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.

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.

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.

NEWSFLASH: I am single. Again.

May the dating disasters recommence forthwith. And in the meantime a little whimsy to follow for no particular reason.

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.

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 . . .

IT'S NOT YOU, IT'S ME. OR, THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS

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.