Gently up the stream

Dear readers,

Touch me – I’m real: living, breathing, surreptitiously-farting-at-my-desk proof that yes,
IT WORKS.
I found one.
On the internet.

It was instantly obvious that this one was different. He’s completely brilliant. So brilliant that there is nothing remotely blogworthy about him – I don’t want to jinx it. However, before I toddle off happily into the sunset (and you’re all sick in your mouths a little bit) I just wanted to tell you about my second-to-last ever internet date.

May I present to you….The Rower.

There are a lot of rowers on GSM – I think they find it hard to meet women because all they do is row and they get up ludicrously early. If you search for people who live in Putney or Richmond you’re bound to find one. This particular rower had specified that it was VERY IMPORTANT that anyone he went on a date with lived in Putney, so I don’t know how I slipped through the net. Anyway.

The rower was late. Luckily, I was on a pre-date date so I didn’t particularly care, but I was interested to hear his excuse nonetheless. He finally arrived, huge, breathless, sweaty, hirsute (he looked a bit like a well-fed homeless person if I’m honest, but that’s sort of my type) and full of the most wonderful excuse for tardiness I’ve ever heard ever:

“I’m sorry I’m so late, but I haven’t worn these jeans for a while and when I sat down on the bus they ripped because I’ve been in training and my thighs are a lot bigger than they were when I last wore them. So I had to go to the shop and buy a needle and thread to sew them up. I’m really sorry. It was a bit obscene though, so I thought it was better to be late than to flash my tackle at you in the pub.”

GLORY BE. Despite the obvious error at the end, this was and still remains my favourite excuse ever. He was late because his thighs were so big and manly he was literally bursting out of his clothes – it was obvious his gargantuan muscles wouldn’t fit in the piddly extra large shirts he was forced to buy, so he had to make little rips in the cuffs before he could roll the sleeves up. Woof.

I’m not normally a perv, honest, but I couldn’t stop looking at his arms. I wanted to lick him. I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying (mainly because it was BORING) as I kept imagining him picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder, rowing me away to a desert island somewhere etc etc.

I was so distracted that I didn’t notice how much we had been drinking. I’m a hardcore Gin and Tonicer and can put away 6 without much trouble, but the thing about rowers is that they don’t drink. They row, they train for rowing, they eat enormous bowls of pasta and they sleep. They are very dedicated. This guy was a professional rower, and told me the only time he really got pissed was after a race.

The upshot of this was that I suddenly found myself with a six foot four, 220 pound brick-shithouse of an inebriated man on my hands – he couldn’t walk properly, he was slurring his words and he kept falling asleep a little bit. I half wondered about taking advantage of him while he couldn’t think straight, but that felt a bit rapey so I put him in a cab (from Holborn to Putney – a small act of revenge).

So there you go – my last (hopefully) ever internet dating whinge. Over and out!