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.

10 November 2011

Mr #22 - Show Me The Funny

The preamble:
Mr #22 and I were originally due to meet a few weeks back. But the bugger stood me up. Normally this would irritate the hell out of me, but as he was a stand up comedian, I appreciated the irony and didn't let it deter me. The main off-putting factor about this lad, however, was the fact that he texted in the style a 14 year old scrote, but I'm learning more and more during the course of this challenge that I need to put my silly pretensions behind me once in a while, so I've done my best to ignore the wots, urs and flagrant disregard for basic grammar. Challenging my pretensions in this way so far, however, has done absolutely nothing to convince me other than I have my silly pretensions cemented for relatively valid reasons...

The man:
Profession: By day, an IT monkey at the MOD. By night, a stand up comedian.
Random factoid: Lives with ten other people. Ten. And apparently it's not a commune. Whatever...

The date:
I'd finally managed to pin Mr #22 down to a date, and we'd arranged to meet at Liverpool Street station. An easy plan I thought...

*ring ring*
Mr #22: Hi, where are you?
Me: I'm outside Boots.
Mr #22: I'll be there in 5 minutes.
7 minute later...
*ring ring*
Mr #22: I'm outside Boots, where are you?
Me: I'm outside Boots. In the station...
Mr #22: Ah, I'm outside the Boots outside the station
Me: Okay, I'll be there in 5 minutes
5 minutes later
*ring ring*
Me: I'm at Boots outside the station, where are you?
Mr #22: I'm outside Boots.
Me: What can you see?
Mr #22: I can see buses
Me: That's not very helpful.
Mr #22: Oh, there' a pub called Dirty Dicks...
So it turns out there re not one, not two, but 3 branches of Boots at Liverpool Street station. Good start...but that was a funny as it got.

So, I met Mr #22 at the delightfully named Dirty Dicks. He was stood in a flat cap and navy quilted jacket, and I was wondering whether he'd left his tractor or the rest of the cast of TOWIE at home.

I dragged him off to one of my favourite local haunts (one that didn't sell tampons and laxatives), we sourced some beverages and got to the chat.

My first thought was, and probably a bit unfairly of me, that for a stand up comedian, he wasn't very funny. Part of me was tempted to be an absolute nightmare date, so at least he could have got some sort of decent material out of the night but I bottled it. Under the cold lights of the bar I guessed that he had definitely lied about his age, perhaps by as much as 10 years, and that he may have borrowed his nose from the late, great Pete Postlethwaite. 

He was a nice enough guy, quite quiet, a little shy to start with, and a little on the flat side. That said, the conversation was right up my street: a healthy in depth analysis of kids theme tunes from the eighties, what films you'd take to the moon, my parrots, classical music, lactose intolerance, comedians and shit Christmas presents. 

I have to say I was a little astonished at how long he seemed to nurture his pint for, and was a little more unnerved when he tried pushing his luck by asking for the most expensive drink behind the bar once I'd offered to buy a round. 

Two drinks down, it was chucking out time, so we wandered off back to the station together. En route back, he decided to unleash some of his self-proclaimed comedy gold one liners on me. I won't lie, he could've nicked them all from Penguin wrappers and I wouldn't have sussed the difference. They were pants. And I think despite me wanting to be as polite as I could, I was a tough crowd.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mum once threw a wine glass and called me a c***  after I refused to tidy my room. The bitch'. I would jut like to clarify, he said that, not me. 

Events of note:
Singing a charming little duet of the theme tune to the Littlest Hobo together, before having to consult Google when our lyrics went in different directions...

The verdict:
We had a very chilled out evening, but it couldn't have felt less like a date had my parents been there with me. I didn't fancy him physically, and although I didn't expect a performing monkey for a date, even our idle banter raised little chuckles from my side of things. It's not because I was on a date with someone who said they were funny for a living that I expected an entire evening of pant-wetting hilarity (wetting oneself is never a good idea on a first date) but I do like to have a laugh with someone, and tonight was drier than your average sandy bum crack. He was a nice guy, there was just absolutely nothing there. Nothing whatsoever. Oh, and even if he had been a hottie and I'd have wanted to cart him off home, the idea of shouting the name of one of my parrots in the the throes of passion is more than a deal-breaker. Yup, he's named after one of my pets...