Mr #9 was actually one of the first men I started speaking to when the whole #52firstdates malarkey kicked off, but thanks to his infeasibly busy rock ‘n’ roll working schedule of recording, drinking, gigging, sleeping, it’s taken me a good three months to actually pin the bugger down to a date. But unusually for my internet dating shenanigans, this guy I knew actually definitely positively 100% existed before meeting him, which of course is always a good sign. How did I know? Through my lovely friend Jemma and a bizarre series of text messages which went as follows:
Jemma: Hey, how are you? I met your friend M at Download festival, he’s really lovely.
Me: Oh how great, yeah he’s awesome.
Jemma: What is his surname by the way, is it XXXX?
Me: No it’s not, it’s XXXX.
Jemma: Oh, well who is this M XXX then? Oh I know, he’s some award-winning record producer.
Me: Hang on…he doesn’t look a little bit like this does he? *cuts and pastes picture from Mr #9’s profile page, knowing he was also at the same festival*
Jemma: What the fuck? Yes, that’s him! How on earth do you know him?
Me: Because we’ve met online and we’re meant to be going on a date.
Jemma: Oh, well you definitely should, he’s a bit short, but he’s very funny and an excellent kisser.
Me: Er, thanks Jemma. Would you like to test drive all my future dates for me?
So obviously this was a date that had to happen, mainly because Jemma was so determined that I was going to marry this man and that she’ll get a mention in the best man’s speech. And who am I to let a good friend down?
Profession: award-winning record producer
Random factoid: once recorded with Robbie Williams.
I finally met Mr #9 in
Covent Garden after a ridiculous string of attempts to meet the elusive sonofabitch. I won’t lie, he was very short, was no stranger to hair straighteners and looked rather like the prototype for the All Saints junior clothing line. But he was very sweet, and chirpy, and I felt rather relaxed about the whole thing. What I did rather like about him from a start, is he knew loads of nice bars in the area, and had a little mental pub crawl planned. What I didn’t like so much was the slightly relentless music snobbery and name-dropping…’when I was recording with so and so’, ‘when I was looking after this band’, ‘when I went to Sweden to record with whathsisface’, ‘when I was on the guest list for blahdeeblah’ – alright I geddit! Jeez, you are too cool for school, well done you. Or so I thought… I have neglected to point out that all of the beverages consumed thus far on his part were all rather fruity, and some of them frighteningly pink. In short, no pun intended, GIRL’S DRINKS! Keen to move on from the barrage of musical badge-bearing, I tried to move onto the subject of films. I love films, films are great, and it’s always brilliant finding some sort of celluloid common ground. However as it turns out, there literally was none. None. I like dark and edgy films, Requiem for a Dream, Fight Club, American Beauty…he liked, wait for it, PS I Love You, She’s All That, Marley and Me and a shockingly high number of Sandra Bullock films. Fucking MARLEY AND ME??? That was a bombshell he was not getting away with. When I questioned this shameful choice of film, he said ‘but it’s just such a lovely happy film’. When I replied that it was the worst film in the entire world and that I would rather gouge my own eyeballs out with John McCruirick’s anal beard trimmer than have to sit through the opening credits again, he IMDBed it to prove that the rating of 7/10 justified its place in his film collection. He also decided that because I hated said film, that I was totally heartless, inhumane and, quite frankly, dead inside. Let me put this out there right now, I’ll happily stay a hollow shell of a human being if it means I never have to watch that fucking abomination of a film ever again. Anyway the more fruity drinks that were sunk, the feistier he became, and I was reminded somewhat of Napoleon in his assertive small person posturing. Don’t get me wrong, it was an enjoyable evening for all the banter, but I felt slightly like I had assumed the masculine role with my hatred of schmaltzy rom coms and my suppings of rum, whilst he professed his love for films starring Sandra Bullock, gulping his strawberry-scented beverages and complaining that the heels on his cowboy boots made his calves hurt. But by the end of the evening, I think his constant protestions had tuckered the little guy out a little too much as he sat yawning at the bus stop, although I was most relieved he was too tired and disinterested in my heart of stone to attempts one of his legendary snogs. He scampered off, and once on the bus he texted me to say thanks for the evening, but to berate me for giving him poor directions. Ah well.
‘I hate all poor people and chavs’
‘I hate all poor people and chavs’
Events of note:
The unnervingly loud clicks his heels made on the pavement as we trotted from pub to pub.
All things considered I did have a very entertaining evening, some for the right reasons, but mostly for the wrong. As much as I love someone who is passionate about their work, I’m a little resentful of being choked by their job snobbery. But the final nail in the coffin has got to be his love of the worst possible films imaginable. I think now, when selecting potential suitors, I’ll have to run the Marley and Me test beforehand. I’m not sure I could cope with that sort of situation again. Do I want to see him again? Probably not. And I’m pretty sure given that I am dead inside, that he won’t be terribly fussed either. Sorry Jemma, I know you had high hopes on this one, again no pun intended, so you’d better start tracking down Mr #10 for me ASAP if you want a hope in hell of getting a mention at the wedding speeches.