Mr #7 - Baffling Barnet

The preamble:

Mr #7 came about from the usual online dating route, as opposed to the postmodern Twitter method of #6. And thank fuck too! There was some moderate chit chat involving common ground including favourite caffeinated beverages and the tickling of funny bones, and within a few relatively formal messages, the date was sorted. I shouldn't be so grateful that some dates just happen without vile twisted drama, but given I'm still fresh from the whole Catfish debarcle, I won't lie, if someone turns up to a date and looks acceptably like their profile photo, I feel like I need to perform a small victory jig in public.

The man:

Age: 31

Profession:Working for an online supermarket
Random factoid: Nothing. Literally nothing.

The date:

Mr #7 chose the venue, and once again brownie points, because it was a rather adorably trendy yet unpretentious haunt on Essex Road. I arrived to a rather large glass of wine, and an unignorable shock of the most indescribable blonde hair I have ever seen. He seemed a little more nervous than the usual internet date, so I cracked a godawful funny about the reason for my tardiness. It almost worked, so we sat and commenced said date. The nervousness spilled out into the first port of conversation, because I was aware that even after the initial ten minutes, we were still talking about his favourite and least favourite forms of public transport. Fortunately conversation soon moved swiftly and safely on. I say swiftly and safely, which are both clearly fictitious adjectives since conversation had oddly veered towards the ladyboys of Bangkok. As you do. I've never been to Thailand, so I hold him entirely responsible. Within the next hour and rather rapid large pinots we'd covered retro sweets, the woes of commuting, a lot of awkward mishearing and the politics of urinals. I had also, in my vaguely tipsy vulnerability, had managed to let slip about my stage fright in toilet scenarios. I don't regret it, it's sadly very true.  However, the biggest shock of the night came with my date breaking the shocking news to me that men are more than aware that girls fart whilst they're asleep. At this precise moment, I swore that I would never share a bed with a man again. Never. This was a risk I would never take again. Ever. It may thwart this challenge somewhat, but it's a risk worth taking. I say thwart, but I probably mean disregard...

Memorable Quotes:
Again, none of note, not unless you count 'I can't pee if I know someone is listening', in which case it's one of mine...I don't think that count, do you?

Events of note:

A large spittle missile striking my arm to a theatrical apology? Okay, maybe a little unfair. Maybe the impromptu arrival of some polenta wedges for carbohydrate type sustenance. Who orders polenta chips? What's wrong with potatoes? Seriously, I love potatoes, I'm not going to judge you. Well, I will judge you, if you order fucking polenta instead of potatoes!

The verdict:

Don't get me wrong, Mr #7 was a perfectly lovely man. But conversation was a little too forced at times, and I felt slightly sorry for a man who, when he sensed something funny, felt the need to put his hand over his mouth. This happened all night, and as a result made me feel really rather sad for whichever insecurity he was harbouring...it certainly wasn't his teeth, I had a sneaky peak earlier on and they were perfectly lovely.  But it all just felt a little forced, and the rapidity with which he sprinted to the bus led me to believe that perhaps he was a little to pleased to part my company. It's a shame, as we had an entertaining evening, but not so entertaining that I think we may make contact again. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

Mr #6 - Textbook Dating Don'ts

The preamble:

Mr #6 was not the usual internet dating kinda guy. Mr #6 came about through Twitter rather unusually, and unlike any of my other dates, he was well aware of the fact I was blogging my dating exploits. Even after fore-warning him I would be documenting the event warts and all, he still rather fancied himself as writing material and offered himself up for a date. 

The man:

Age: I didn't know this when we agreed to meet...but I soon found out the awkward way...

Me: So how old are you by the way? Just so I know to include it in my blog...

Mr #6: Guess

Me: Er...31?

Mr #6. No. I'm 21.

Me: Oh *pregnant pause* Sorry about that. Er, you don't look that great for 21 I have to say...

Mr #6: Yeah...I get that a lot...

Profession: Failed writer, full time student and connoisseur of all things alcohol it seems...
Random factoid: He once wrote a musical about Nick Griffin's appearance on Question Time

The date:

As I was at the tail end of a rather boozesome hen weekend, but still in need of a #6 to tick the right box for this week, I agreed to a quiet Sunday night beverage at one of my locals establishments. What I didn't expect was to be confronted by a  man dressed as an unkempt barman wielding a rather strong rum and coke on my arrival. Hmm. All I wanted was a shandy. And so it began, probably one of the more unusual and postmodern of my dating experience thus far; a meta-date, as it were. And since Mr#6 had read my blog and confessed that my write ups thus far hadn't been 'too bad', I have decided to make this one even more brutally honest, knowing full well he'll be reading.  After all, Mr #6, you did keep insisting you were providing me with good blog fodder. Yes, yes you did. Just perhaps not in the way you had intended. So I suppose instead of a date post mortem, see this write up as more of a 'what not to do on a date guide' in case anyone else out there in cyberspace fancies adding themselves to my tally...

On a first date, DO NOT...

...turn up drunk, and sit there squinting through the shaky beer sweats. It's not a terribly attractive quality. Did I say terribly? I meant remotely... 

...call your date a 'smart phone wanker' - just because you're stuck in the Nokia-nineties, doesn't mean you should belittle those who like phones that actually do stuff!

...tell your date about the strip club you ended up in last night. And no, it doesn't make it any better if you say the girls you were with wanted to been there...they were probably working there too!

...use phrases such as 'my debt is actually currently under control...well, as long as my drinking is...' I would argue the latter is most definitely not...

...call your date a fucking middle class stereotype.

...accuse your date of being sad and lonely, and having no social life whatsoever on the basis that she occasionally likes to Tweet during prime time television shows. You're just showing that you spend far too much time reading about other people's lives than having your own...
...preface many anecdotes with 'when I was out in LA...', especially when it is a non sequitur.
...say such things as 'when I'm your age, I'll be very successful'. You might want to have a word with your liver to make sure getting 'that' old is even on the cards...

...keep saying 'and that's why I've always been an executive producer' after every suggestion you feel is clever and remotely constructive. You're 21, and the only thing you have executively produced is something you wrote yourself. I could say I am the executive producer of my blog. But that'd just make me sound like a wanker...

...tell your date you can hear her body clock ticking after finding out how old she is. Just don't...

Memorable Quotes:
'Do you carry a rape alarm around with you in your handbag?' Yes, yes I do. And pepper spray. And a big old fat old machete. And a good thing too...

Events of note:

Finding out that there's a gay fetish club just down the road. How lovely.

The verdict:

Well, as grateful as I am to have had a first date for this week, that is about as far as it goes. Mr #6, as part of his ongoing critique of how to make my blog better, suggested that I marked each date out of 10. Well, Mr #6, you sadly don't even get yourself on the scale.  You've bagged yourself a big fat zero. Let's hope your writing is better than your dating technique...