Here's the deal. I've been single since time immemorial. So, in an attempt to remedy my eternal singledom, and to get over my nauseatingly pathological fear of dates, I've decided to challenge myself. The challenge? To go on one first date a week for a year! So in 52 weeks time, I will have either found my Mr Right, or I'll stay forever Miss Write. This is what happens...

The Rules

Here are the rules to the 52 First Dates challenge...

1. A first date must be had once a week, EVERY week, for a year, that's 52 dates in 52 weeks.

2. Taking someone home after a drunken night on the cider does NOT count.

3. Second and third dates are allowed, I must continue first dates unless there are exceptional mitigating circumstances. For example, God forbid, the start of a relationship.

4. Each date must be blogged.

07 August 2011

Mr #8 - Stroke Jokes

The preamble:
#8 was a relatively short-lived internet dating correspondence who, although his photos didn't really appeal, his penchant for quoting Eddie Izzard and a similar taste in music did. After only a couple of emails, he politely and almost tentatively offered his number and a drink, and since I'm now considerably more relaxed and open-minded about the 52 First Dates challenge now (plus I hadn't done my date for this week and needed to squeeze one in on Sunday or face the wrath of the 52 First Dates followers), I gracefully accepted.

The man:
Age: 32
Profession: IT...aren't they all? Apart from the failed writers and speech therapists. Oh, and fictional primary school teachers...
Random factoid: He once stood next to Liv Tyler at a bar and 'exchanged looks'. I can only imagine what those looks were, but let's just say I doubt he got her number...!

The date:
The date was in a quiet, quite nice pub in London Bridge. I won't lie, I'd been wrestling a beast of a hangover all day, and was getting increasingly less enamoured by the prospect of having to scrub up and be on my best behaviour. But, I managed to get out of my pyjamas and booze-induced funk in the nick of time, and pottered off to meet Mr #8. 

When I got the tube, he rang to find our mutual location, and eventually we managed to track each other down. What I didn't seen until we were in the pub was a message he'd sent saying he was the one looking nothing like his photos with a bag full of chainsaws. Funny, but perhaps the wrong audience for someone who has recently experienced the darker side of blind dates. 

He was neither terribly tall, nor terribly attractive, and we won't even mention the couple of teeth missing that were only detectable on a broad grim, but he had a nice relaxed manner about him, and I thought it probably wouldn't be that bad an evening after all. The pub was a good choice, although my choice of drink wasn't...sadly I had to stick to shandy on account of my innate rubbishness, and I give him kudos for not giving me the right royal ribbing I deserved for such a poor poor selection. 

There was plenty to talk about, for sure...we covered favourite crisps, our shared love of grammatical fascism, preferred condiments on bacon butties, novelty tattoos, bad internet dates (yes, I did pull the Catfish one out the bag...turns out it's quite the anecdote when talking to a stranger you've met online...),and why animals with normal names are brilliant. I did, however, manage to freak him the fuck out when I said out of the blue 'I think Jason is quite a good name for a dog', and it turned out his first dog was called Jason. The look on his face was one of  the shock of someone faced with a profoundly accurate psychic, and absolute fear that I'd probably just rumbled all of his internet passwords. 

He did, however, tread a fine line in some of his choice phrases. Mr #8 decided, rather late on, to test my mettle by offering up a swear off, claiming that modern expletives aren't quite good enough, but sadly when I offered up 'poo bum willy' after he dropped the bombshell of 'I once said to someone "the guilty orgasm of a rape victim"', he retreated well behind safe conversational lines with haste. And rightly so, what the holy fuck was he thinking? Rape is not and should not be a puchline in any scenario, let alone on a first date with a virtual stranger. 

It hit 9pm, three hours and three drinks after the offing, I was about to suggest home time, But he leaped in there with suggesting food. Food on a first date. So late? Oh no. I did have to put the kibosh on that immediately, partly because I was too tired to commit to another couple of hours worth of date and partly because I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd eaten not one but two curries today already to fend off the hangover from hell. I polished off the remains of my shandy, he dawdled at length over his. Come the fuck on now Mr #8, it's home time now, no-one needs to nurture foam.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mum had a stroke earlier this year. Best thing that's ever happened to her, even though she's still a bit of a drooling retard who occasionally wets herself.'

Events of note:
The first attempted snog of then 52 First Date the tube station there was a rather uncomfortable grasp of both my shoulders, and I knew from the eye contact and approaching face I'd have to take evasive action and go for the cheek. Bless him for trying.

The verdict:
All in all, he was a nice guy, with a lot of shared interests, and a bit of a dark edge to his humour which for the most part I rather liked, rape and stroke jokes notwithstading. And considering I was dreading giving up my slovenly sofa day to go on dating parade, he was far better than I had expected. But the bottom line is, I just didn't remotely fancy him, which is a shame because I think if there'd been some whiff of attraction there, I would've given him a second pop. But as I type now, I'm trying to work out the politest way to say thanks but no thanks to his offer of meeting again. Very flattered, but no. Oh well.