Are you unlucky in love? Terminally single? A magnet for dating disasters? I have just the thing for you . . .HDOJM is looking for new contributors as every bugger except for me has been well and truly struck by Cupid’s arrow since signing up and, well, I’m only one woman and I’m doing my best but there’s only so thin I can spread myself without crossing the line between serial dater and hooker.
What’s the worst that can happen? Chances are you’ll meet the love of your life within two posts so it’s a win-win!
You know who I am...email me.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
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!
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!
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
THREE LITTLE WORDS
POOOOMM! And she’s back. Yes folks you may have noticed the blog has been unnaturally quiet over the last few months during my Swedish sojourn but I’m back with a bang and doesn’t my liver, and wallet, know about it. So, what have I learnt while I’ve been moonlighting as a girlfriend? Well, mostly that I’m not cut out to be a girlfriend right now (going AWOL for 48 hours at New Year probably isn’t good girlfriendy behaviour right?) And that I’m not prepared to settle for anything less than (nearly) perfect so I’m hitting the dating trail yet again. I also learnt to count to 10 in Swedish! Useful but it was time to cut and run before he started trying to teach me the Swedish for I love you...
I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats (ahem) wondering what trouble I've got myself into this time so I'll fill you in...it took a couple of weeks to set some stuff up – had to jettison a proper hottie who was incapable of completing a sentence without LOL LMAO PMSLing – but at last the fruits of my online labour were due to come to fruition this week with a hot date with a(nother) Kent boy (hopefully no ducks will die this time). But before that date rolled around up popped a man I’ve named the Clapham Dough Boy who accosted me at a Shoreditch bus stop in the wee small hours of the weekend and demanded I go out with him. Classy. So you can imagine my surprise when on date two - over cocktails at the Savoy - he revealed his true identity as the heir to a bread-based family fortune. My future as a lady wot lunches (on sandwiches made with the family bread presumably) was surely made! But before you start rolling out the bun in the oven jokes I’m afraid to say...money’s no substitute for chemistry and there wasn’t much passion in that particular passion kiss. NEXT!
Fortunately I managed to squeeze a date with Kent boy in between said first and second Clapham Dough Boy dates and that went with a lot more swing, although we’re both far too old for snogging on public transport. Must. Grow. Up. Second date is next week and I can only hope he chooses a better venue this time...I damn nearly cancelled the first one when my disbelieving eyes read the other three little words any self-respecting girl dreads: ALL BAR ONE.
I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats (ahem) wondering what trouble I've got myself into this time so I'll fill you in...it took a couple of weeks to set some stuff up – had to jettison a proper hottie who was incapable of completing a sentence without LOL LMAO PMSLing – but at last the fruits of my online labour were due to come to fruition this week with a hot date with a(nother) Kent boy (hopefully no ducks will die this time). But before that date rolled around up popped a man I’ve named the Clapham Dough Boy who accosted me at a Shoreditch bus stop in the wee small hours of the weekend and demanded I go out with him. Classy. So you can imagine my surprise when on date two - over cocktails at the Savoy - he revealed his true identity as the heir to a bread-based family fortune. My future as a lady wot lunches (on sandwiches made with the family bread presumably) was surely made! But before you start rolling out the bun in the oven jokes I’m afraid to say...money’s no substitute for chemistry and there wasn’t much passion in that particular passion kiss. NEXT!
Fortunately I managed to squeeze a date with Kent boy in between said first and second Clapham Dough Boy dates and that went with a lot more swing, although we’re both far too old for snogging on public transport. Must. Grow. Up. Second date is next week and I can only hope he chooses a better venue this time...I damn nearly cancelled the first one when my disbelieving eyes read the other three little words any self-respecting girl dreads: ALL BAR ONE.
So, Cinderpunzel signed up to Guardian Soulmates and look what she got . . .
(bear with this...this particular fruitcake is a bit slow to get going but it's worth it!)
I hope you can tak a moment to read this and I hope you understand it.
You know what, I have been in this place for seven weeks now, I have met some lovely people, six to be precise and though I thought they all looked and sounded ideal on there profiles it just hasn't happened, you know, that thing.
I spent fourteen years with my last partner and do not regret a moment, I have been single for over a year, which has been nice, no responcibilities, remote control domination ect but I dont want to spend to much longer this way, everybody needs somebody I think, someone to tell all to.
Here is my predicament, I have a fantastic life, I have a secure job which im lucky enough to enjoy and I also run my own business in the entertainment industry which enables me to travel and have some great fun. I have no ties, no baggage, no problems, no ghosts in the closet and no phobias, apart from hair in food and grotty feet, I draw a line there.
I want to find someone to share this life and fun with and someone who wants to be open, honest and sharing in return, someone who has the inspiration and motivation to make the most of the time we have on this earth, someone with independence and the ability to be close at the same time, someone who can keep up with me as well, I party, I dance, I do a lot of things it probably sais I should not realy do in the rule book (not bad things I hasten to add).
Its taken me a long time to reach my present state of mind and I am very happy I have discovered it, I thought I would find someone like minded very easily on here, I thought most people forty plus may have reached this Utopia, sadly this is far from true as my six encounters and numerous email buddies on here have proven.
I am not sure anyone will tick all the boxes, what I do know is I need to find someone that I will "want" to share life with, that has not happened for a while.
All this babble has a purpose, I hope it allows you to understand that I am sincere, genuine, honest and caring, the six dates I have had are all very keen to meet me again, two of them a little bit to keen but it is not going to happen sadly, they all repeat what I have just said, one even said I was probably the nicest guy she had ever met and couldn't understand how I was single, I am sorry this all sounds very conceited but whats the point of beating around the bush. I don't proclaim to be a stud but I am a very nice person and am very different, I am honest.
I have come to the conclusion just lately that appearance is a very very important part of a relationship, it allows you to forgive some of the boxes that are not getting ticked and, though you shouldn't ignore incompatability, physical attraction does enable you to be a little more "flexible" shall we say.
This was all a long winded way of saying that I am flicking through this place now looking at photos and saying, "she is well nice, fancy her, wow !! "and so on but I hope you understand it is not a neanderthal grunt, I am just being completely honest and looking at people who make me go bumpity bump inside.
I have no idea if we would be compatible, not a clue, I know I fancy the pants of you though and thats a good start :-)
Well, at least you know I am honest in this place that is glazed in bull s*"t.
Would love to hear from you.
Andy.
I hope you can tak a moment to read this and I hope you understand it.
You know what, I have been in this place for seven weeks now, I have met some lovely people, six to be precise and though I thought they all looked and sounded ideal on there profiles it just hasn't happened, you know, that thing.
I spent fourteen years with my last partner and do not regret a moment, I have been single for over a year, which has been nice, no responcibilities, remote control domination ect but I dont want to spend to much longer this way, everybody needs somebody I think, someone to tell all to.
Here is my predicament, I have a fantastic life, I have a secure job which im lucky enough to enjoy and I also run my own business in the entertainment industry which enables me to travel and have some great fun. I have no ties, no baggage, no problems, no ghosts in the closet and no phobias, apart from hair in food and grotty feet, I draw a line there.
I want to find someone to share this life and fun with and someone who wants to be open, honest and sharing in return, someone who has the inspiration and motivation to make the most of the time we have on this earth, someone with independence and the ability to be close at the same time, someone who can keep up with me as well, I party, I dance, I do a lot of things it probably sais I should not realy do in the rule book (not bad things I hasten to add).
Its taken me a long time to reach my present state of mind and I am very happy I have discovered it, I thought I would find someone like minded very easily on here, I thought most people forty plus may have reached this Utopia, sadly this is far from true as my six encounters and numerous email buddies on here have proven.
I am not sure anyone will tick all the boxes, what I do know is I need to find someone that I will "want" to share life with, that has not happened for a while.
All this babble has a purpose, I hope it allows you to understand that I am sincere, genuine, honest and caring, the six dates I have had are all very keen to meet me again, two of them a little bit to keen but it is not going to happen sadly, they all repeat what I have just said, one even said I was probably the nicest guy she had ever met and couldn't understand how I was single, I am sorry this all sounds very conceited but whats the point of beating around the bush. I don't proclaim to be a stud but I am a very nice person and am very different, I am honest.
I have come to the conclusion just lately that appearance is a very very important part of a relationship, it allows you to forgive some of the boxes that are not getting ticked and, though you shouldn't ignore incompatability, physical attraction does enable you to be a little more "flexible" shall we say.
This was all a long winded way of saying that I am flicking through this place now looking at photos and saying, "she is well nice, fancy her, wow !! "and so on but I hope you understand it is not a neanderthal grunt, I am just being completely honest and looking at people who make me go bumpity bump inside.
I have no idea if we would be compatible, not a clue, I know I fancy the pants of you though and thats a good start :-)
Well, at least you know I am honest in this place that is glazed in bull s*"t.
Would love to hear from you.
Andy.
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Cinderpunzel: the romantic adventures of a modern day princess
Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin . . .
Once upon a time there was a princess named Cinderpunzel. (Gifted! Said her parents. Split personality. Said her doctors). But despite being beautiful, and only slightly confused, Cinderpunzel was very sad.
“Oh Fairy Godmother, how shall I ever find my perfect prince when I can’t even leave the castle? These glass slippers are simply murder to walk in and besides I keep tripping over my hair!”
And with that, Cinderpunzel’s fairy godmother appeared before her looking ever so slightly dishevelled and grumpy. In fact she looked a lot like Nessa from Gavin and Stacey. Funny that.
“Why Fairy Godmother, is that straw in your hair? And grass stains on your knees?” asked Cinderpunzel innocently.
“Wotzittoyouifitis? Only I was a bit busy when you called so hurry up would you.”
“Well, you see I’ve searched the whole fairytale kingdom and I still can’t find my handsome prince . . .”
Fairy godmother could see Cinderpunzel was on the verge of a very unattractive, and time-consuming, attack of the snivels. She would have to act fast.
“Don’t cry Princess! It's obvious innit – you’ve been looking in all the wrong places! You wanna stop kissing frogs – that’s a myth by the way – and get on the internet! That’s where all the handsome princes are hanging out these days. I guarantee you that. Well what you waitin' for? Make sure you get a good photo mind - show a bit a tit like - and you'll be shacked up before you can say happy ever after. Or your money back” promised her fairy godmother with her fingers firmly crossed behind her back.
“And will they slay dragons for me? And shower me with rubies?”
“No, but they might take you for a pint. Maybe even some porky scratchings.”
“Oh Fairy Godmother that sounds simply splendid! I shan’t dally a second longer.”
And with that Cinderpunzel scampered up to her bedroom to find the perfect first date ball gown. Her fairy godmother heaved a sigh of relief,
“Bloody idiot. Doesn’t she know there’s no such thing as a fairytale ending? Still, it’ll keep her busy for a while.”
And with that she vanished in a puff of stale cigarette smoke.
Once upon a time there was a princess named Cinderpunzel. (Gifted! Said her parents. Split personality. Said her doctors). But despite being beautiful, and only slightly confused, Cinderpunzel was very sad.
“Oh Fairy Godmother, how shall I ever find my perfect prince when I can’t even leave the castle? These glass slippers are simply murder to walk in and besides I keep tripping over my hair!”
And with that, Cinderpunzel’s fairy godmother appeared before her looking ever so slightly dishevelled and grumpy. In fact she looked a lot like Nessa from Gavin and Stacey. Funny that.
“Why Fairy Godmother, is that straw in your hair? And grass stains on your knees?” asked Cinderpunzel innocently.
“Wotzittoyouifitis? Only I was a bit busy when you called so hurry up would you.”
“Well, you see I’ve searched the whole fairytale kingdom and I still can’t find my handsome prince . . .”
Fairy godmother could see Cinderpunzel was on the verge of a very unattractive, and time-consuming, attack of the snivels. She would have to act fast.
“Don’t cry Princess! It's obvious innit – you’ve been looking in all the wrong places! You wanna stop kissing frogs – that’s a myth by the way – and get on the internet! That’s where all the handsome princes are hanging out these days. I guarantee you that. Well what you waitin' for? Make sure you get a good photo mind - show a bit a tit like - and you'll be shacked up before you can say happy ever after. Or your money back” promised her fairy godmother with her fingers firmly crossed behind her back.
“And will they slay dragons for me? And shower me with rubies?”
“No, but they might take you for a pint. Maybe even some porky scratchings.”
“Oh Fairy Godmother that sounds simply splendid! I shan’t dally a second longer.”
And with that Cinderpunzel scampered up to her bedroom to find the perfect first date ball gown. Her fairy godmother heaved a sigh of relief,
“Bloody idiot. Doesn’t she know there’s no such thing as a fairytale ending? Still, it’ll keep her busy for a while.”
And with that she vanished in a puff of stale cigarette smoke.
NEWSFLASH: I am single. Again.
May the dating disasters recommence forthwith. And in the meantime a little whimsy to follow for no particular reason.
Thursday, 16 December 2010
Scratch-and-Sniff
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.
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.
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