most of my friends laughed in my face, belmed at me and sighed "finally". For my part, I am still a little bit surprised every day that the man who earnt himself the moniker Not-Your-Boyfriend is, in fact, Now-My-Boyfriend. This is a guy I've known for eight long years, most of which he's spent in a sealed box marked "not in this lifetime" (in my head..I've not quite reached that level of lunacy! Yet.) and the whole thing scares the shit out of me. Whoever said "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" is a dick. What if I lose one of my best friends, huh? Didn't think of that, did you, Tennyson? Oh well, too late now. So I have spent the last week perfecting a game-plan and this is it:


That's the plan. I'll keep you posted...

Meantime, to you all I say: open your eyes - you never know what ..or who.. might be lurking right under your nose.

And to my mother I say: IN YOUR FACE! Now where's my double bed?

Wednesday, 21 July 2010

RIP 4am guy

I didn't think I would be posting for a while but it turns out that just cos you have a 'boyfriend' (I'm struggling somewhat with that word at the moment) the spadework of the past few months doesn't necessarily vanish overnight. There is also a fair amount of dating 'admin' to deal with if you do decide to retire but more of that later...

For now, imagine my surprise when, just as I am trying to adjust to the good life (4 dogs, 3 ducks, 2 sports cars and a house in the country), my phone chirrups at 1.30am with a message from a man I had not heard from in months suggesting he take me out for dinner in a couple of weeks. I'm sorry. Is it ok to send such messages in the wee small hours? He got short shrift. He is not, however, the only man to rudely awaken me from my beauty sleep recently (via the medium of text. Not in an exciting way). Just a few weeks ago I received this message at 4am: "I'm massive and feared my sneaky hackney wonder you pump that sausage dog full of 'roids! x" He didn't get a second date either.

More surprising still was the text I received at 9.15am (yes, AM) last Friday from an unknown number. Unknown purely because I recently had my phone stolen in another unfortunate man-related incident. In fact I knew exactly who it was. Yes ladies. It was 4am guy. Or taxi man. Or fireworks snog man. However you like to fondly recall him he was my hot Passing Clouds lover who, not heard of since the evening of the inappropriate text message, had, I thought, vanished from my life forever along with my stolen phone. Yet here he was resurrected in all his glory and looking for a weekend of passion with yours truly. I won't lie to you; I did a small victory dance in front of the mirror, chanting 'HA HA I WIN' repeatedly whilst applying my make up. I then immediately replied with the lame pretence that I didn't know who it was thereby appearing to be both desperate and a slag who has any number of men booty calling her of a Friday morning. He vanished once more but I was confident I hadn't heard the last from him.

Fast forward to 1am Saturday night and I'm standing in my new man's kitchen tucking into my fifth mojito (he knows how to keep me happy) when my phone buzzes on the counter next to him and he picks it up saying excitedly, 'ooh you've got a message'. Mercifully he passed it straight over without stopping to read it (damn you iPhone text display - the scourge of extra marital activity) and while I took a perverse pleasure in stringing him along for a bit in the end it gave me no small amount of joy to send him packing.

RIP 4am guy.

Jessica was the cool one

Hello all,

At the request of the nauseatingly loved-up Hackney Girl I will be contributing to her beloved blog until she works out what the catch is (serial killer? It's still an option . . . ).
I've been going for the carpet bomb approach to meeting a man for the last couple of weeks (last week I managed 4 dates), and it has made me realise several things:

1. Just because a man writes a good email, that doesn't mean he can string a sentence together.
2. I only have four anecdotes and they're all a bit shit.
3. If all you do all week is go on dates, it's quite hard to answer the question 'so what have you been up to this week?' with anything other than 'stuff'.

But, whilst they've failed to set my world alight with their sparkling wit and big manly thighs, the men I've dated so far have at least provided some blog fodder...

Example 1:
Apropos of nothing, the first date of the week (let's call him Museum Boy) came up with the following:

MB: You know it's because we're bipedal.

Me: Um, what is?

MB: The fact that the female orgasm is so elusive.

Me: um...

MB: When we were all wandering about on four legs, doing it doggy-style, it was fine. Because, you know, the angle, and the friction and stuff.

Me: Um. Oh. Ha ha.

It's been suggested to me that a more appropriate response would have been 'your mum's bipedal', but I do think I should have informed him that a) it's not that elusive, b) there's really nothing to stop you doing it doggy-style despite the fact that you have arms, and c) when the fuck were we quadrupeds? but I think my knowledge of evolution might have been vastly inferior to his, so I let it be .

Example 2: Again, out of nowhere, date 2 (let's call him ENORMOUS nostril boy) came up with:

ENB: I stopped wearing a watch when I realised that Jessica Fletcher didn't wear one.

Me: Oh, um, really? Like as in Murder She Wrote? Angela Lansbury? Really?

ENB: Oh! No! Oh my god, that's so embarrassing. No, I meant - oh shit, what was her name - they were twins - she was the cool, naughty one.

Me: (disbelieving) Jessica from Sweet Valley High?

ENB: Yes! She was much cooler than the other one. And she didn't wear a watch.

No second date for you, you big freak. Although he's right, Elizabeth was lame.

Aaanyway, last night I had my first SECOND DATE. I had to see him again, because he hadn't said or done anything blog-worthy yet - he's just nice, and tall, and has hair as soft as a baby bunny. He kissed me, finally, just as we were about to part company at the end of the evening, and the moment was marred only by the whimpering homeless person and her two dogs who were sitting at our feet at the time. He will be getting a THIRD DATE, but remember, nothing interesting is allowed until FIFTH DATE. In the meantime, I have another date tonight, and have had a call from the weeping rock-star. More of both of those if they become interesting . . .

Monday, 5 July 2010

What's the catch??? What is it? TELL ME GOD DAMN YOU!

I'm a bit nuts right now. You might have gathered. You might also have noticed that there's been a little bit less blog-action recently.

Why? Well because I've met the most amazing man. The kind of man who brings you a picnic on your first date and mixes you mojitos in the park just because you mentioned you like them. That kind of man. Like I said. Amazing.

Too amazing in fact. He's funny, and clever, and charming. He's tall, handsome, generous, thoughtful, rich (well, reasonably)and practical. And did I mention he is THE MOST AMAZING KISSER? Did I mention that? I think it's worth mentioning again. AMAZING. Oh and he seems to really, really like me. These things in combination are literally unheard of.

So what's the catch? Hmmm? Hmmm? Seriously?! It's killing me.

Tomorrow is 4th date and if I find out what's wrong with him I'll let you know. But if by some miracle there isn't a catch you will not see me for dust. After all this is not a man you blog about...

Thursday, 24 June 2010

Stop press!...Romance is NOT dead!!!

Okay, so before you get excited, nobody's been getting romantic with me. Obviously. But this week I have witnessed(ish) not one but TWO romantic acts. Which kind of gives you hope.  And by you, I do of course mean me. It gives ME hope.

Romantic gesture #1
I was at a concert on the weekend (very quaint in a marquee on the lawn of the village court of course). The conductor who lost his wife several years ago but now has a new partner had run the orchestra for 23 years and this was the final concert before he and his new lady move away. Half way through, the orchestra were unexpectedly handed scores to one of his partner's all-time favourite pieces of music.  While our conductor friend joked that this was to demonstrate that the orchestra sound the same sight-reading as they do practised (true in fact - I should know, I played in it for ten years!) it struck me that this man had actually written a 120-part arrangement of a piece of music his lady loves just for her. It's like the extreme version of a mix-tape. The orchestra of course massacred the piece but it's the thought that counts, right?

Romantic gesture #2
This week it was a good friend's boyfriend's birthday - his first since they've been together. So my friend emails me...
"I'm trying to decide whether to buy him cupcakes and bring them at lunch...or if that's a little crazy."
Now for me this is a no-brainer. Someone just said cupcake for goodness sake. So of course I offer mild encouragement...
"Definitely think you should get cupcakes! It's not crazy, it's EXCELLENT!!" 
Fast forward a couple of hours and I get another email which starts "So you'll get a kick out of this story..." My friend has trekked miles across town to a specific cake shop (cost - $10 cab ride), spent an age carefully selecting the cakes she thinks her boy will like best (cost - $25) and then walked four blocks just to take a bus over to his office.  My friend has to spell her boyfriend's surname about sixty-five times before the security guy eventually gets it and calls his desk. He's not there.  He tries again.  The boyfriend is still not there. So my friend explains about the birthday and the cakes and whatnot...can she leave them with security for the boyfriend to pick up whenever he comes back from wherever he is? No! It's food. You can't leave food with Security (presumably because they'll just eat it!).  Ok, well can it be delivered to his desk by the post guys? Hell no! Post guys can only deliver packages and the cakes aren't technically a package.  Finally my poor friend gives up and hot-foots it back to work (cost: $12), cakes still in hand.  

Ordinarily I'd say you can't put a price on romance but in this case...well, 47bucks!  Eeeesh...

In other acts of random gallantry...this week I watched a guy heroically fend off a killer seagull as it swooped down on his girlfriend. Okay, so the gull was mostly interested in the pasty this girl was stupid enough to be holding in plain sight (rookie mistake) but the boyfriend did still throw himself into the path of the bird.  And knocked the pasty from his girlfriend's clutches in the process! True story.

So you see, romance AND chivalry are alive and kicking.  Now, if someone would like to throw a bit of both in my general direction, that'd be lovely.

Monday, 21 June 2010

Strange Irish Boy

I’m not known for entertaining weirdos. In fact until very recently I was the go-to girl for any sticky man-related look at my disapproving face never failed to send them running for the hills.

But that was then.

Nowadays, reveling in my new found optimism and take-one-for-the-blog attitude, I find I am actually enjoying the often insane, sometimes inane and frequently deeply inappropriate conversations I keep ending up in. How else do you explain that weekend text? I knew it wasn’t going to tempt him to my place any time this century but I couldn’t resist the kick of getting a reaction.

And clearly I am not alone. Logging in to Guardian Soulmates on Monday morning I was greeted by two messages. One read:

I want that spontaneous moment where someone dares me to strip at a party and I do it.

The other read:

“I seem to have got myself into a ridiculous messaging situation with a 29 year old in Northern Ireland...very odd”

It didn’t take a genius…

I could also see that he was online so, at the risk of communicating with a man who’s wanking himself dry behind his computer screen while the good ladies of GS send him their strip stories, I decided to see where this might lead.

You mean you've never done that?

Never. Have you?

Not recently. I can't resist a challenge though.

How many times have you done it? All the way? When was the last time? Tell me all!

Why would I? I'm sitting at my desk pretending to be respectable!

Is that all I'm getting?

Well...there was an incident in a log cabin in Bavaria. That was fun.


Ski chalet?

School trip.

And that really is all you're getting. You've got to give to receive...

School trip!

What do I have to give?

You'll think of something. I have faith.

Radio silence. I’ve lost him.

Bah! FAIL.

So tell me this many women replied to the blanket email? You were emailing my best friend only last night....

HaHA! Yeah I'm starting to panic!

Well, a woman last night started telling me what she'd like to do after I strip.
Should I send it?


HaHA! Here it is!
i like the idea of an open bottle of champagne, I meet you at the door - you can have one sip - then come in, strip, will have a bath run for you - will wash you all over and then dry you off. With a towel or any other method I choose or feel free with your ideas?! What would you like to do?

Good lord. Just the one sip. She sounds strict.

What did you say to that?!

I played along. She sent more. Should I send it all?

Why the hell not! You're livening up my Monday morning that's for sure.

Ooh that sounds great!!

He then ACTUALLY sent me the word-for-word conversation he had with some poor woman. Well, I say conversation but she did all the work as she points out in a rather bewildered way in her last message (I will spare you the rest):

well when i have finished massaging you - am hoping that you have kept up! then i think i will climb on top of you and lower myself onto you and then slide up and down until i come and then .... feel free to join in - at the moment I am doing all the work!! I have to go out for 5 mins - you tell me what you are going to do to/for me!!!!

Oh!! Don’t go looking at her profile or she’ll get suspicious I’ve told you!!!!!!

She's 41 by the way. And she emailed me some pictures. I could email you them if you really wanted a look.


Well I guess it's one way to get your kicks. I on the other hand prefer to meet people in real life! Revolutionary I know.

Also, I hope you don't mind but you're probably going to be immortalised on the web. I write a dating blog.... I don't tend to mention that in my profile!

HaHA!! Will I be immortalised with a fake name?!
And the stripping thing isn't dating by the way! It's not a chat-up line!

You can be called whatever you like. I was going to go with StrangeIrishBoy. I may send you the post when I've done it.

It's been interesting.
Is there any chance we could be friends or am I just material?

*Ok she’s not really going by that name on GS but I’m not gonna tell you her real one am I?

Wednesday, 16 June 2010



On ending up in bed on a first date.
“My problem is I’m just too comfortable naked.”


“So I read this (totally true) news item about some guy in Kent who had his hands mauled off by a bear leaving him unable to contact the awesome girl he met on Saturday. Sad story...Was this you? Either way, when are we having coffee?”


"Ok so either I was too subtle or you're not up for some no strings attached hot sex. Which is it?x"


On complaining about having to sleep in a single bed at their house.
"The day you actually come home with a partner you can have a double bed."



i m Kevin man he resist one man betrayed by a kiss Pride in the Name of Love”


Well, you have to follow your heart....(or whatever it is that you follow)... does it feel to have someone come on to you, part with a passion kiss, then dump you by e-mail? Not great really...betrayal I believe is the word. I guess there's shallow too. Kinda fucks with your bearings...and what does it say about YOU that you think that it is an OK way to treat someone?

So...if you're gonna date anyone else here's my advice: pay your own way 'til you're sure you like someone...that's good for your soul (i.e. don't be a cheap bum*, well, unless you're dating a banker)...but most of ALL be careful where you show affection... people might even think that you mean it.

oh yeah...that's the last rule, before you kiss someone for kicks...ask yourself whether you actually give a shit about them. Because otherwise you might just as well punch them in the stomach. ( they won't see that coming either).

on a positive have managed to up my sure is a shallow and selfish world out there...!

Eeeshk! Too many more like that and I'm going to have to retire from this dating lark...

*please note this guy spent max £20 on me over the course of two dates.

Monday, 14 June 2010


I didn’t think there was going to be a third part to this post but events have decreed otherwise so here’s the scoop on the rest of my uber-dating week…

Some ill-advised drunk texting saw me putting in a booty call to a man I met recently. Unfortunately as he doesn’t live in London I used the pretext of inviting him to a party. There is no party.

The whole of London had World Cup Fever. Except me. I had man fever. For a change. A night on the tiles was on the cards and my favouritest ever venue – Passing Clouds - was the destination via a quick stop off at Dalston Superstore which was jam-packed with hot, stylish but very definitely gay men. So off to PC I skipped with my beloved next door neighbour and partner-in-crime hell bent on seeking out some mischief. Mischief, and a lot of whisky, duly found we were heading cab-wards around 4am when I suddenly spotted a hot guy who’d been flirting with me earlier. As I’d been in the process of flirting with someone else immediately beforehand I had decided it wasn’t seemly to flirt back (too much) but as I ran past him towards the taxi I figured I’d never see him again and planted a huge smacker on his cheek. Whereupon he grabbed my arm, spun me round and gave me the snog of my life. Seriously, the earth moved, fireworks exploded overhead, I gibbered like an idiot and somehow had the presence of mind to exchange phone numbers before weaving my way unsteadily to the waiting taxi.

Ouch. And double ouch when I remembered I had a date that afternoon with a Guardian Soulmate. I wavered and wavered but with an hour and a half to go I’m ashamed to say I cancelled, changed out of my date clothes, climbed onto the sofa with some good old Jilly Cooper and a couple of furry companions for some serious hangover time. Maybe it was Jilly's influence but my mind kept wandering back to the 4am guy. Would I ever hear from him again? Then hey presto! A text. The next thing you know he's virtually hot footing it round to mine to help 'cure' my hangover! Reason reasserted itself at the last minute and I managed to steer it towards meeting for a drink instead so it was bye bye Jilly, dogs, trackie bums and blankets and back into that date outfit for round 2!

Pleasingly he turned up. Even better he was hotter than I remembered. And best of all I got to have another go at the fireworks display. Next time I will be giving him my address...

Saturday, 12 June 2010


And at the risk of sounding like Craig David...

Tuesday's date launched a text and email assault on my diary. We had agreed Monday for the rerun but by bedtime he had somehow brought this forward to Thursday. Yes, TOMORROW. Was this dude another nutter? I thought I might as well find out sooner rather than later.

So...the following evening, accompanied by my two dogs, I meet him in my local(ish) boozer. Cue lots of slightly tortured jokes about dogging and dating three women - two of whom turned out to be right bitches. See me cringe? But he was cute, he was keen, he was paying. He was also, unfortunately, driving, which meant as I knocked back the g&ts getting steadily drunker and drunker he was on the water. He also complained from time to time of pain in his ribs. Not being naturally sympathetic I just ignored him but around about the time my face started its customary cycle through the red pantone chart he was putting on an extra jumper and starting to shiver.

Undeterred and aware that I was going to have to make the move or risk reaching THIRD DATE without so much as a peck on the lips (and frankly who has the time to invest in such fruitless dating?) I snogged his face off in the street. Poor boy (I say boy - the man's 36 for god's sake) was terrified. And frankly I was disappointed; kissing my own knee would have been more exciting. At this point the cringe-factor rocketed off the scale. I can't bring myself to relate what was said but the word 'minx' was involved and a later text message spoke of our 'fabulous kiss'. Good lord. Not from where I was standing!

The following day my poor love-sick boy texted me from his sick bed, wrapped in blankets and worried I might have caught his bug. Not helpful when I'm trying to erase all memory of the evening from my brain but at least his incapacitation gives me a few days breathing space to figure out how I wriggle out of this one!

Of course I could just send him a link to this post...

Thursday, 10 June 2010


Forget Paul McKenna, just take the first train to crazytown and shwazam! Okay, before you get excited I’m not actually thin but this dating malarkey is playing havoc with my eating skillz. As in, I don’t have any because I am racked by extreme nervous tension resulting in a state of perpetual date-related knotty belly syndrome. Last night, for example, I had dinner with a friend and despite a measly tuna sandwich being the only sustenance to have passed my lips all day, I still could not finish my meal. Unprecedented! At least if I don’t get a boyfriend out of all of this, I may lose a few pounds. ...Or just pass out.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010


From the sublime to the ridiculous, from date desert to man magnet, suddenly a slot in my diary is seriously in demand!

So, MONDAY. Speed dating. I tackled this in the same way I do everything – interviews, business trips to scary places, work - giving it absolutely no thought whatsoever until I arrive and then freaking out. I knew the organizer and arrived an hour early. BIG MISTAKE. Cue an hour shifting uncomfortably in my seat and attempting to eat a mammoth portion of chips slathered in ketchup in an enticing (not repulsive would have done) manner as wave after wave of stunning, stylishly attired ladies rolled up to be shiftily assessed by the male ‘talent’ already in situ. A sticky label with my name hastily scribbled on it marked me out as a contestant (because lets make no bones about it this was definitely a competition…unfortunately I’m not sure the prize turned up) and gave each man a legitimate opportunity to ogle my chest. There was an initial glimmer of hope in the form of a rather handsome chap but he hastily distanced himself from the whole sorry affair by loudly pronouncing himself spoken for. In fact anecdotally you are far more likely to pull at a speed dating event if you are already in a relationship as the entertainingly titled DJ Reacharound found on Monday…his girlfriend looking on in hysterics while some poor unsuspecting girl launched herself at him.

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t terrible. It was actually quite fun at times, especially once I’d taken rather too many beers on board, but my favourite moment was when I looked down at my score sheet and realised that instead of writing the last guy's name on the sheet I had written my own. He was fairly dire...clearly I thought I would rather date myself.

Verdict: quite fun but it's essentially the worst bit of every first date over and over again. Not sure it’s really the way to meet someone. Might give it another go though just in case…

TUESDAY. Actual dating! The second attempt at my first internet date in fact. Let’s hope this one isn’t a stalker. Once again I used the old la la la fingers in the ears approach aided and abetted by a hangover and a severe sleep deficit from the speed dating the night before. I yawned my way through the day, we exchanged a few texts, both of us being totally flaky about where or when, and leaving it as 9ish, somewhere. This gave me the opportunity to head home, walk my dogs, catch an hour’s kip on the sofa (risking squashed stripy pillow face) while fending the dogs off intermittently (nothing like a dog’s tongue down your ear to get you in the mood for a hot date), then quick change, new make up and I was ready to rock by 8.30pm.

So all dressed up and no idea where we were going I powered up my laptop and started surfing Guardian Soulmates for talent (this is my usual activity when at home). 20 minutes later I texted him. He rang straight away to say he was stuck at an exhibition in Brick Lane. Slightly irritated, and stunned to find myself suggesting I come to meet him in Shoreditch (he had been meant to be coming to me!), I headed out at last.

Arriving at 9.30pm he still wasn’t there and my phone beeped ominously with what turned out to be my friend informing me she had bailed on her date for the evening. Before mine had even arrived! Still, he chose that moment to finally make his entrance and after some awkward peering at each other to establish that yes we were the right people we vowed to try and have a more successful night than my friend. At which point it all started to go with a bit more of a swing. There were some awkward moments like the mishearing of boobs instead of boots. This went on for a while…why he thought I would have been talking about my boobs I do not know but nevermind. I had also managed to squeeze us into the tiniest corner of the restaurant and what had seemed like a romantic nook swiftly became a sweating hellhole with my face steadily moving from rosy glow through beetroot mess to pulsatingly puce. Those of you who know me won’t necessarily be surprised by this but it is unfortunate on a first date. It is also something that always happens when I drink on a hangover so I should know better. And sadly the hangover let me down in more ways than one as by 11pm I was virtually incapable of stringing a sentence together and when asked what I like doing when not at work (we had talked shop a fair bit) I literally could not think of a single thing apart from drinking! How to present oneself as a rounded individual eh?

So, on the basis that neither of us was making much sense we decided to call it a night and catch up again another day. He very sweetly promised to call me and has been in touch already to arrange another date for next Monday, so now I just have to stay off the booze on Sunday. Except, you guessed it, I have a date with someone else Sunday afternoon…oh dear.

Monday, 7 June 2010

Buh-bye NOT date, hello HOT date!

Hooray, hooray, hooray! We have one actual bonafide non-shit date under our chastity belts. It went so well that in my head I am going to marry the man and move into his four-bedroom seaside house imminently. I nearly high-fived everyone in my path on the way to the tube this morning. But then I remembered that yesterday was the day for punching the air in jubilation. Sadly I was too hungover, the window of opportunity has passed and today (day 2 post-date) is the downer. It's 8.48am and I'm halfway to crazytown. Mentally. In real life I'm halfway to work. Frankly I'm not that keen on either destination.

So here beginneth the undignified insanity...Why hasn't he called?? Why? Does he not like me? (Would I blame him? Christ, I'm behaving like a deranged person) He said he'd "drop me a line" to sort out meeting up again this week...drop me a line??? Doesn't he realise that's waaaaay to non-specific a notion for my tiny brain to deal with? Of course, were I remotely capable of being reasonable I would just take the fact that he did actually indicate that there would BE another date as a positive and shut the fuck up, right? Ha! As if. So, dear blogettes, what's the form with this nowadays? Do these boys still play it cool for three whole days before getting in touch? Let's hope not. I'm fairly sure I'll have given myself an embolism obsessing about it by then...

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

You're hot; I'm insane: we should hook up!

Cupid was clearly working overtime this bank holiday weekend as the single men of London simultaneously turned on, logged in and copped off.

Or tried to.

Judging by the amorous overtures of these wannabe cassanovas I think our mothers can keep their hats firmly in the wardrobe. Here's a small selection of genuine love notes received by eligible ladies of london this weekend for your delectation...

hi darling,

arent you mighty fine in every way possible !!

dont worry i live a mere 2hrs from london and i ll be there thurs - sat also dont get TOO excited, steady .....

if you like caring genuine strong yet romantic men then you should make the effort
"because i am worth it"


Having read your profil I find you complex, pretty, interesting and a great challenge. In fact you're just real !
You don't seem to be the kind of girl who like to know people through a laptop...
So if you fancy lets make it real, a call, a catch up...and lets start building the feeling between us.



Please excuse the unsolicited intrusion, however, having read your ditty I feel we have mutual interests worthy of exploration. I would welcome the opportunity to catch up and investigate the potential 'spark' we could experience to our reciprocal pleasure.

I'm hopefully a little different to most people you're going to encounter here, so if you're unhappy with the kind of approaches you're receiving you might wish to get in touch...



i notice we are an 84% match - for each other

i wonder what that means - that we're just a couple of dicks?


3 rambling paragraphs came before this…

Anyway, thanks for reading my message. Enjoy the rest of the bank holiday weekend, have fun and take care.


PS I have to admit my name is not really Kobuta. It was just some memory of my childhood of a mug with it on I used to use in Japan. It means piglet. My real name is Robert.

Hi goldilocks. Only boys with OCD like lists. I like them. why not marmite? awesome. found some marmite cheese the other day.


Of course, the thing about Cornwall is that if you like it, you *have* to like it whatever the weather, because any visit there - no matter how short - is guaranteed rain at least once. And proper rain, too.

It's possible that this isn't your experience with the place; but then I'd be forced to conclude you're a witch, or something...

- Aakash

ps if are you a witch, or something, I wasn't being derogatory.

Thursday, 27 May 2010

Listen to your cold feet - they know what they're talking about.

Ok so I know you’re all on the edge of your seats waiting to hear how my first ever internet date went, right? Well me being me you had to know it couldn’t go well. And in fact I think I have managed to bag myself my very own personal stalker. WAY TO GO!

I should have clocked it earlier but I’m new to this game and his profile was very funny – dry and sarcastic – and his pics were pretty cute. His emails were short and to the point and he seemed keen to meet up rather than spending lots of time exchanging inane emails. My impression: alpha male, possibly quite arrogant but could be a lot of fun. So, to a backing track of alarm bells faintly tinkling, I agreed to meet him for a drink the following evening. And that’s when the trouble started.

8am. My phone buzzes. It’s a text seemingly checking I gave him a real number. Concerning. I reply with a one word affirmative.
8.10am. Another text. This time re-confirming the details of our date later on. I do not reply.

The uneasy feeling persists throughout the day but I am repeatedly reassured that everyone feels like this before their first internet date. Just go along! What’s the worst that can happen? Ok Dr. Pepper, fine, I’ll go!

6pm. Another text. ‘See you soon. x’ SERIOUSLY! I am going to bail if he sends me one more word. I send a matter of fact response. Definitely no kisses.
7pm. (we’re meeting at 8 and I am at this point waiting at a bus stop). Another text! This time saying he’s been delayed at work. So I ring him to find out if he’s a total loony or what. It rings out. I leave a message then head home. This guy has clearly never been out with a girl in his life.
8pm. Buzz, buzz. ‘Just leaving. Can be there in 5 mins.x’ Dude, did you not listen to my message – I’ve gone home for pete’s sake!
8.05pm. He rings me. It takes me FIFTEEN whole minutes to get him off the phone in which time he has repeatedly tried to find out where I live, offered to come and meet me near my house, asked me out for dinner on every single night of the next two weeks (it’s amazing how busy I am all of a sudden) and extracted a promise that I’ll check my diary and get back to him.
10.30pm. Unbelievably, he texts again. Not being insane myself I do not reply.
2am. Yes, you read that right, 2 o clock in the am, he messages me online to explain, yet again, what held him up. I will have to block his profile. He’s not going to like that.

So, I remain the undisputed queen of the ‘not’ date and very likely the object of some disturbed fantasy. I am also probably going to have to change my phone number. Do I feel just a little bit grubby and freaked out? Yes I do. Am I going to quit internet dating? Of course not! Or not yet anyway…

Tuesday, 25 May 2010


The news just in gentle readers (all seven of you) is this:

I Have A Date.


I also have a pulsating red spot on my chin.

So, barring volcanic ash, baggage strikes, him changing his mind and other random acts of god or BA, I should have an achooal date to blog about very soon. And so I shall shortly be off home to polish myself til I gleam and to empty my wardrobe of all possible outfits before realising I’ll just wear the first thing I tried on anyway.


Oh and if you never hear from me again I was meeting a stranger at Moorgate tube. Start the body search from there.

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

No sex please we only just met

There are certain occasions, like before you've reached fifth date (should you choose to subscribe to that bizarre notion), when you need to lock up your lady bits and hide the key somewhere you will NOT be tempted to fish it out from. This has never really been my strong point so I did a little canvassing on ways to ensure you don’t do the deed. Here are some of my findings:


The theory: Think Lady Gaga underwear-as-outerwear, think 21st century chastity belt, think SUPERHERO PANTS! Yes this is my favourite shag-avoidance strategy, as practiced by a good friend of mine, where you layer your underwear up as follows: knickers (we're not Paris Hilton), tights (think 1000 denier not seamed stockings), MORE knickers (why oh why?) hoping that the fear of having to explain your eccentric undercracker arrangements will be enough to douse your raging libido.

The verdict: It doesn’t work. Apparently he ripped both pairs off with his teeth! On second thoughts – sounds like a success to me!


The theory: Self-explanatory really...ditch your razor, axe the wax and embrace your inner wookie. Julia Roberts did it, now you can too. With so much body hair you'll never dare to bare and once you've bagged your man's heart you can zip down to the beauty salon to be de-furred before hopping into his bed.

The verdict: It doesn't work. And if he is particularly hairy you may find yourselves velcroed together in the morning. Get that salon on speed dial.


The theory: Simple. You're 30 years old and you live with your folks. No way in hell are you bringing that super hot but oh so unsuitable man home for a spot of how's your father under your actual father's roof. Na ah.

The verdict: It doesn't work. Believe me. Here are some bad things that can, and have, happened when you sleep with men in your parents house.

1) Ma and Pa are out. They have a much bigger bed. It seems like a fun idea at the time until your dad finds another man's pants under his bed and wants to know the reason why. Do you let your mum take the blame??
2) The walk-in. It's happened to everyone (right?) but not everyone is caught in the act of watching Peak Practice over their boyfriend's shoulder instead of concentrating on the job in hand.
3) The parental love-in. You wake up to the mother of all hangovers, vague memories of a last orders desperation snog and an empty bed. That's good right? You clearly employed both the SUPERHERO and HIRSUITS YOU strategies and they worked. Right? Wrong. He's loose in your house! And worse, your parents love him and keep asking when lovely Barry is coming over again...

Ah fuck it! You know what? I live alone. My legs are shaved. I'm only wearing one pair of, reasonably presentable, pants. And I'm certainly not getting any so perhaps THAT is the answer to complete shag-avoidance!

If any of you have strategies that actually work please please volunteer them on this blog. Your shame is in a good cause.

Monday, 17 May 2010

My big gay second date

So Friday night - official Date Night, lest you should forget - I set out for Second Date with a man we have affectionately nick-named Gramps. On account of the fact that he is old. We think. Anyway, I've bagged a second date which is quite an achievement in itself but what's more, Gramps has invited me round to his house. Me and him. Alone. In his house. Score! I'm looking forward to putting my new-found pashing knowledge (Nick Fisher, we salute you!) to the test...

Wait. What's that you hear? Oh yes, that's right...ALARM BELLS. This is me, after all. Of course this couldn't go to plan. Gramps being Gramps, he lives in the burbs. So I get my shots, renew my visa and head way out West, arriving on his doorstep respectfully, but not unreasonably, late. He answers the door - a good start - and we get to enjoy a slightly awkward greeting. I eventually sidle past him into quite a grand hallway whilst he bumbles on about how messy it is (it is pristeen) because he's having his kitchen ripped out. Somehow within roughly two minutes, he's decided we can't stay there, he's got his coat on and is ushering me back out the door. Dagnamit! We drive to a pub. Great - he is driving and you know what that means. Yes, friends, he won't be drinking meaning that where I might have relied on alcohol to break down some barriers, I will now be solely reliant on my feminine wiles. Fuckingtons!

We get a drink and sit by the river. The sun is setting. It's almost romantic. Er, except I'm dragging the conversation along like one of those World's Strongest Man competitors with a lorry strapped to his back. It dawns on me that so far - and I mean so far in our entire acquaintance, not just second date - he is yet to ask me a single question about myself. As already evidenced, I am Google-Clean so it's hardly as if there's not stuff he could be asking. Perhaps this is just the problem with dating egocentric artist types. Or perhaps he's just not interested in which case, why the hell am I here? The sun goes down. Gramps mentions it's chilly. Twice. We go inside before he can whip out a tartan rug....

We grab a conveniently available cosy little inglenook table and decide to get food. The menu is suspiciously extensive - and one stop short of pictorial. Everything sounds gross. Nevertheless we order. Or rather, he orders and comes back telling me that he thinks the gay barman fancies him. Great talking point, Gramps. Well done. As we wait, he comments on how he likes my watch - finally, a glimmer of interest in something to do with me besides my job. He asks to see it. I oblige. Then he puts it on, says how nice it is and asks if I think a man could get away with wearing one the same. It's basically a LADIES BANGLE for the love of god! "No." I say. "What, not even a designery man like me?" he asks. "Er no. It's clearly a girl's watch. For girls." I say. Gaylord I think.

Saved by the food, he gives the watch back. We eat. We talk about Dan Brown. I incredulously say I think his books are crap. Gramps disagrees in the most condascending of ways. There are some people at a nearby table having actual fun. They are talking and laughing and shit. Gramps mentions that they're really noisy. Twice. We HAVE TO MOVE TABLES. To get away from the fun-having, laughy people. Well, I say we move tables...what really happens is that he literally sprints across the pub leaving me to gather up my two bags, scarf, coat and drink. Whadda gent.

We sit at the new table. Gramps NODS OFF. No, I'm not joking. Okay, so the guy is jet-lagged from his recent trip but WTF?! We leave. As he drives me to the tube, I ask him where his new kitchen is coming from. "Oh I designed it myself and a joiner is making it for me. He did a really good job when he did my dressing room last year."

Dressing room?? What??? I think I'm still laughing a little bit when I get out of the car. And so endeth second date. Time to go home and get off with my own knee I suppose.

In retrospect, all I can say is: Gramps, dude, come out of the closet...dressing room...whatever you want to call it...

Friday, 14 May 2010

A little something for the weekend...

Look what we found!!! (sorry but this merits multiple exclamation marks. You'll see.) Yes, whilst having a recent rummage around her office my esteemed co-blogger came across a copy of A COMPLETE GUIDE TO KISSING by Nick Fisher. Meant for teenagers and published in 1997 - there must be some veeeery confused 20 somethings out there after receiving this advice. Here are just a couple of gems:

Closed eyelids make beautiful kissing targets. They are shaped like lips and the skin is soft and warm. To run your tongue gently around the eyelash and eyebrow or even feel the fluid mobility of the eyeball underneath can be a joy for both parties.


A lot of people worry about the technique of kissing..(and)..think about what it must be like to be kissed by them. But of course you'll never know because you can't kiss youself. Or can you? If you want to know what your lips feel like, practise on the back of your hand or on your knee. You can even draw a pair of lips on the fleshy top of your knee to give you something to aim at....Traditionally, pillows are recommended as good things to practise kissing on...The only trouble with too much pillow-kissing is that it dries out your lips, and, let's face it, it's a long way from the real thing!

Well thank goodness that's been cleared up for me. I shall be sure to tongue my next date's eyelids and I already know my pillow is a great snog so I guess I'm all set! Ok, ok, one more and this is one I'm sure we all remember from school disco days...

Gently plunge your tongue into your partner's ear. Hot, wet and succulent.

And if that hasn't got you in the mood for some loving this weekend then frankly I give up. Or throw up. Probably throw up actually after that. No seriously, keep your tongue OUT of my ear!

Thursday, 13 May 2010

Dear Old Love

I came across this website where you post notes to past loves, real or unrequited and it got me thinking back over old flames. That’s not true actually – I’ve been mercilessly facebook stalking them in recent weeks anyway but dearoldlove seemed like a good way to lay some ghosts. Even if you can’t lay those old boyfriends any more.

Feel free to join in! Here are some of mine, in reverse chronological order:

Dear Old Love,

I worried I had a really low sex drive. Now I realize it was just that I didn’t find you attractive.

Dear Old Love,

For ten years I have so often thought of you with lust. Facebook has fixed that for me – man you got fat!

Dear Old Love,

You’re still hot. Once again, thank you FB.

Dear Old Love,

I can’t find you! Either you got all my crazy messages trying to find you over the years and just think I’m nuts. Or something bad has happened. I hope it’s the former.

Dear Old Love,


Monday, 10 May 2010

Fifth Date

Comrades, we have recently been on the receiving end of a terrible rumour. Some key rules of the dating game have changed. Allegedly. In the olden days it went something like this:

1. sleep with the guy on a first date, you'll be considered a loose woman and will never hear from the bloke in question again.

2. sleep with the guy on a second date, you'll be judged, might get a third date or more likely a drunken booty call but he will almost certainly write you off.

3. sleep with the guy on the third date. Totally acceptable. This man might actually go out with you for more than about five minutes.

So third date. THIRD DATE, people.

Fast forward to the year 2010 and imagine our surprise (and dismay) as some bright young things tell us we now have to wait until fifth date. Fifth Date? FIFTH DATE??!! Are you kidding? Given that it takes an average of two weeks to organise one date in this crazy town, I'll be like 85 before I score again.

I recently ran this newfangled rule past a guy friend of mine who instantly sank into a depressive state, declared he might as well be a eunuch or otherwise enlist the services of a 'professional' to save both time and money.

A recent poll we conducted (very scientific I assure you despite the lack of clipboards), showed that most of us are struggling to get to second date, let alone fifth and only one person had heard about this supposed new rule anyway. ...suspicioussss...

So, "Fifth Date", the youngsters might like you but you're not welcome round these parts. Yes, the game has changed and dating might have gone digital but as far as the rules go, we're playing old school, baby.

Saturday, 8 May 2010

The HOT date and the NOT date

My first proper date. And a blind date at that. All I had to go on was a grainy black-and-white photograph and a quick call to arrange the details. Sounds a little rash perhaps but we're talking friend-of-a-friend here not internet so I thought the likelihood of my limbs ending up distributed in bin bags around Hackney was low enough to make it worth the risk.

And it was FABULOUS! 5 uninterrupted hours of chatting, laughing, drinking, laughing, drinking, drinking, walking me home, drinking, snogging and I even managed to post him out the door before I did anything stupid. SUCCESS! I thought, immediately before passing out on the sofa in a pile of shoes and dogs.

Now, the stinking hangover that inevitably followed may have affected my judgement somewhat because I decided it was ok to send him a text. Nothing heavy - just sharing of hangover pain - but the response was decidedly brushy offy. Puzzling. Vague memories of THE RULES started to float back to me. But what were the rules? And had they changed in the intervening 7 years? I determined to find out for the good of femalekind and when I've reached some kind of conclusion I will share my new found wisdom with you. But for the meantime I digress so back to the aftermath of the hot date.

After 4 days superglued to my phone, and physically jumping at every text received by anyone within a mile's radius, I was duly rewarded with an offer of a second date. In 10 days time. More waiting. I am not good at waiting.

But inevitably the day rolled around and washed, brushed and dressed-up to within an inch of my life I arrived at the appointed location in a cloud of expensive new perfume anticipating another brilliant night. Now I should probably have realised it couldn't be this easy. And the cryptic text I'd received earlier that week about something being 'complicated' definitely should have tipped me off but surely he was just going to tell me that work was difficult at the moment or an elderly aunt was sadly on her last legs. He couldn't possibly be going to tell me that he was seeing someone else. Could he? Oh, that's EXACTLY what he's telling me, right now. If I close my ears does that make it not true? If I click my heels 3 times will I be at home again? Suddenly my killer outfit is ridiculous. The high heels just painful. And is he really telling me about all the problems with this other girl? No I don't want to know her name, age and lack of desire for children. I want children god dammit! Oh and the fact that she's dating other people. She sounds lovely.

And somehow, instead of clutching my wounded pride and walking out of there I found myself tottering unsteadily along to the comedy night we'd planned to go to. The rest is a blur really. And you know what's worst? I'd put money on the fact that he'll reappear around the time the other girl finally dumps him off for someone better. The question is what will I do when that happens?? I really couldn't say.

Friday, 7 May 2010

Too Much Information

Technology has A LOT to answer for. That's all I can say. Back in the day, you could pop the odd name into yahoo or whatnot and spend hours of your life scrolling through pages of absolute tosh, none of which would be related to the thing you were actually looking for. Then Google came along with it's super-duper military grade industrial search engines and, well, buh-bye anonimity.

I am suddenly just a tiny bit grateful to be literally the dullest lady in all of christendom. Google me and you get nothing. Nada. Zilch. YES I've googled myself. And so have you. Don't deny it.

The problem comes when you find yourself dating someone with data. How much information is too much information? I mean, is it wrong that on a recent first date with a man I'd never met before I already knew his entire career history, where he grew up, what his father did and who his sister was married to? Probably. But you see, I blame Google. They offer me 36,200 "results" for my beau. Am I seriously expected to resist that kind of temptation?!

In any case, I survived the date without any major slip-ups. At no point did I blurt out "yeah I know" as he told me something I couldn't possibly have known without having googled him to within an inch of his life. Nor did I respond "that is BRAND NEW INFORMATION" in a most unconvincing way. So, I guess, success! But do I feel like a mentally sub-normal, deserves-to-be-sectioned interweb stalker? Affirmative. Will that stop me from googling the time in the far-away country he's currently visiting? For the fourth time today... Of course not!

What? Like you wouldn't do it too!...

These are the facts: Dating makes you mental. And Google is the fast-track to clinically insane. ...Or prison.

Single girls and boy scouts

Suddenly London is teeming with HOT men. Were they there all along or are my hormones getting the better of me? You never know when one might appear. So ladies, make like a boy scout and BE PREPARED!

Yes, you were nice and warm in your jeans and cardie, and I agree that trainers are much more suitable for walking the dogs but in the war against lonesome-ever-after unsuitable shoes and lipstick are your very best weapons. Oh and plasters. You'll need lots of plasters for your ruined feet.

One unfortunate side effect of full makeup at 9am was however brought home to me recently while I was road-testing a possible date outfit.

Passing (creepy) man: "Excuse me honey, do you know a place for massage or sauna?"
Me: (Seriously considering the question for a second). "Errm?!"

But then the following weekend whilst wandering the streets of hackney in search of a restorative fry-up I stumbled across just such an establishment. So next time I'll know exactly where to send him...

Thursday, 6 May 2010

Dating makes you mental. Fact.

Welcome to the dating diaries of a mental woman.

I wasn't always mental. In fact just a few months ago I was entirely sane, living a sedate existence that revolved around daily dinner dilmenas and entertaining pet antics.

And then, scant months before my 30th birthday and cast off by a cheating bastard, I became single for the first time in 7 years. Now, considering it took me 3 years to find my last boyfriend I have to say terror took hold pronto and I decided the only sensible thing to do was ship out of town and buy a shack by the sea where I could live out the rest of my meaningless days in the company of my dogs trying not to spoil anyone's view.

However my ex is less than keen on parting with our house and, forced to stay put, the next best distraction was to start DATING.

Now I never dated before. I was 23 when I met my ex for god's sake. In those days you didn't date - you just went to parties and shagged people. Usually the same people, repeatedly on and off. For years. Or perhaps that was just me? And perhaps that's why I was single for so long last time round! Hmmmm it all starts to make sense.

So anyway, it turns out the rules have changed! And there's this internet dating thing, of which more later, oh and it's all so confusing! So gather round and have a laugh at, I mean share in, the mentalness of my dating diaries.