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!