tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80325801533422289752024-02-10T21:48:38.870+00:0052 First DatesA dating blog documenting one writer's quest to find love by going on 52 dates in 52 weeksCTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.comBlogger76125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-32616396785131752882023-06-15T20:28:00.002+01:002023-06-15T20:28:15.964+01:0052 First Dates hits 1.25 million hits!<p> A happy little update from over on my current blog about this one:</p><p>https://ctswrites.com/2023/06/15/52-first-dates-hits-1-25-million-hits/</p><p><br /></p>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-17949290985114650752022-10-28T18:45:00.005+01:002022-10-28T18:47:17.735+01:00NEW WRITING WEBSITE!<p>Hello strangers, me again, still alive, still lurking about the interwebs.</p><p>I have set up a fledgling website for all of my scribblings that you may or may not be interesting in. If you're the former, you can find it here:</p><p><a href="https://ctswrites.com/">https://ctswrites.com/</a></p><p>There a lot of my professional work on there and also some very unprofessional work like songs about Nickleback and Game of Thrones, so hopefully something will tickly your pickle. I hope to be populating with more bits and bobs in the coming weeks, so do feel free to pop over and have a little nosey if you lwith.</p><p>Thanks again for checking out my little update, and of course for your excellent readership over the years.</p><p>CTS x</p>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-1146517652430687652015-03-10T18:54:00.002+00:002022-01-10T08:50:15.380+00:00The 27 Hour Novella for Red Nose Day 2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hi folks!<br />
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Well, it turns out that I went and did yet another of Mark Watson's ridonculous marathon gigs for charity, 27 hours to be precise, and in the process succeeded (if success can be measured by survival) in writing a 20,000 word novella. And as proof, I went and published it, so if you want to see effects what extreme sleep deprivation and excessive gin consumption have on the creative brain, you can find out right <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk//dp/1508761329/" target="_blank">HERE!</a> with all proceeds going to Red Nose Day / Comic Relief:<br />
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Enjoy. I mean, good luck.<br />
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CTS x</div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-76058564502787338492015-02-06T20:39:00.003+00:002022-01-27T22:58:48.641+00:00A cry for help...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span face="arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">...or rather a beg for sponsorship. I should probably elaborate shouldn't I?</span><br />
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As many of you might remember, two years ago I foolishly took up the challenge to go on 25 dates in 25 hours, as part of Mark Watson's famous mega-gig for the 25th anniversary of Red Nose Day. Although I can't remember at least 18 hours worth of it, it was an incredible and incredibly bizarre experience, and enough time has elapsed since then that I've forgotten quite how physically, psychologically and emotionally difficult it was. That's why I seem to have agreed to take part in the next one, celebrating 27 years of Red Nose Day. I think you now where this is going...!</span></div>
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This year, however, I've decided to ditch the dates and am going solo in an effort to try and write a novella during Mark's 27 hour gig which takes place at the Pleasance Theatre in Islington on the 27th of February. Technically a novella is anywhere between 17,500 and 40,000 words, which it turns out is rather a lot to get done in one single sitting. I realise now I'm fully signed up that this is an insane idea, and quite frankly I don't know if it's physically possible. But it's for an incredible cause and clearly I'm a glutton for punishment. If by chance it IS possible, then I'm hoping to be able to publish whatever it is that's come out of my brain and through my fingers on Amazon within a few days after the gig with all proceeds also going to the charity. </span></div>
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So where do you come in? Well, all this would be pointless if it wasn't to raise some cold hard cash for an organisation I've preveiously worked for and have a lot of love for, Comic Relief, and having worked there I've seen first hand at how much it changes peoples lives. And it really does. So of course, I would love you to donate whatever you can do my ridiculous challenge because of all the good I can tell you it will do. At this stage I have no idea what I'm going to write, so if you have anything you want to contribute, words, names, events, evil plot twists etc that you'd like me to try and include, please write so on your donation and I'll try my very best to fit everything in. You never know, if you are the most generous donor, you could even become the protagonist. Think about that, being the lead character in a story written by a delirious, sleep-deprived, mad woman...! Could be worse, you could actually have to go on a date with me, so count yourselves lucky.</span></div>
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So before I bore you any more, here's the sponsorship link to make this ridiculous endeavour as worthwhile as possible: <a href="https://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/27hournovella?utm_source=FROST&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=new_member&utm_content=Setup_Complete" style="color: #1155cc; line-height: 20px;" target="_blank">https://my.<wbr></wbr>rednoseday.com/sponsor/<wbr></wbr>27hournovella</a></span></div>
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Please do give as much as you can and share and support and maybe send care packages of malt loaf and gin if you're so inclined, whatever you do will be incredibly appreciated (especially the gin and malt loaf).</span></div>
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Thank you so so much.</span></div>
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CTS xxx</span></div>
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CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-18009930569158313732014-09-11T11:16:00.002+01:002022-01-10T08:50:38.166+00:0052 First Dates in The Guardian's Women in Leadership blog<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hola 52FDers, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well don't worry, I've not been doing anything silly like getting married or owt, I'm still as single as the day is long, but I have been keeping myself entertained by non-serial dating antics, as you can see in this lovely little piece in The Guardian's Women In Leadership blog:<br />
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<a href="http://www.theguardian.com/women-in-leadership/2014/sep/11/i-created-a-business-from-my-blog-you-can-too">http://www.theguardian.com/women-in-leadership/2014/sep/11/i-created-a-business-from-my-blog-you-can-too</a><br />
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That's it for now y'all, hopefully will be back sometime soon with something sensible to say.<br />
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CTS x</div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-71351438904302658902013-08-28T10:24:00.001+01:002022-01-10T08:50:54.613+00:00Woman's Hour / Men's Hour double date bonanza<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Earlier this week I took part in a delightful Radio 4 Woman's Hour vs Men's Hour internet dating bonanza with the sublime Jane Garvey and the dashing Tim Samuels. If you were holed up in bed nursing the bank holiday hangover from hell, fear not, you can catch the full thing right <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b038xmct">here.</a></div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-5423028540524441122013-08-12T17:28:00.003+01:002022-01-10T08:51:08.716+00:00Radio 2 Interview<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hello there. So I popped along to Radio 2 today to have a little chat with Paddy O'Connell about my recent online dating shenanigans, particularly Sebastian Pritchard-Jones. If you missed it but wish you hadn't, fear not, you can have a wee listen on<a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0383rx1" target="_blank"> iPlayer right here.</a> No donkeys or nudists were harmed during this interview.</div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-69452985326477449312013-07-13T00:12:00.000+01:002013-07-13T00:31:16.413+01:00Sebastian Pritchard-Jones in the Daily Mail<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Since the original piece came out in The Observer last weekend, I've been a bit overwhelmed by the response, it really has been amazing, so thank you to everyone who took time to message me about the story, I'm really very grateful for all the kind words.<br />
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There has also been a fair amount of press interest in the story as well, so here's a little something that's coming up in the Daily Mail today. I can apologise in advance for my ridiculous serious face, but apparently submitting a heavily Instagrammed selfie wasn't good enough.<br />
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<a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2362378/These-women-thought-theyd-Mr-Perfect-online--fact-tricked-lonely-heart-fantasist-wasnt-man.html">http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2362378/These-women-thought-theyd-Mr-Perfect-online--fact-tricked-lonely-heart-fantasist-wasnt-man.html</a><br />
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*straps on hard hat and vows not to read the comments*<br />
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Oh, and in case you haven't seen *that* perfume bottle picture, you can see it <a href="http://www.52firstdates.com/2012/11/sebastian-pritchard-jones-strikes-back.html" target="_blank">here: </a></div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-84881401616010278032013-07-07T09:13:00.003+01:002022-03-18T18:36:39.579+00:00Closure at last - The real 'Sebastian Pritchard-Jones'<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's been over two years coming, and it's a conclusion I never thought I would ever reach, but thanks to a tremendous amount of help from readers and of course the many, many other victims, we finally got to the bottom of the person behind this ongoing nightmare. We found Sebastian Pritchard-Jones / Harvey Tudur-Jones / Harry Thomas. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">And, with the help of Observer Magazine, I went to meet them.<br />
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As a bit of background, the Observer got in touch last November, which is why I've not written about Seb since, and for the last 9 months, writer <a href="https://twitter.com/tomlamont" target="_blank">Tom Lamont</a> has had to wrap his brain about the insane web of lies of Seb, to come up with the following piece. It has been well worth the wait, because for me it is closure, closing the door on something that has taken over my life for the last two years, and I can only hope that it goes some way to being closure for the other victims, many of whom have lived with the ghost of Seb for a lot longer.<br />
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I just want to thank Tom for the way he handled this whole debacle, his patience with me on our recent visit to Wales, and, of course, for the final piece. I also want to thank the hivemind of 52 First Dates readers who helped me in so many ways with brand new bits of information which helped me reach a conclusion. But most importantly I need to thank all of the other victims for pouring out their hearts to me and bearing with me whilst I waded through this all. We got there in the end. And I could not have done it without each and every one of you. You know who you are. We did it.<br />
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I'm very grateful that in two years of working to find the answer to this, that I've not heard horror stories of someone taking their life as a result of this sort of behaviour, as has been the case in some recent tragic examples of cyber-bullying, and I believe that the more people that know about this, the more chance we have of stopping more people getting hurt. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">So please share, and see it as a stark warning against some of the emotional fraud that sadly goes on behind online dating sites. These romantic con artists really do exist. And this is one of them...<br />
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So here you go, finally, the truth about Sebastian Pritchard-Jones.<br />
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<a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/jul/07/hoaxer-who-breaks-womens-hearts?CMP=twt_gu">http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/jul/07/hoaxer-who-breaks-womens-hearts?CMP=twt_gu</a><br />
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CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-37986491899327263492013-03-19T22:25:00.000+00:002013-03-20T14:17:44.435+00:00Red Nose Day 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So last Friday was Red Nose Day 2013, the very reason I went on a mammoth 25 dates in 25 hours. And if you were still awake and watching, you might have seen this...<br />
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In total I managed to raise £1792.62 for Red Nose Day, which I'm absolutely delighted by, so thank you to everyone who supported both little tired me and this awesome charity. You can, of course, still donate to Red Nose Day if you so wish <a href="http://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/25Dates25Hours" target="_blank">here</a> and there's a whole bunch of Red Nose Day stuff for you to download and wotnot on iTunes. So there! </div>
CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-72745793927189987542013-03-06T09:57:00.001+00:002022-03-18T18:34:38.952+00:00I did it! 25 dates in 25 hours for Red Nose Day<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As the title of this post might suggest, I've gone against the Hollywood tradition of leaving the 'will our protagonist complete their epic quest' part to the very end and blown my proverbial load from the off. I did it! I went on 25 dates in 25 hours, and survived! Cut to quick recap of life leading up to 28th February 2013.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">A month or so I agreed (rather foolishly it seemed at the time) to go on a mammoth 25 dates as part of comedian Mark Watson's epic 25 hour fund-raising extravaganza for Red Nose Day. I just couldn't say no. Not only is Comic Relief an organisation close to my heart, but the challenge of trying to rustle up 25 eligible bachelors and talk to them over the course of a whole day and then some appealed to my inner sadist. I'd been date-free since going on my 52nd first date in August last year, and it was about time I did something silly in the name of love. And with charity as my excuse, who could possibly say no?</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I very soon learned that trying to rope in and organise 25 bachelors over such a bizarre time scale including the wee anti-social hours of Friday morning was not as easy as I thought. I think in total, I must've had around 35 contenders initially interested, but as the big day loomed, the boys started to fall by the wayside. On Thursday morning, I had 18 lined up, and the rest we'd fill with randoms harvested from amongst the hostage crowd on the night. And I won't lie, I was bricking it. It wasn't so much the pre-date nerves that got to me, it was the prospect of staying awake for such an obscene amount of time and trying to maintain an iota of dignity and sanity throughout that worried me. And rightly so...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At 10pm on Thursday 28th February, I turned up at The Pleasance Theatre in Islington with an arsenal of goodies to help my dates and I get through this behemoth megadate, including board games, bananas and some rather suspicious looking breakfast bars, and a belly full of butterflies. Already at the venue were many of the challengers all ready and raring to go, including some endurance huggers, Countdown challengers, artists, film crews, and the main man himself, Mark. The original plan was for me to pop in and update Mark after each date as it went along. Simple eh? You'd think...!</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank">Mathematical infograms courtesy of Yianni, the sponsored 25 hour maverick math-mongerer.</a></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At 11pm, Tim Key heralded the start of Mark's marathon mirthfest, and we were off! My first date waited patiently in the bar for me to pop into the gig and explain my challenge, before I was able to get stuck in with the dates, so to speak. What both astonished and delighted me was when I was introduced as this mad singleton who'd written this silly blog, one of the ladies, a lass by the name of Jessica, sat in the front row said she'd actually read it! I was a little bit stunned! It was only then that I realised people do actual read this shit, and I was delighted! Suddenly the last 18 months of my blogging life felt vindicated and it was the perfect start to one of the biggest challenges of my life. But enough about me, let's meet the dates...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by the lovely Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diamondgeyser/sets/72157632909990954/with/8526545594/" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I will at this point add a small note slash apology to each of my dates regarding the content of these nano-write ups. Although I did my best to try and make notes as I went along to try and do these gentlemen justice, I can only apologise if some of what I remember is a little muddled or, well, totally made up. It's not intentional, I promise...</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 1 - MATT (11pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AQXG8wlf8qQ/UTOzUw_-YnI/AAAAAAAAAso/hJvDa1siTVw/s1600/1+Matt+crab.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AQXG8wlf8qQ/UTOzUw_-YnI/AAAAAAAAAso/hJvDa1siTVw/s320/1+Matt+crab.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Matt was roped into being one of my dates through one of his friends on Twitter, who it turned out was one of the actual gig audience members. He arrived bang on time, only for me to say a quick hi and had to dash off into the gig and leave him on his own for what turned out to be nearly half an hour, the poor bugger. When I finally returned, however, he'd not been bored, but had befriended some of the locals who'd been teaching how to do the crab...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Matt had actually been out at a friend's party before coming along, and bless him had stayed sober especially which earned him major brownie points, but I couldn't help thinking he might have been a bit disappointed by what he encountered once he got here. Still, it seemed he had fun before I arrived, and for the half hour we did spend together, however, we had a lovely time. He's sweet, chatty, lively, and has the weirdest fucked up thumb I've ever seen. I'm cross I didn't take a photo of it now, it was properly mutant. He showed me some magic tricks using a pack of cards, although the street edge was slightly taken off by the fact that the only cards I had to hand was a pack of baby animal Top Trumps. All in all, a charming chap, and the nicest possible start to the Megadate.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 2 - OSKAR (midnight)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My second date was Oskar, who had been corralled into being my date through Willard, date 7, whom he knows through the debating circuit. He's a student of Islamic studies, a regular participant of internet dating, and has high functioning Asperger's. He wore his pink hat especially for the date, and if I had a cap on now, I would doff it to him for effort, for it was a delightful hat. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Oskar was incredibly bright, and we spoke a lot about language, particularly Hebrew and Russian. When I confessed to have been trying to learn Russian, he tried to talk to be in Russian, but sadly the best I could do was answer him with the words 'cat' and 'sandwich'. The date was rather unexpectedly punctuated by a diminutive dude with an astonishing handlebar moustache who kept shouting things like 'Satan's cock', which might sound wierd if you've never experienced a 25 hour charity gig before! Oskar was a really interesting guy, but I don't think my brain was much of a match for his at sensible times, let alone at midnight.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 3 - SAM (1am)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-okWOXEZoiU8/UTO4e4ck6PI/AAAAAAAAAtA/xO-Rdk6GfhA/s1600/3+SAm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-okWOXEZoiU8/UTO4e4ck6PI/AAAAAAAAAtA/xO-Rdk6GfhA/s320/3+SAm.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sam was my first unplanned date of the challenge. I did previously have a willing victim to come and endure an hour of my company at such an antisocial hour, but unfortunately he was struck down with tonsilitis and couldn't make it. So I popped into the gig to give Mark an update on the dates so far, and he asked the audience if anyone would be up for a date. The first (and only) hand up in the air was Sam's, so off we scampered back to the bar for date three. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As soon as we sat down I realised the major flaw with this date, which was the 14 year age gap. Sam, a Tesco check out bod, was only 18 years old. I am 32, and I tentatively spent the entire date concerned that someone would come along and put me on some sort of register. Sam was very sweet, but terribly nervous, and sat at the other end of the sofa visibly shaking. Chat was very varied. He told me the highlight of his job was when the till would ring up numbers like £9.11, and that a dinner with his friend at Nandos earlier that week had resulted in a very farty episode. Talk turned to souvenirs and collecting things, and it was only when I'd admitted to collecting stamps up to the age of 11, it dawned on me that was a good 3 years before he was even born. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">His parting words on the subject of history were '...and then they found Richard the whatever's face in a car park' and then the date was over. Bless young Sam. And big big kudos for being the first volunteer to spend an hour in the company of a very strange older woman.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">Mathmogram by Yianni, the sponsored math-bod</span></a></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 4 - SAM (2am)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KMvXe8viUU4/UTO9E2Sqy7I/AAAAAAAAAtQ/X7GeO4C3b0c/s1600/Sam+candles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KMvXe8viUU4/UTO9E2Sqy7I/AAAAAAAAAtQ/X7GeO4C3b0c/s320/Sam+candles.jpg" width="180" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sam I'd known on Twitter for a good 9 months or so, and he would have been in the running to be Mr #52 had he not buggered off to live in Toronto. But since I needed some dates in the wee hours of the morning and there was a convenient time difference, I asked Sam if he fancied being one of my dates, and he kindly agreed. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In terms of effort, Sam definitely gets an A. He'd dressed for the occasion including wearing a shirt, and was even wearing polished shoes indoors, although the aftershave was his true master stroke. He'd also opened a bottle of wine, and had set the scene with candles everywhere, it was delightful.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Sam explained to me the joys of Canadian life, how shit they are at queuing, how he'd experienced a temperature of -27C which is utterly insane, and what it was life starting a completely new life from scratch. I even got to meet his sofa. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I attempted to bond with Sam over the time I once went to Canada, but my already-knackered brain let me down when I admitted to having visited Viagara Falls. I was relieved that Sam wasn't there in person, as Skype failed to show up the fact that I had gone a bright shade of purple. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As I type, I'm looking at the remnants of the notes I tried to make during the date, and I can see a sentence which looks like 'wafits of wang'. I have no idea what on earth this means, but hopefully Sam can fill me in at a later date. Sam was delightful company, albeit on the other side of the Atlantic, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was the Dave Gorman of the dating world. This was certainly a dating first for me, over Skype, and a far more sensible idea than logging onto Chat Roulette.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 5 - MARCO (3am)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U9eEWPDCUEE/UTO-4fHvn9I/AAAAAAAAAtY/tHDA_f44_n8/s1600/5+Marco.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U9eEWPDCUEE/UTO-4fHvn9I/AAAAAAAAAtY/tHDA_f44_n8/s320/5+Marco.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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</span><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6zFrlMTKQSQ/UTPAB7ZjnoI/AAAAAAAAAtg/p5-g1rCnXfY/s1600/5+gingerbread.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6zFrlMTKQSQ/UTPAB7ZjnoI/AAAAAAAAAtg/p5-g1rCnXfY/s320/5+gingerbread.jpg" width="240" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Marco was my second date plucked from the audience. After standing on stage critiquing my previous dates, and flagging up the fact that Sam might have been a leeeeeetle bit too young for me, Mark called out for more volunteers. Up jumps Marco, who it turned out was older than Sam...but by only one year. He was 19. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Mark asked what he liked, to which he answered 'football', and when he asked what i liked, I replied 'kittens, baking and knitting'. Match made in heaven then. Anyway, off we scampered back down to the date zone (a sofa reserved underneath the stairs) and embarked on date #6. Marco was really chatty and confident, and like a true gentleman he treated me to a Coke and a gingerbread man.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My date with Marco was a lot of fun. We spoke at length about man crushes, and he confidently confessed to having the hots for James Franco and Ryan Gosling, and we embarked on an epic Guess Who match. I smashed the first game, Marco clawed it back in the second, and going into the third it was all to play for. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">We were both down to the last couple of options, and then in my infinite cockiness I exclaimed out of turn 'ah! I only have two left and one of them is me! I know which one you are!' which of course gave the entire game away and Marco won. Bollocks. Fair play to him though, although he was a good 13 years my junior, he was a very funny date.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iPqH22Dj8-Q/UTemnlf1Q8I/AAAAAAAAA1Q/vuh1cEqXc_I/s1600/Capture4.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="233" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iPqH22Dj8-Q/UTemnlf1Q8I/AAAAAAAAA1Q/vuh1cEqXc_I/s320/Capture4.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"> <span style="text-align: center;">Photo by the awesome Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diamondgeyser/sets/72157632909990954/with/8526545594/" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 6 - OLI (4am)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cb2R8kWnfNo/UTPEjp-dUlI/AAAAAAAAAt4/9kzh0CX1luY/s1600/BHC.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cb2R8kWnfNo/UTPEjp-dUlI/AAAAAAAAAt4/9kzh0CX1luY/s320/BHC.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shB-CprCNd8/UTPBX9DnUZI/AAAAAAAAAts/2xxxvsGnkcU/s1600/6+oli.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-shB-CprCNd8/UTPBX9DnUZI/AAAAAAAAAts/2xxxvsGnkcU/s320/6+oli.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My date with Oli came about thanks to the match-making skills of the folks on the BBC Comedy Twitter team. Oli was a fellow 25 hours challenger who had, in my humble opinion, one of the hardest tasks there. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For twenty five hours solid, he had to sit and watch the Walt Disney film Beverley Hills Chihuahua over and over again in the boiler room in the bowels of the Pleasance. The poor poor bastard. The BBC Comedy guys tweeted him to see if he'd be up for a date, and when he agreed they gave me a couple of Kit Kats to take down as a gift, and I went and joined him. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Even at 4am, having only endured 5 hours of what can only be described as the worst film in the entire world, he was hanging on to his sanity by a thread. But behind the hollow husk of a man addled by a film devoted to the most irritating of all God's creatures was an extraordinarily good sense of humour. For that hour I was absorbed into the world of Chloe, voiced by Drew Barrymore who had evidently fallen on hard times since her 50 First Dates days, and I got to experience one of the more surreal hours of my life.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Kit Kats were consumed, Oli generously leant me his phone to check the IMDB rating of the film (3.6 in case you were wondering, which quite frankly is over generous by about 2.6 points) and the time analysing the finer nuances of the film just flew by. As a parting gift, Oli kindly let me have his spare copy of the Beverley Hills Chihuahua, and I pledged to follow Chloe's onward journey by watching the sequels. Since the date, BBC Comedy have been trying to engineer a second date involving a Kit Kat chunky and the next instalment of the BHC dynasty, but both Oli and I are tentative that it might just be too much too soon.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 7 - WILLARD (5am)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mgFe05HZwWc/UTPF3hx_KSI/AAAAAAAAAuA/dJMhjSE0WfI/s1600/6+willard.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mgFe05HZwWc/UTPF3hx_KSI/AAAAAAAAAuA/dJMhjSE0WfI/s320/6+willard.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I first got in touch with Willard over Christmas when I noticed a spike in my blog hits, and saw that he'd mentioned it in something he'd written for the Telegraph online. I tweeted to say thanks, and then after that we stayed in touch. He had enjoyed reading 52 First Dates, so much so that he'd then decided to embark on his very own online dating project, 28 Dates Later. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">He'd previously asked me out over Twitter, but since I knew there was a mammoth dateathon in the offing, I politely declined until the time was right, and asked if he wanted to be involved. He said yes, and since he was going to write about it as one of his blog dates, he wanted one of the weirdest time slots available, so 5am it was. He promised to bring cupcakes and bags of icing, and would teach me how to ice, because ironically given the amount of baking I do, I've never once attempted to pipe icing. Willard turned up in a smart shirt and jacket with a box of naked cupcakes, a couple of bags of buttercream, and a selection of decorations and way too much enthusiasm for that time in the morning!</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLQt8uCdzT8/UTPH2Xd_oGI/AAAAAAAAAuY/Onr7LZfcNHE/s1600/181007_10152630470630074_771576594_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wLQt8uCdzT8/UTPH2Xd_oGI/AAAAAAAAAuY/Onr7LZfcNHE/s200/181007_10152630470630074_771576594_n.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnWWjHOroXg/UTPHwyCwg_I/AAAAAAAAAuQ/mXAZ34mp8IU/s1600/382252_10152630470550074_1335234643_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FnWWjHOroXg/UTPHwyCwg_I/AAAAAAAAAuQ/mXAZ34mp8IU/s200/382252_10152630470550074_1335234643_n.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Willard is a very confident and charming man, a natural born raconteur you might say. We spoke at length about the dating blog business that he'd now immersed himself in, and he seemed mildly in awe to have finally met the person to have written the dating blog he'd followed for so long. I was incredibly flattered, but also a bit embarrassed, as I'm still surprised by the fact that so many people have read this silly thing I've been writing, and many of them actually liking it.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Famczve29y4/UTPLKW0D_YI/AAAAAAAAAug/mmu0ZjbdTD0/s1600/date-crashers.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Famczve29y4/UTPLKW0D_YI/AAAAAAAAAug/mmu0ZjbdTD0/s200/date-crashers.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">We also covered super-strength beers, and I was anecdotally introduced to the awesomely named Tactical Nuclear Penguin, Willard's former life as a barrister representing shoplifters, tractor thieves and prostitutes (isn't that a Cher song?), and the time he spent election night with the Grand Wizard of the KKK. The true weirdness of the 25 hour megadate started to come forth, as we were date-crashed by Huggers Anonymous, bebearded comedian Sanderson Jones and his co-hugger Mikey Lear, who decided to join in the date for fifteen minutes or so. It was clear to all involved at this point that this was definitely no normal date. Although the fact we were icing cupcakes and it was before 6am was something of a giveaway.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Before we knew it, #8 had turned up, and the date was over. I'll be honest, I was a bit more nervous about this date than others, as I was finally going to be on the receiving end of the date-blogging pen, but all things considered (charity, weirdness, delirium and buttercream), I think it went as well as could have been expected. I can certainly recommend cupcakes for breakfast as a result. Within a couple of hours of the date, Willard had already written up his own version of events, which you can read <a href="http://28dateslater.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/date-5x2-cupcakes-with-veteran.html" target="_blank">here</a>. I might see if I can source a medal from somewhere because I think at 32 I might be the youngest 'veteran' ever. I must add a special thanks to Willard who went above and beyond the call of duty in helping me find dates and get sponsorship, so thank you.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE # 8 - MIKE (6am)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I can't quite remember how Mike ended up coming across the blog, but he'd emailed me gallantly nominating himself to be part of the blog, and even more gallantly offered to be the 6am date as he didn't live too far from the theatre. There were a few things of note about Mike. The first was his awesome choice of knitwear, which was a sort of festive Aran sweater affair with owls on. Secondly, was the fact he brought along a game called Tumbling Towers which was a delightfully shameless rip off of Jenga, and three, he'd brought me a present wrapped in the most beautiful paper. Shame about the tape though...</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Es9zXkTKrjI/UTPQY2jM_sI/AAAAAAAAAvI/imsAFuP7CFA/s1600/hoodie.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Es9zXkTKrjI/UTPQY2jM_sI/AAAAAAAAAvI/imsAFuP7CFA/s320/hoodie.jpg" width="180" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Inside said paper, was quite possibly one of the most thoughtful presents anyone has ever bought me, let alone from a virtual stranger. It was a TGS hoodie from one of my all-time favourite TV shows 30 Rock, and quite frankly it blew me away! So a great big public thank you Mike from a now-delirious 8-hours-in girl off her tits on tea and buttercream. I am wearing it as I type.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Gifts aside, the rest of the date was fun. He'd been following the dates thus far on Twitter and noted that #1 was a bit of a hottie (Matt, you're in there...he buys ace presents!) and told me that he'd signed up to run the Marathon dressed as a nurse. Jenga *ahem* Tumbling Towers was tricky, as the sugar shakes were beginning to set in and I was not the best-equipped for such a game, although I was very grateful he hadn't brought along Operation. As the last brick was removed, the tower fell spectacularly, and emerged the victor, although I wouldn't mind betting Mike threw the game as a defeat at that point in time might have tipped me over the edge for the remaining 17 dates. By this point my brain was slowly starting to shut down, but it was was the nicest 6am date I'd ever had, and I was genuinely overwhelmed by such a thoughtful pressie.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #9 - DARREN (7am)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Darren was another date that had been referred to me through a friend, and I was also grateful that he'd turned up at one of the more antisocial hours. The one thing that struck me about Darren was his spectacular head of hair. If there was a top barnet prize out of all the 25 dates, he'd have had it in the bag. He's an actor currently doing temping work, and he'd come fully prepared for the date with a spectacular rust-coloured tiger print thermos of tea especially. It was particularly good tea I have to say, streets ahead of some of the stuff that had been foisted my way from the bar over the previous 8 hours, and it was just what the doctor ordered as the delirium was properly starting to set in. I'd been awake for 21 hours by this point, and still had another 16 dates / hours to go. He was super cheerful, super smiley, and took the weirdness of people wandering around willy nilly in animal onesies, and the human detritus of people sleeping on the chairs next to us entirely in his stride.</span><br />
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<b><u>DATE #10 - DAN (8am)</u></b></span><br />
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*DOUBLE FIGURES KLAXON* WOOB WOOB!</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">9<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vf5lq21mfc4/UTPTTgRlG8I/AAAAAAAAAvo/lOx1axSfAm0/s1600/10+Dan.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vf5lq21mfc4/UTPTTgRlG8I/AAAAAAAAAvo/lOx1axSfAm0/s320/10+Dan.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Dan, a Canadian, was another date put forward by recruiter-in-chief Willard. He'd cycled all the way to the theatre from Brixton especially, which had taken him an hour or so, and the poor guy was a tad pooped. He explained to me at length how to prolong the life of my iPhone 5, which was extremely valuable information since I was on my second charge of the challenge. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The real meat of the date, however, came with one of my favourite topics of all time: The Cat vs Dog debate. I am a self-proclaimed cat person, and reckon I can identify within 5 minutes of meeting someone their animal preference. My first thoughts about Dan were that he favoured the canine contingent, and I was right. My memory is a little hazy at this point, but I'm pretty sure we started to talk about YouTube videos of cats using the toilet and flushing the it afterwards, but I would need back up on that one. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At the end of the date, Dan showed me his spare sweater that he'd bought to change into for the cycle back, and the can of Febreze he'd bought as olfactory back up. You've got to hand it to him, that's what I call preparation! I have to apologise to Dan for the scantness of this part of the write up, but the first wave of tiredness had swept over my by this point, and I was in dire need of some sort of pick up to get me back and closer to the land of the living. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">He had also brought along the brilliantly named Bananagrams along for us to play, but sadly we ran out of time. And given it was a word-based game along the lines of Scrabble, I'm a little bit relieved...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank">Numerological illustrations courtesy of Yianni</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #11 - MARTIN (9am)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Martin was the first date of the challenge that I actually knew in real life beforehand. He was the result of a team-wide recruitment drive at my former office at ITV by my good friend Kirsty, who I have no doubt had to either slip him a tenner or bribe him with baked goods to get him to babysit me for an hour. Whatever the circumstances, I was very grateful for a friendly face. And moreover, a friendly face bearing Pass The Pigs! </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Martin insisted on laying claim to the most original opening line of the dates thus far, with his 'have you ever been to XXXX', which funnily enough proved to be the perfect segway to an anecdote about me sat in Copenhagen airport sobbing into two kilos of miniature Daim Bars. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This date was quite the gamefest. First of all we played Pass The Pigs, one of my all time favourite past times, and without blowing my own trumpet, I kicked porcine ass! We then moved on to Guess Who as Martin had never played before, but we soon came to blows when Martin cheated on an issue over facial hair. Dear readers, if someone has a goatee beard which includes a moustache, and I ask if you have a moustache, that's a yes isn't it? Yes it is. Tsk. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Third in the gaming bonanza was Connect 4, which I do believe I also won, which as you'll later find out was pretty much my only Connect 4 victory of the challenge. Martin was a delightful date, and ever the gentleman, leant me his Pass the Pigs set for future reference. He also let me keep the scorecard. Yes!!!!</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #12 - ANDY (10am)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Andy was the second person I knew in real life to foolishly agree to be one of the glorious twenty five, chosen partly for his ability to bring a good strong beard to the table, partly for the guy candy factor but mainly because I knew he had nothing better to do at the time and seeming a charitable sort, that he'd most probably say yes. And he did say yes, obvs. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Andy turned up equipped with pain au chocolat for breakfast, fresh OJ for vitamin C, and emergency mini eggs for the darkest hours that I suspected might come between 5 and 7pm. Amazeballs. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For the most part it was a sensible date, if we ignore the fact that I ended up sat in a pile of my own pastry flakes like the Singing Detective, but unfortunately the delirium was already getting a good grip. And as if my temporal weirdness wasn't enough shared between the two of us, I then unwittingly shared it with the nation when we were joined by Jane Garvey and interviewed for Woman's Hour on Radio 4 which you can listen to <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p015rwn2" target="_blank">here</a> if you're so inclined. I have to say I've never listened to Woman's Hour before, but our Andy it seemed was quite the fan as it brought back fond memories (and he's also quoted it on Facebook on the odd occasion) so I felt, in part, a little like Claire'll Fix It, in the most tasteful possible sense. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The rest of the date was delightful, and largely revolved around bemoaning the pitiful excuse for tea the poor sleep-starved bar staff had rustled up, the Harlem Shake <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgiDaBS0CS0" target="_blank">(a version of which was later done during the gig)</a> and Connect 4, which it turns out, I really do suck at. I'd like to use my lack of sleep and senses as an excuse, but even on a good night's sleep and a gullet full of ginkgo biloba I still would have lost. Should've played Pass The Pigs. By the end of the date, my energy levels were on the rise again thanks to my awesome second breakfast, and I was ready to face the halfway mark. Who, as it turns out, was called Mark. You couldn't make this shit up...</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #13 - MARK (11am)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Poor halfway Mark. Our date was doomed from the start, and I blame it on the unfortunate positioning of being unlucky #13. First of all the poor guy got a bit lost and was late, so turned up a bit flustered. Secondly, mid-date we were interrupted by a photographer, who not only insisted on interfering and making us pose awkwardly (we drew the line at holding hands for the over-eager pap), but then she managed to total an entire mug of tea all over the date-zone, leaving poor Mark and I to mop up the splash radius. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Once we finally got round to the actual date, chat homed in and around online dating, and modern day dating etiquette. Mark was interested to know if, after 52 first dates and no converted goal so to speak, whether I'd actually questioned my sexuality. Interesting question, and straight to the point. But at 32 years old and over 77 dates to my name, I can very safely confirm that the problem with my dates lied within my personal choice of gentleman, and not the fact that they lacked a vagina.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Mark was keen to point out that in modern dating terms, women appear to be becoming more masculine, and in some respects I do agree. I for one like to pay my way because I think it's rude to assume that someone would like me enough to pay for an entire evening with me, although that said it's always nice for someone to offer. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Time evaporated almost as quickly as the spilt tea, and Mark had to head back to work, but not without the parting words, 'you look so tired'. He was right, I looked knackered. But 13 down and 12 to go, it was all downhill from here. In more ways than one...</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #14 - PIERRE (midday)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Date #14 was somewhat of an emergency measure, as my previous #14 had emailed earlier to cancel. So much for charidee! So I decided to invite myself over for a date with my neighbour in the theatre bar, comedian and artist Pierre, whose challenge over the 25 hours was to draw the entire time. Poor guy. We were both flagging significantly at this point, but onwards we fought. Pierre had actually previously read my blog, and was curious to get the inside track on some of my more 'unusual' dates, so I recalled with deluded fondness the Bengali poet with the mutant third tooth who got so hammered on rum he started sniffing my hair, before passing out in a pool of his own beverage. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">We were briefly joined by one of the newly-released record-holding hugees, who took it upon himself to also have a sniff of my hair, before leaving us to move onto the topic of body parts. Pierre, it turns out, can add random trivia and the dispelling of anatomical myths to his CV, such as the fact that your hair and nails don't grow after you die, it's just your body that shrinks, and the fact that although most people believe (myself included) that when you're born, your eyeballs are the only thing that stays the same size, which apparently is utter bullshit. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The date was short and sweet, and I left questioning everything I've ever known, but it was worth it to have seen Pierre's latest creation, the last in a long line of highly depressed characters that look like members of the royal family.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #15 - CHAD (2pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It's now 2pm, I've been dating for around 15 hours, I've been awake for over 28 hours, which might explain a little about why this date went the way it did. Chad initially got in touch with me as he's a freelance camera-man, and had offered to film my dateathon. Initially flattered, I had to decline on account that there were so many cameras knocking about the place, one entirely devoted to capturing my undignified demise was a bridge too far. However I did suggest that if he was up for it, that he nominated himself to be one of my dates, which he did. What Chad brought to the party, apart from yet another strong beard, was Play Doh!</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Now I've not seen Play Doh in well over 20 years, and I was disproportionately delighted to see the very cement of my childhood. I had fond recollections about sculpting awesome objects to proudly present to my parents, whilst revelling in the salty smell of this amazing substance. So we started sniffing it, and the memories started flooding back. Then, and this is most definitely a sign of the time, we started eating it. Just a little bit mind, to remind myself of quite how shit it tasted back in the eighties, and I can confirm it tastes just as as I remembered. I felt very very sick. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Nausea aside, we forged on with the date, and because I was struggling with the powers of speech, Chad gallantly offered to sculpt my effigy out of Dynorod orange, blue hair, and purple shoes. To match my eyes. How very thoughtful. So without further ado, here's me. With boobs. I won't lie, it's a little bit awkward making small talk with a date whilst they're rolling your miniature mammaries around in front of you between their thumb and forefinger...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">You'll just have to take my word for it, but this is scarily more of an accurate depiction of me at that point in time, and I am in no way offended. I especially like the way my right eye has got bored of being friends with the left and has started to do its own thing. The date ended in the revelation that Chad was tempted to come to the date dressed as Zippy from Rainbow, and taunted with what might have been, I was left a little disappointed. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Oh, I forgot, at some point I did sing 'I wish I could fly', Orville stylee. This definitely will not have added to a good first date impression. This is why you need sleep, people...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">'Who eats Play Doh on a first date? Silly bint!' <span style="text-align: center;">Photo by the delightful Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diamondgeyser/sets/72157632909990954/with/8526545594/" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">here</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #16 - LUKE (3pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My date with Luke was engineered by Mr Watson himself. For his Red Nose Day challenge, Luke was doing a sponsored separation from his girlfriend Nadia. In the hours leading up to the date, he'd been through the typical post-break up rituals, including spending a lot of time 'with himself', and eating a takeaway curry for two by himself. By 3pm, he was ready to begin dating again, so Mark got us both up onstage to introduce us. In yet another thoughtful gesture, Luke had brought me a present. I'd been doing very well all day today, but Luke took the word 'thoughtful' to a-whole-nother level. A bag of goodies. These goodies...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">That's right! A golfing magazine, some Werther's Originals, some chocolate lozenges and a bottle of de-icer. Here's a guy that knows what women want. That Nadia was missing out! Conversation was varied but enjoyable. We covered the merits of Harry Potter, touched on Mills and Boon, childhood collections and Kirsten Stewart's ears. Unfortunately Luke blew things when he poured Coke all over himself, and I knew then that it just wasn't meant to be. Shame. The de-icer was a master stroke...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank">Numbers and words courtesy of Yianni</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #17 - NORRIE (4pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Norrie volunteered to be one of my dates having been roped into it by his flatmate's girlfriend, a friend of mine. There'd been a fair amount of banter prior to the date, and I knew early on that I'd need to have my brain fully in gear for our date. Herein lies the problem. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">17 hours into the dates and my brain was sadly nowhere to be seen. After bragging about having had a lie in until 10am that morning, Norrie then decided to test my cranial capacity by bringing up Einstein's theory of relativity, quoting Churchill and Karl Jung, and talking about the demise of the Pope's ring. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I managed to come back to the conversation long enough to talk about the Littlest Hobo, but then I was lost again when Norrie tried to tell me a joke involving the words 'tuna' and 'tuba', and I just could not get it. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">T</span>rying to bring things a bit more down to my level, he started to talk about koalas, and I like koalas, I really do, but that was about as much as I could contribute to the situation. Things then moved onto she-pees, for non-festival goers they're devices designed to enable women to wee standing up, and I was gone again. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I have a vague recollection of the words 'moist' and 'slit' entering the vernacular, and as I struggle to hide recoiling in horror at two of my least favourite words, he looked me straight in the eyes and said 'slit - does that make you feel uncomfortable?' Yes, yes it did. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Actually, being awake and having to communicate with another human being, any human being, was a struggle, so sadly poor Norrie didn't stand much of a chance. By this point I was a wreck, and I concede, I was an effing horrible date. </div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br /></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">As if by magic, Norrie also produced a gift, which he'd hand-picked on account of how weird and shit it was. It was a solar-powered Fortune Cat. This one, in fact...</div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Initially I ribbed him mercilessly about his random choice of offering, but the next time I went into Mark's gig to update them on my progress, I told the audience about the cat, and then suddenly to see 200 sleep-deprived people all do the waving arm at me in exact synchronicity suddenly nailed it. This present was a-to-the-mazing. As I type now, I can see the funny little bastard knocking on an imaginary door in my peripheral vision, and I love him even more each day. He will forever serve as a reminder of some of the darkest hours of my 25 hour long delirium-fest. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So Norrie, because I didn't say it enough at the time, thank you. I shall call him Paraprosdokian, after your favourite obscure figure of speech.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #18 - LUKE (5pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Luke was the second date drafted from ITV, and although I'd vaguely known him whilst I was there, I never really spoke to him. I knew he was hot, and I was sure there was also some back-hand bribery to secure his attendance, but I didn't really care, I'd started to get desperate. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Luke emailed me earlier on in the date to let me know he could only stay for half an hour, but he'd come along anyway. As soon as he arrived, he panned Pass The Pigs and went straight for the Connect 4. Whilst he became the second / third / fourth / I can't remember-th person to kick my arse at the game, we spoke about dating etiquette, and how he's a strong advocate of playing by the rules, including things such as the three day rule which I have to say I'd always believed was a myth. After a cursory couple of games, it was time for Luke to flee, but not before he revealed that in the carrier bag he was carrying were the makings of spaghetti and meatballs that he was going to prepare for a 'real' date. You mean I wasn't a real date? You break my heart Luke, you really do. Or not. You decide...</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #19 - CARL (6pm)</span></u></b><br />
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Carl was another one of the dates that I'd cajoled into coming along, and being the benevolent sort he obliged. I've known Carl for a good 12 years or so, having gone to university together, but since I only ever see the bugger once every 5 years and we'd never 'dated', it seemed like a good idea. Plus he knew me well enough to be able to understand the delirium more than most, which definitely counted in my favour. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">For a good 40 minutes or so we spoke about veganism, and I asked Carl to try and explain to me why forgoing all the good stuff in life, like meat and cheese, was a good idea. Apparently he converts up to 40 people a year to veganism, so I thought it'd be an interesting debate. I'm usually a reasonable person, and I'm sure under normal circumstances I'd have been more susceptible to his powers of persuasion. But my armour of insomnia served me well, and instead by the end of it I found myself hankering for Ikea horsemeatballs and Dairylea. Sorry Carl. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Aside from the veganism, we touched on his PhD in political violence, his hobby as an anarchist, and his impending emigration to Canada. At some point, we were invaded by an entire primary school, round about the time I tried to recite and rewrite Rutger Hauer's speech from Bladerunner detailing my surreal 25 hours experience thus far (I've seen things you people wouldn't believe; fat chips and the shoulders of a giant Carebear..."), and then suddenly the clock struck 7pm. Bloody hell, 19 down, 6 to go...</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #20 - GAVIN (7pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Karl Pilkington lookey-likey Gavin ("only prettier", his words not mine) was roped into being a date through a mutual friend on Twitter, and being a competitive sort, not only agreed to be a date, but also roped his mate Jonathan in to be date #23. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Gavin is quite possibly one of the smiliest people I've ever met. He persuaded me to start drinking alcohol (a fateful error since undoing all of the training that 15 years worth of drinking with an ill-advised dry January),virtually demolished an entire pack of Werther's given to me by #16, and likened my dating marathon to the work of a prostitute. Only slightly less cash and sex in my version, honest.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">We covered public transport and snow (according to my notes, but I really can't remember!), 30 Rock and why he's like Manny from Modern Family. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The highlight of the date (apart from my new-found love of booze) was him teaching me how to say 'Hi, my name is CTS, pleased to meet you' in sign language, and explaining how sign language is only just becoming not-racist. You'll just have to take my word for it that I can still remember how to say these things, at least I think I can, although they may have morphed into something unintentionally offensive over the course of a few days. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I have a vague recollection of Gavin saying I had a 'mouth like a cat's bum', and after my parting words of 'I think i'm going to die of tired', it was the end of the date. But my resounding memory of Gavin was what a beamy bloke he was, and I respect anyone who tried to sabotage their mate's date by getting her drunk beforehand. Cheers!</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It was around now I had to do another update in the theatre, and I remembered I was missing the 25th and final date. When Mark and Emma Kennedy asked me who I'd like it to be, knowing full well they probably had the magical powers to conjure up pretty much any man I desired (with the exception of Zach Braff, who gig-goers will know would have been a minor miracle), I stood there in a semi-comatose state incapable of thinking of any possible man. With the benefit of my retrospectrometer, this was absolutely a wasted opportunity. But casting my mind back, I was so delirious I had a total blank. I just stood there like a fart in a trance completely incapable of unique thought which of course was of no help to anyone, and it was all rather embarrassing. Even now, having recouped all of my sleep, I still don't know who I would have chosen. Although everyone else I've spoken to since has a list at the ready...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: center;">"The Spanish Inquisition - largely unanswered" Photo by the sublime Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diamondgeyser/sets/72157632909990954/with/8526545594/" style="font-size: small; text-align: center;" target="_blank">here</a></span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank">Lots of counting courtesy of Yianni</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #21 - WOODY (8pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Poor Woody. Poor poor beardy hairy Woody. I mean, look at the state of me! As date #21, he was onto a losing streak already, for which I can only posthumously apologise. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">By this point I was not only beside myself with tiredness, but to add insult to injury was now on my way to getting hammered, having eaten nothing but a cupcake, a croissant, a couple of bananas and a handful of chocolates in over 24 hours. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">To add to my sugar-overdose, Woody kindly furnished me with a Kinder Egg, and watched with astonishment at the way that assembling a car made from 3 parts baffled my teeny tiny overtired brain. I can only recall snippets of conversation, which included drunken eBay, darts, taxidermied squirrels, the blue rabbit sponge my little sister put up her nose aged 4, beards, balloons, and his ridiculously over-sized hands. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The highlight of the date, however, were Woody's card tricks. Even through my mind-fug, I could tell he was a shit hot close up magician, and he broke my brain with a number of different card tricks. And these were properly tricky sleight of hand jobs, and I was genuinely very impressed. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Soon, the big hand went past the little hand, and it was time for the date to end. But Woody had been a genuinely awesome sport, and I could have happily watched a lot more of his card tricks had I had some matchsticks to prop my eyelids open.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #22 - KEIR (9pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bwOOXK6rS6Y/UTZ35she8GI/AAAAAAAAAyw/gszbJhBi1LM/s1600/601524_10152630394430074_1469363020_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bwOOXK6rS6Y/UTZ35she8GI/AAAAAAAAAyw/gszbJhBi1LM/s200/601524_10152630394430074_1469363020_n.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">If you didn't feel sorry enough for Woody, then please spare a thought for poor Keir. Keir had travelled all the way from Bristol to spend an hour with someone who was scarcely held together by vodka and chocolate, and he turned up like a little whirling dervish of mirth. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">When he arrived I was due an update in the theatre, so I dragged the poor bugger into the auditorium to introduce him to the audience. But there was a seriously competetive Countdown game afoot at the time, and without wanting to interrupt or spend the entire date on the sidelines, I dragged him back to the bar again. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Although I'd not met him before, I felt like I'd known Keir for a while, as he was originally one of the short-listed candidates to be Mr #52, Lethal Brizzle, although he was pipped to the post by a Dane. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Keir came fully equipped for the date, and brought with him a bumper bag of miscellaneous Lego to keep me amused. One of his fortes, I've seen over Twitter, is his ability to build forts when he's bored at work. Bearing in mind we were in a theatre bar, full-size fort architecture wasn't an option, so he'd opted for a small Lego version. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As we sat drinking the tinned vodkas he'd brought along, we tried to combine forces and build something. However his mis-matching selection of plastic bricks led to a number of artistic differences, and we were forced to concede a number of redesigns en route. It was Keir's decision, for example, to put a death-trap propellor rich underneath the diving board, but his excuse was he liked to live on the edge.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In an effort to prove the structural integrity of said edifice, the following conversation occurred:</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Keir: 'There you go, you can stand on that!'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: 'No you can't'</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Keir: 'Yes you can...'</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">It then broke. And I was smug.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Aside from the Lego-architecture, we spoke about a myriad of weird things: why his father was responsible for making Bridgewater smell, bacon jam (oh yes, such a thing does exist folks...), Keir's uncanny impression of Vicky Pollard and why he thinks all children are bastards. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The highlight for me, however, came when he offered me the first Fruit Pastille, a red one. Everyone loves the red ones don't they? And the black ones. they're the best! It soon turned out, the entire pack was either red or black. He'd bought a number of packets, and sat on the train on the way over rigging this one pack to be only the best ones. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I know there's a pun coming a mile off, but I can't think of anyway to say it: this was genuinely one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done. Through my drunken knackered haze I was still blown away. That was amazing. Soon enough, date #23 had turned up and it was time to say goodbye, and send Keir back to the West Country.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #23 - JONATHAN (10pm)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Jonathan was another date who could only hang around for half an hour thanks to prior commitments, although this time it was having to work overnight rather than having a date to go and cook for. He'd been cajoled into it by Gavin, and in the spirit of competition, he'd turned up. Instantly, he thrust a much-needed Red Bull into my hand, and we did our level best to do a date. Sadly, but not unsurprisingly, I was rubbish. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The best we could do was to crack out the Baby Animal Top Trumps, throughout which Jonathan did his level best to cheat throughout the entire game. He was very chirpy considering he was about to start the sort of night shift I'd struggled through earlier that day, and he had obviously been taking smiling lessons from Gavin. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">No sooner had he sat down, date #24 had already turned up, and I had to send him and his shameless cheating ass packing. By now everything had literally gone to pot. I was drunk and erratic, the end was finally in sight, and I'd consumed so much sugar I was in danger of doing myself a mischief. It's a shame Jonathan hadn't figured earlier in the running order. It was also a shame he tried to take advantage of my poor state by cheating at a child's card game. Naughty.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #24 - ANDY (10.30pm)</span></u></b><br />
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Andy, the closest person I know to being a real life giant, drew the shortest straw of the lot, and that's not a reference to my height. I've known Andy for a few years now through a mutual friend, who when he found out I was struggling to meet the 25 date quota, put the thumbscrews on poor Andy and insisted he obliged. And oblige he did, turning up at half ten at night to ply me with more booze. He also packed a picnic. Bless...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">By this time, the whole theatre was in almost meltdown with the allure of sleep proving almost too much to bear. The date pretty much consisted of me flapping around in fear of my 25th and final date, examining the knitted glove that Andy had brought along in the hope I might sew it up for him (fat chance), and me trying in some way to articulate a modicum of the events that had come to pass over the last 24 hours. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Within 20 minutes, it was time to find out what the 25th and final date held in store, so I carted Andy up to the auditorium, plonked him on the back row and told him to behave himself.</span><br />
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">DATE #25 - DAN AND NADIA (11pm, day 2)</span></u></b><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My twenty-fifth and final date was quite the surprise. Yes folks, it was a threesome. Get in! The obliging folks in question were a fit hairy fellow called Dan, plucked from the audience, and a pretty Welsh-Iraqi comedienne, coincidentally the estranged girlfriend of Luke, date #16. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">We bundled off back to the bar, Dan chivalrously got a round of drinks in, and within ten minutes we'd decided to go on a jolly jaunt to EuroDisney together. This trippy triptych was obviously meant to be!</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Our short-lived romance ended the way all good first dates should end - by heading back into the theatre to watch Rufus Hound, dressed as a king, smashing 28 eggs using a hammer gaffer taped to the end of his tallywhacker. You don't believe me? Well, you should...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Within minutes, Jonathan Ross and Adam hills Had turned up, someone bid £12k to pie poor Tiernan Douieb dressed in nowt but a blue onesie in the face, and then it was midnight! In the same way that Cinderella's carriage turned into a pumpkin, everyone in the theatre descended into joyous anarchy. It was over. We could all sleep. For ever...and ever...and ever...! Well, maybe not forever, no-one actually died. Hurrah and huzzah on all counts!</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.ycomedian.com/" target="_blank"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Money maths by Yianni</span></a></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At the end of those extraordinary 25 hours, Mark and co had racked up well over a staggering £42,000 for Red Nose Day, which I'm sure will continue to rise before the big day is over. I am delighted that I managed to contribute over £1600 to that fund from my 25 dates in 25 hours challenge, thanks to the amazing support of family, friends, fans of 52 First Dates, and my dates themselves. I've been overwhelmed by everyone's support for this bonkers quest, so just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who humoured me. There is, of course, still time to donate to the challenge posthumously, now you've seen proof that I honoured my word, so if you do feel like giving me a congratulatory sponsorship slap on the back, you can do so <a href="http://www.justgiving.com/25datesin25hours" target="_blank">here</a>.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At the time of writing, it's been four days to the hour since my last date, and I've only just recovered from the experience and got round to bashing out this rather crude write up. Aesthetically, I still look pretty poor to say the least, having tried to explain the events of the 28th February through to 1st March a few times, I can confirm that my powers of coherent speech have not entirely returned to normal, and I physically feel like I've had a run in with the wrong end of a steam-roller. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This 25 hour challenge was quite possibly one of the most bizarre, testing, hilarious, faith-restoring and life-affirming things I've ever participated in my life, But you know what? If that mad man Watson ever asked me to get on board with another one of his mammoth ball-breaking mind-bending extravaganzas, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. The man is nothing short of a superhero. Mark Watson, I salute you.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I would, at this point, like to apologise to the gentlemen doing the Countdown challenge for standing them up. It was incredibly rude of me, and I promise next time we all agree to do something this foolish, I'll come and juggle some conundrums with you. And for those of you wondering if anything has come of any of the dates, there may well be a couple of second dates on the cards. That's all I'm saying for now...nosey...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And as if things couldn't get any better, my unbelievably awesome and gorgeous friend Claire Pothecary managed to get me this...it's only a message from the one man that makes me go wibbly...Tim Minchin! I'll forgive him the minor misunderstanding...so a big big thank you Claire and a big big thank you Tim.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxwQKg-f8ivgRek2kTuNI1-pNYiW3b5xo5BWrPzJW-K_ZaEdXkJRUWL4IpG-g-82KthiCUXoX7u_gc_a_vWTA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><b>DISCLAIMER: </b>I do not advise attempting batshit mental endurance dating challenges unless you've a. sought prior permission from your GP and/or b. you're batshit mental yourself.</span><br />
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CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-23731722781545789842013-01-31T13:28:00.001+00:002022-03-18T18:08:59.559+00:0025 Dates in 25 Hours<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Dear readers. Please forgive me for I have sinned. It's been five months since my last date, and truth be told, I don't miss it all that much. Which is probably why I've just agreed to do something rather foolish. But it's for charity, so bear with me.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This year marks the 25th anniversary of <a href="http://www.rednoseday.com/" target="_blank">Red Nose Day</a>, and to commemorate the occasion, comedian and masochist <a href="http://www.markwatsonthecomedian.com/" target="_blank">Mark Watson</a> has decided to embark on another one of his trademark epic stand up gigs, this time <a href="http://www.markwatsonthecomedian.com/2013/01/twenty-five-hours/" target="_blank">a 25 hour gig</a>. Lord. </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Needless to say when Mark hinted to me to get involved, I </span><i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">may</i><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> have shot my mouth off a little too soon with 'yeah alright, shall I do a mini version of 52 First Dates but in 25 hours? Yeah why not!' </span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">...and THEN thought long and hard about it. And maybe regretted it. Maybe.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Well it's too late now - I'm in for the long haul, quite literally. To be honest, I was never going to run the marathon for charity, the idea of sitting in a bath of beans for 25 hours whilst people are still starving is a little tasteless, and there's no way on God's earth I could be persuaded to do anything involving planes, ropes or mountains. But over the last 2 years I appear to have refined the art of making small talk with random strangers, so a sponsored date-a-thon it is. 25 dates with 25 random people in 25 hours. Endurance dating. My parents will be so proud.</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The big main event itself takes place at the delightful <a href="http://www.pleasance.co.uk/islington" target="_blank">Pleasance Theatre in Islington</a> and will be streamed live on t'interweb and t'radio and t'stuff starting at 11pm on Thursday 28th of Feb 2013 and running through to midnight on Friday 1st March. During that time, I have to have been on all of my allotted dates and survived. Mostly.</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">'How can I get involved?' I hear you cry! Well, funny you should ask! There are a few possible options (quite frankly all of which are easier than mine so help a sister out here).</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">You can take your pick from...</span></div>
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<b><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="http://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/25Dates25Hours" target="_blank"><u>MENU A - The easy option - sponsor me by clicking here!</u> (or by texting "DATE52 £5" to 70070)</a></span></b></div>
<div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="http://my.rednoseday.com/sponsor/25Dates25Hours" target="_blank">I don't need to tell you how bloody awesome the work of Comic Relief is (but I will - helping literally millions of people worldwide is no mean feat, and having done a lot of work for the organisation myself, I've seen where this money goes and it's, quite frankly, awesome), so even if you can spare just a couple of quid for this amazing charity please please do. And of course don't forget to Gift Aid it, etc etc. Plus, the more money I raise for my bit of the challenge, the more 'good date' I promise to give. Promise. Although nothing that involves baseball analogies, thanks. Naughty.</a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">MENU B - <a href="http://www.pleasance.co.uk/islington/events/mark-watsons-25-hour-interactive-comedy-fundraising-extravaganza-for-red-nose-day" target="_blank">The fun option - buy a ticket and come along to the gig! </a></span></u></b></div>
<div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Mark and co. will need all the moral support they can get, so be a sport, become part of something epic and come along for the event. It's literally a pound an hour for 25 hours worth of gig - even in this triple dip recession I think you'll all agree that's value for money. Don't worry, they won't gaffer tape you to the chair for the entire duration, I believe there might be a supervised wee break. Maybe.</span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="http://www.twitter.com/c_t_s" target="_blank">MENU C - The lazy option - follow the dates live via my Twitter feed</a></span></u></b></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="http://www.twitter.com/c_t_s" target="_blank">Go on, follow me, and tweet me words of support, suggestions of how to make the dates more interesting and abuse if you're so inclined! This way you can keep up to date with the proceedings and bask in the knowledge that whilst you're probably curled up in bed watching re-runs of New Girl I'm struggling to string a sentence together in the hope of vaguely impressing a real life human man. I'll be tweeting updates after every date so you can not only meet my wonderful(ly brave) beaus throughout the event, but you'll get to witness real life human deterioration of both mind and body in the name of a good cause. Mine, that is. Double win! </a></span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="mailto:cts@52firstdates.com" target="_blank">MENU D - The brave option - be one of my dates! </a></span></u></b></div>
<div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><a href="mailto:cts@52firstdates.com" target="_blank">I'm really going to need your help with this one. I'm going to need dates. Twenty five of them. Are you single? You do have to be - I don't want to be a sitting duck for If it's not you, then perhaps your single male friend who's always up for the craic and maybe doesn't have anything better to do at 4am on a Friday morning would be one. My dates would only have to endure my delirious self for between as little as ten minutes and probably no more than 45 minutes probably at the theatre itself, potentially at some sort of anti-social hour, and if you're lucky enough to catch me in the dying hours of this 25 hour marathon, you might get to bear witness to some sort of apoplectic breakdown of gargantuan proportions. I know what you're thinking...sexy. It would be super awesome if some of my dates had an idea of something fun to do that wasn't just talking (in the event I lose the power of speech), so if you fancy teaching me samba, backgammon, take me on at a thumb war, explain the history of origami or ANYTHING that might be a bit fun and different, that would be swell. So what are you waiting for? Be part of something extra-ordinary (or extra-ordinarily weird) and email me. I'm CTS by the way, pleased to meet you. </a></span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">I'm the one on the right</span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Is that it? That was easy. I'm going to have to do this now aren't I? Bugger...</span></div>
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CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-46941456135891574532012-11-08T19:42:00.013+00:002022-03-18T18:07:17.282+00:00Sebastian Pritchard-Jones Strikes Back!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">***12/07/13 - since this update was originally written, we have since identified those who had their photos used without permission, and I have removed the majority of them out of courtesy to those pictured***</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Hello there 52 First Dates fans! Bet you weren't expecting to hear from me on here again were you? No. Well, there have been developments, as the title of this entry suggests. Remember the fictitious Sebastian Pritchard-Jones who made a few guest appearances during the blog when a couple of his other victims got in touch with me? Well, there have been more. And boy has that bastard been busy!</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In total there are now five of us girls that have duped by this duplicitous, twisted, manipulative beast who has been posing as other people online to try and groom women, and aside from the one guy I know of who had his identity stolen to groom both myself and the first two girls to get back in touch, it seems that before us, he'd been masquerading as at least two other poor, unsuspecting guys.</span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">When I first posted my disgruntled article about the apparently handsome Welsh teacher that buggered me around, stood me up and then turned up to be a psycho in a perfume bottle, I didn't expect anything more than having used it as something to write about. But the response I have had since has given me chills on a regular basis.</span></div>
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<div>
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">To save doing numerous annoying links to previous posts, I've written the entire story up according to every woman Seb has targeted, including myself. I've also attached pictures and key bits of information that we think will help lead us to who the hell this evil creature is. </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">This guy has done some seriously sick psychological damage to those he's dicked around over the years, and we are determined to find him. And find him we will. With your help. So if there's anything in here that means anything to you, rings any bells, recognise any pictures or names or pricks any consciences, then please <a href="mailto:cts@52firstdates.com" target="_blank">get in touch</a>. He'll probably have changed his name by now, but it's hard to change such a thickly-woven web of lies, and I know there must be more of us out there.</span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">So grab yourself a cup of tea, pop on your best Miss Marple hat and brace yourself.</span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">My story –
May 2011<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Seb first got in touch with me in May 2011 through the dating
website Smooch (yes, I know, I die). His first approach was forward, to say the least: ‘so when are
you going to ask me out then?’. Usually
I’d be put right off this sort of arrogant approach, but shallowly I liked his
pictures, he ticked all the right boxes and I liked the cut of his jib from his
profile. Plus I’d just started a blog called 52 First Dates where I forced
myself to go on an internet date every week for a year, and I needed to line up
my second date, and Seb seemed like a good enough option. So we started
messaging through the site and eventually exchanged numbers to sort out a date.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p3mGF9CEyjI/UJqFBueZQwI/AAAAAAAAApM/JTAB_wvGR5E/s1600/Seb+profile+3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="303" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-p3mGF9CEyjI/UJqFBueZQwI/AAAAAAAAApM/JTAB_wvGR5E/s400/Seb+profile+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Within a very
short space of time, he had bulldozed his way into my life in epic style. But
before we move onto that, I would like you to meet Sebastian P-J, known as Seb,
or affectionately known as the boy with the disabled eyes and the Sticklebrick
hair:</span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-thOWbjKLA1s/UJprXGRtdWI/AAAAAAAAAk0/g8Dptqxh_Ks/s1600/IMG_02301.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-thOWbjKLA1s/UJprXGRtdWI/AAAAAAAAAk0/g8Dptqxh_Ks/s320/IMG_02301.jpg" width="205" /></a><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So here’s his story. Seb is 35 years old, has an older brother
Josh, a policeman and sister Amy, a radiographer married to Gary,
another policeman. His mum Trish and dad still live in Wales and after many
years of marriage have a date night every night. He lives alone in his own 4
bedroomed house in a gated development in Marylebone (part bought thanks to his
granny), and works as a primary school teacher in Westminster, in line to
become Deputy Head. </span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">His ex girlfriend Laura used to work in A&E and
tragically died of breast cancer a few years ago. He’d stayed with her til the
bitter end, despite her wanting him to father her children as she was dying
which put him through incredible emotional strain. Since Laura, he has been on
his own with the exception of an alleged affair with a daytime television
presenter. He likes to paint, makes excellent roast potatoes, loves Swansea
City, adores his 3 year old niece Tilly and his ‘sexy gran’, used to play the
drums in a band and last year did a photographic challenge during which he had
to photograph himself doing something new every day. H</span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">is granddad
is stricken with Alzheimers and Seb is the glue to keep them all together. </span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">His best friend is 'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">who was severely disabled as a result of botched childhood innoculations. They'd been to school together, and Seb would regularly visit him. He is a huge football fan, and they'd regularly go to watch matches together.</span></div>
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<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Seb
is sweet, sensitive, the life and soul of the party, and on paper he is quite
possibly the perfect boyfriend. And reading all of this back now the same
warning bells I had at the time are ringing again.</span><br />
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">One thing
that did concern me about Seb was from an early stage, his flirting technique
needed work. He could be seedy. So each time he crossed one of these tasteless
lines, I would tell him to stop being a sex pest, and to be-fucking-have. And,
like any sensitive man would, he'd get back behind the line he had crossed. Against
my better judgement, because I had to meet my quota for 52 First Dates style I
agreed to meet him for a date, because you can only really judge a person
properly when you're sat across a table for them. So, two weeks later we
arranged to meet on a Monday in a pub in Soho. And this is where is all
began...</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> At the silent disco</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Monday
afternoon rolled around, and an hour before we were due to meet, he texted to
cancel on the grounds that he had had a disclosure at school. One of his pupils
had told him that she was being abused by her father, and he had spent the
afternoon involved with the police and social services. All in all, that sounds
like a pretty rubbish day at work, so we decided to reschedule for Thursday
that week. </span><br /><br />
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Later that week I went to meet him, and we </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">had even spoken an hour beforehand to arrange the venue, but he
never turned up. I was not just furious but utterly embarrassed that I’d got it
so wrong. A couple of days later I heard from him out of the blue. It emerged
that he had snapped a cruciate ligament during football training and had ended
up in hospital. Wow, this boy really is unlucky I thought.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The following
week we started speaking on the phone. He would text me throughout the day and
ring me every night. He would send me photos of himself, some doing kooky
things, some of him on holiday, a couple of him lying in bed. He obviously
wanted me to fancy him, and as you can tell from the photos, he's rather lovely
on the eye. I was going to turn a blind eye to the borderline narcissism until
I'd at least met the bugger. We'd chat for hours at a time, getting to know
each other, finding common ground, taking the piss, developing our own in jokes
and getting all the more closer. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fUMTLXMk3HI/UJprnLEMzOI/AAAAAAAAAk8/h8MP-ark5cY/s1600/IMG_92071.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fUMTLXMk3HI/UJprnLEMzOI/AAAAAAAAAk8/h8MP-ark5cY/s320/IMG_92071.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">A spider diagram Seb sent to me. Red felt-tip pen. Of course...</span></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I</span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> won't lie,
I was starting, in part, to fall for him. He had a story for everything, which
with the benefit of my retrospectrometer bears all the hallmarks of a
pathological fantasist. But for every sweet comment, funny photo, sensitive
anecdote there was always a little question mark and yet another subtle little
attempt to get me to give him a little sleazy titillation.</span><br /><br />
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Over the space of about 2 weeks, I must've spent over 20 hours
talking to this man. He told me about the death of his ex girlfriend Laura, his
best friend 'Phillip' who was brain-damaged, an alleged affair he had with a popular
daytime television presenter, the practical jokes played between him and his
brother (including bricking up the front door and inviting a tramp round for
Christmas lunch), I felt I knew everything about this man. And in return he
knew about my job, my hobbies, my previous relationships, and I’m ashamed to
say some skeletons in my closet. And looking back over our conversations now,
for every hour on the phone, there was always one little seedy undertone. I can
remember him casually slipping things like bra size, anal sex, contraception
and even menstrual cycles into conversation. But because they were all
anecdotal, or heavily embedded in the in jokes or the sensitive side of things,
the alarm bells tinkled a little, but it was nothing I felt I couldn't handle.
These are topics that come up with friends, and after all this time, we were
becoming friends, friends under a sort of pressure cooker intensity. But every
time he tried to eek out something personal from me, my bra size, my views on
contraception, my personal cycle, I would bat them away out of the park and
he'd be left with nothing. Reading this back now, I feel sick to my
stomach. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that all this
investment in me was for those tiny little seedy snippets.</span><br />
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">But by now I
still wanted to meet the man behind the smooth Welsh tones. I needed to check
that Seb in real life was who I thought he was, and any such salaciousness
could be spotted in person, and nipped in the bud. By this time my curiosity
had already got the better of me, and I'd tried to find him online. But to pour
fuel to my already-increasing suspicions, I could find no trace of him. Not
even using journalistic tools used to verify identities. And I am, if I do say
my self, pretty fucking good at finding people online. Everyone's on there
somewhere, whether it'd for an old school photo, a Just Giving donation, or a
vox pop in the local press. But nevertheless, we arranged to meet on the
following Friday night and I was determined to get the the bottom of this.
However, come Friday afternoon, he cancelled again, this time with the best
reason yet: his brother Josh, a policeman, had been having an affair with a
colleague's wife. The colleague then found out, a fight broke out, the
colleague winds up in hospital and the brother ends up in custody. Oh, and her
baby might well have been his brother's. So Seb goes home to look after his
devastated family, and once again I'm left high and dry and wondering what sort
of a dramatic life this guy has.</span><br />
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">By this point
I am still hearing daily warning bells like tinnitus, but to honour my blog,
and because I was gradually being more and more charmed by this man in a
shameful way, I was determined to meet him to find out once and for all what
was going on. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then, out of
the blue on Tuesday, came some rather sinister messages one night from a
strange number. The conversation went as follows:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***: New number peeps (20.32)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Who is this?
x (20.42)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***: You were great xx (21.01)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Who is
this??? x (21.12)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***: You know (21.24)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">CTS: No I
don't...this is your new number (21.43)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***: I hear you are seeing somebody (21.51)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Who is
this? (21.52)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 *** ***:You
fukin no who. Lets start where we left off xx (22.47)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: No I have
no idea who you are. You either tell me who this is or stop messaging (23.04)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***:Don't mess with me Claire. Played hard to get b4 (23.08)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Who is
this? (23.08)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***:You know who so let us stop f***ing around with the other geezer (23.10)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: No I do
not know who this is. I don't have your number and I have no idea what you are
talking about. Leave me alone. (23.10)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***:I will find out who he is. If I can't have youre nor can he (23.12)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Who the
f*** are you? (23.13)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">07507 ***
***:Small the world but it pays to be street wise (23.14)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Me: Tell me
who the f*** you are and how you have my number or I'm going to the police
(23.17)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">At no point
had I ever told anyone I was 'seeing' someone, because I’d been single for 8
years by this point, and my first instinct was that Seb had bought another
phone to try and frighten me. This was all very wrong. During these messages,
Seb called me and caught me in some distress that these messages, and the first
thing I did was to check that it wasn't him. I just knew he had something to do
with it. I just knew. He was mortified at the accusation, denied it fervently,
and then offered to help by sending the number to his brother-in-law, another
policeman on duty. He also queried whether this could be one of my skeletons
come back to get me, something I knew was an impossible option. But then he
offered to send a cab to collect me and I could stay in his spare room if I was
frightened. Ding-a-ling-a-fucking-ling. Not on your life sunshine. I tried
calling the strange number back and it rang and rang but no answer and no
voicemail. The next day I tried the same and the phone was off. This bore all
the markings of a PAYG phone, and one I suspected had been bought for purpose.
And the more I thought about it, I suspected he had used something I told him
in trust to scare me, and then he could sweep in and look after me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The next few
days were pretty horrific, he was still calling and messaging, one minute
offering to look after me and the other expressing such horror that I was still
questioning who he was. I knew I had to find out the answer to draw a line
under everything. Everything I knew about him was just so intangible, nothing I
could use to verify his identity. I was driving myself mad. Here was this
handsome man who had been increasingly adoring of me, and yet the alarms were
still clanging all over the shop. So today I finally asked where he worked. If
he had nothing to hide, he would have told me. But because of these messages
that had apparently spooked him too, he refused. This cemented my thoughts that
he was to blame for the strange messages and that he wasn't who he said he was.
I confronted him, and I said he either had to give me some proof of who he was
or to leave me alone. I mentioned all of the failed date attempts, all at his
behest, and said he had no intention of ever meeting me. The photo I then
received told me everything I needed to know.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_NXXyMGQ2Fo/UJpsbLo0ETI/AAAAAAAAAlc/3GvKI6YkRQo/s1600/IMG_31281.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_NXXyMGQ2Fo/UJpsbLo0ETI/AAAAAAAAAlc/3GvKI6YkRQo/s640/IMG_31281.jpg" width="476" /></a></div>
<div align="center" class="separator" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Why on earth would
you buy someone some expensive perfume when you have never met them? Why? But
even more bizarrely, look at the reflection in the bottle. Just look. That, my
friends, is not the tall, dark, handsome Welsh stranger that had been messaging
and calling me constantly for a month. Oh no. That is a total stranger. I have
been joking all along about the film Catfish, and it turns out I have just been
living it myself. I confronted Seb straight away only to be told I was being
paranoid, and then I got a number of messages telling me what a fuck up I was,
how I was wrong in the head and how he wished he'd never messaged me. His
change of tone confirmed everything I needed to know. I now have more than
enough reason to believe I had been being groomed all along. I won't lie, when
I thought I was potentially fucking up something with someone I loved the sound
of, I felt terrible. But now, I feel relieved. I am trying not to dwell over
the hours of chats we have had over the last few weeks because I do feel
incredibly violated, despite my constant vigilance of holding things back. I
hate that I have given so much of myself to someone who, if we're being honest,
I did have some reservations about from the very start before he started to win
me over. Late that night he texted me telling me how he was falling in love with me,
trying to get me back into open conversation. I told him to leave me alone or I
would contact the police. I never heard from him again.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I reported
the incident to the police, but since Seb had not harmed me, threatened me nor
defrauded me of money, there was no crime. The most they could tell me was that
someone with a ‘similar name’ had been reported for something similar a year
before, but it wasn’t followed up. The only thing there was to go on were the
threatening messages which could be seen as harassment. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Fast forward a week after posting my blog and the first of many revelations happened.</span><br />
<br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> </span><b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">C's story</span></u></b><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">C was
catapaulted into the Seb saga by utter fluke. After spattering my blog all over
social networking sites in an attempt to get some answers about who or what Seb
was, I was utterly astonished at some outstanding detective work amongst my
Facebook friends. One of them recognised the background of the silent disco
photo as being in Milton Keynes shopping centre. After posting this observation
on my wall, within hours both her and another friend had managed to locate the
man in the photos and had sent me links to his profile. His surname was exactly the same as one of the key names in Seb's web of lies. Unbefuckinglievable. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">On Sunday morning I wrote perhaps one of the strangest emails that
he will have ever received. 'Hello, you don't know me, but I feel like I know
you. Don't freak out now, but have a little read of my blog...' Would he reply?
I know I would...but this is just too fucking weird right? Right! Sunday night,
as if by magic, C got back in touch, and I can safely say he was as totally
shocked by what was going on as I was. It turns out that many of the details I
had been told, personal details, about his life, likes, loves had been lifted
straight from his life. Other details had come from elsewhere. But in any case
that, and the fact that I had been sent around 80 photos documenting his life
over the last few years, was enough to freak him right out. Every single picture of Seb I'd been sent were actually of C. So where now?
I'd been duped by some sort of pathological liar, and C had had his life stolen.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">I then went
about sending C every photo I had been sent from 'Sebastian' in an attempt
to piece together how he could have acquired all these pictures. I sent him as
much of a dossier as I could, including the last few digits of his phone
numbers in case C could identify it as maybe one of his so-called friends
who would have had access to all these pictures. But what we then found out
made us both feel physically sick. C emailed me back with Sebastian's exact
telephone number, and said it belonged to a woman who called herself Amy, whom he had
been messaging back in 2008 through Plenty of Fish. He had never spoken to her
over the phone only text, but like Seb, she'd cancelled meetings on a number of
occasions. It turns out we had both been speaking to the same person. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q42fr6wBCBA/UJpt0xrj3HI/AAAAAAAAAls/zLZXHD0MD2Q/s1600/Amanda+Bentley.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q42fr6wBCBA/UJpt0xrj3HI/AAAAAAAAAls/zLZXHD0MD2Q/s1600/Amanda+Bentley.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif" style="font-size: x-small;">'Amy' as sent to C, which we've since traced to having come from a MILF site</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">C’s ex
girlfriend used to work in A&E, as Seb’s ex Laura had, but unlike Laura she
was still very much alive and well. C also collected vintage Cortinas and
restored them, which had become part of Seb’s story with me. He had also done a to do something new every day for a year. He had a group devoted
to this on Facebook, and nearly every single photo Seb had sent me had been
lifted from this group. Seb had a different picture to back up every anecdote
he had to spin me.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Randomly Amy had
got in touch with C out of the blue by text on that same telephone number
in early 2011 asking for photos of buttonfly jeans because he knew that C used to work for Levis. In the spider diagram Seb had sent me, he’d put
buttonfly jeans as one of the things he liked. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The phone
number both C and I had for Seb / 'Amy' was <b>0770* *** 114</b>. They may
have also used a phone with the number <b>0750* *** 375</b>, the number used to
send me threatening messages.</span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Between the two of us, we had C removed from Smooch, updated the police, and that we thought was that. Until two months later...</span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> </span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">D’s
story<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">On 25<sup>th</sup> July 2011 I had a message on Twitter that made
my blood run cold. I had a message from a girl telling me she was the latest
‘idiot’. I messaged her privately to find out what was going on, and it turned
out that Seb’s latest victim, the girl he moved onto after me had been shown my
blog by her mother, who had grown suspicious that her daughter was falling for
a man she’d never met. Understandably she was distraught, and that day cut off
all ties with him. After she’d calmed down we messaged at length to try and
establish what we both knew about him. As it turns out he’d spun almost an
identical web of lies for her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Over the
course of just 2 weeks, D and Seb had spoken on the phone for over 60
hours. He was totally sucking her in. According to her, he was also 35 years
old, born on 19</span><sup style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> April, lived in a gated property in Marylebone
where everything was painted black and which apart from the lounge which his
mum had painted lime green and brown. He’d recently lost his grandfather, and
his sister Amy (37) a sonographer was married to a policeman called Gary and
they had a child together, Tilly. He also had a best friend called Steve, who
Seb described as ‘short, ginger and rich’ who was marrying a girl in August who
was only after him for his money. Seb was due to be the best man, the stag do
was on July 15</span><sup style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> and they’d gone paint-balling and playing golf.
Both and I had had the same photo backing up Seb’s paint-balling
story, one lifted from C's collection.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">When D started talking about Seb’s ex Laura, again the
same story had rung true. They’d met on a train from Bristol to London, chatted
the whole way, had gone for lunch once they arrived and the rest was history.
Seb had been teaching in the Bristol area (where he’d had an affair with his
headmistress), but relocated to London only six weeks later to be with Laura.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">She spoke
in detail about his relationship with Laura. They had a turbulent relationship,
but they always ended up back together. The last 2 years they spent together,
she had been ill and wanted to have a baby and get married before she died, but
he didn’t want to be left bringing up a child on his own. At Christmas 2010
after she’d died, he’d had to get his Mum to tell her parents he couldn’t cope
with having contact any more. When Laura had died, he’d taken his vintage
Cortina (which he won as a bet when he was 18) and drove all the way to Cortina
in Italy to get away. As it turns out, C collected and restored old cars, including Cortinas.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">D also knew the same information about Seb’s family. His
father, Benjamin, was originally from Yorkshire and his mum Trish was
from Tenby. She’d worked in a hotel, and one night Benjamin and
his friends stayed out late so she’d locked them out. Eventually she let him
in, and they chatted all through the night. Later, he tracked her down, and
they got married and had been together 45 years. Both are also teachers.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Seb’s grandparents were also from Tenby, and were very wealthy. It
was Seb’s grandfather Harry that had died. He had a box at Swansea City
football club which would always stay in the family. Seb would always take </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> to go and watch from there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">D knew a lot about 'Phillip' too. </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> was 7 years older than
Seb, and they had met at school. </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> had been left disabled and brain-damaged
as a child. </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip's </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> mum was an alcoholic and had abused him, so he was taken
away and put in a home in Milton Keynes. Seb would visit him in Milton Keynes,
saw how sad he was to be there, so brought him back to Wales. As it turns out,
C is from Milton Keynes.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">The things D knew Seb loved were Wales, Tenby. Swansea
City (he’d ring her up drunk singing Swansea City songs, as he’d done with me),
Cortinas, cricket, squash, running, taking photos and art. His best friends
were Steve, Lucy and </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip'.</span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> They’d also play Scrabble a lot, with his username
Sebbie 76. D had met him through Smooch, but she’d also found him on OK
Cupid.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">After finding my blog, she never spoke to or heard from him again. We both thought that was that, and we'd never hear about Sebastian Pritchard-Jones ever again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Fast forward seven months...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">M’s
story</span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">M got in touch with me through the blog on 27<sup>th</sup> of
February this year. She’d also met Seb through Smooch under the same username
Soujourn. The couple had been texting and then speaking from April 2011 until
June 2011, just before he moved onto me. Once again the same stories rang true
– his ex Laura had died, his sister Amy was a sonographer, he had a brother
called Gareth who was a policeman having an affair (almost the same as Josh in
my case), his niece Tilly was ill in hospital and his best friend was </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> who
she’d actually spoken to over the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As part of their routine, they’d have ‘cuddle time’ in bed over
the phone, and she said he’d asked her some of the personal questions he’d
asked me which had been met with the same distain. When Seb had got in touch,
M had been going through a terrible time nearly losing her mother and she
was in a very vulnerable place. Within 4 days of them first messaging he knew
about her mum and kept asking more and more questions. He totally got into her
head, posing as a knight in shining armour. He’d even tried the ‘get in a cab
and I’ll look after you’ line with her which of course she didn’t act upon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">After he stood her up the first time, because Tilly had split her
head open and had to go to hospital, he sent a bouquet of 12 red roses to her
former workplace which she thought was a very over-the-top gesture. The second
time they were due to meet, Seb had texted her half an hour beforehand to
confirm details, then told her about Laura and cancelled because he was getting
‘freaked out’ about how things were moving on. Later she had drunken phone calls
and text saying he’d made a big mistake, but M called everything off. A few
weeks later, Seb got back in touch, and M questioned who he really was and
if he had lied. He denied everything, and it all started again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">After standing her up for the second time, M set up a bogus
profile on Smooch looking for ‘no strings fun’. She checked out Seb’s profile
and they started messaging. She sent him her housemate’s phone number, and was
shocked to discover he was sending her very explicit and ‘out of character’
messages. She gave him a fake address, they arranged to ‘meet’, and of course
he never turned up, because apparently he had fallen asleep. The next night, he
texted again saying he was in Soho and wanted to meet up, and kept calling and
calling the phone. Her housemate panicked and didn’t answer, at which point he
turned nasty and accused her of being ‘one of his crazy exes’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">M last arranged to meet Seb on 11<sup>th</sup> June 2012, knowing
full well he would never turn up. He didn’t, and they never spoke again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In total they had been on contact for 7 weeks, with a 2 week break
after he stood her up for a second time. When M and I compared dates, Seb
last stood M up 8 days before my first date with Seb, so he had already
been lining me up at the end of their ‘relationship’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">This was someone clearly planning the whole duping and grooming process knowing full well that sooner or later his victim's would tire of his psychotic bullshit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So there we go, three victims and the owner of a stolen identity found, all thanks to some stupid blog piece I wrote bitterly after being stood up. This thing was getting bigger, and weirder. But as I was soon to find out, the three of us had got off lightly....</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> </span></o:p><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Rachel’s
story<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Rachel got
in touch with me on 19<sup>th</sup> June 2012. She had been sucked in by Seb
for 9 months during 2010. But this Seb had a different face </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">***photo since removed after tracking down the original subject***</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Once I started to speak to Rachel, the same stories
started to come out, but there were some key differences. She had met him
through Smooch, but he had gone by the user name Agonal, a medical reference
which as a senior ward sister she recognised. He also had different photos,
even though the rest of the key information was the same. She later saw him on
the same site, but he’d changed his username to Soujourn and his photos had
changed. He tried to justify his new wearing of glasses by saying his mum
persuaded him to get an eye test, but he was too vain to get glasses. The
glasses later became part of his spiel to both D and I, the boy with
the ‘disabled eyes’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span>
<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">She knew Seb was a ‘good Catholic boy’, who taught at a Catholic
school and who had been recently promoted to Deputy Head, and bragged about
having his name on a plaque on the door, despite not being able to provide
photographic evidence. They would also play Scrabble, and he’d send her
pictures of chocolate Scrabble letters spelling out messages of love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Rachel, herself a nurse,
had been spun the same lies about Seb’s dead ex, although in her version
of events the ex was called Ali. She knew about his niece, Tilly, who had been
born to Amy on 1<sup>st</sup> September 2010. He had even rung her from the
hospital to tell her the news. Seb would send her many pictures to back up his
anecdotes, as well as pictures of his dinners, and later on, also some sexually
explicit ones. <o:p></o:p></span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Rachel had the same number for Seb as the rest of us, but also had a phone number for his sister Amy, 0785* *** 612. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Their first date was cancelled because his grandfather, known
affectionately as ‘the War Hero’, had been taken to hospital, and he later
died. Another date was cancelled because Seb had to return to Bristol to
testify in a child abuse case from a disclosure at his former school. He had called Rachel from the hotel on his
lunch breaks to tell her about the case. The excuses for not meeting just kept
on coming, a flooding at his parents property (and having to rescue the
disabled tenant), his sister having a baby, problems with Josh and his wife,
and counselling sessions to get over his ex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">As she grew increasingly suspicious about these cancellations she
tried to find evidence these events took place – no court records of a child
abuse case in the Bristol area, no obituary or record of a funeral for his
grandfather in Tenby, nothing at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Rachel and Seb had a break from October 2010 – December 2010 after
Seb manufactured a mammoth falling out. When he tried to patch things up with
her, he slipped up by calling his dead ex Laura and not Ali, which Rachel
picked up on. In previous stories he’d told Rachel, Laura had been another ex,
a radiographer, who had cheated on him. Rachel and Seb were then
‘together’ until June 2011.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Rachel says Seb controlled her life for 9 months. During this time
he fluctuated wildly between being loving and affectionate to aggressive and
suspicious. He claimed to have bought
her perfumes, flowers and other gifts which never emerged. He accused her of
cheating, and tried to frighten her by saying that his policeman brother Josh had run a
search on her to find out about her infidelities. It's enough to scare the shit out of anyone. It is emotional abuse. And this is the sickest, lowest thing Seb had done to date...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Then only 2 months ago a fifth victim of Sebastian Pritchard-Jones got in contact.</span></div>
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<b><u><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ali’s
story<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Yes, Ali - the name of Seb's dead ex in his version of events with Rachel. Ali got in touch with me on 14<sup>th</sup> September 2012 after
Seb had tried getting back in touch with her via Skype. They had been in a
relationship from January 2010 until November 2010. Ali had been so destroyed by Seb, she moved abroad and had to seek counselling as a result. And her Seb, once again, looked totally different, but the backstory was the same.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">***photo since removed after tracking down the original subject***</span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Ali had
met Seb through Guardian Soulmates, under the username SebPJ in January 2010. </span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Once again, the key information was almost identical, sister was
Amy who had a daughter called Tilly. He had an older brother called
Gary who was a policeman, both his parents were teachers and his mum was called
Patricia. He grew up in Tenby, his birthday was April 18<sup>th</sup> and his
friend Steve (Lewis?) was a dentist. His best friend </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> was disabled. Seb also claimed to have a medical condition called Addison’s Disease.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">The first
time Ali was due to meet Seb, he broke his leg whilst playing at a charity
football match. As with the rest of his other victims, they would text all day
and speak for hours every night. Three weeks later, they were due to meet, but
Ali discovered he had given her a false address. He turned his phone off for 3
days and then called her back drunk in tears about his dead wife Laura (not
girlfriend). By this point, Ali was smitten, they’d speak until midnight every
night, and would sleep with their phones by their pillows as if they were
sleeping in the same bed. On Saturdays, they had a routine of picking horses
together and placing bets. She also knew about the 4 bedroom house in
Marylebone, the art classes, the photography, and the inheritance. They also
spoke about the future, and he called her the Future Mrs Pritchard-Jones. She
knew him to live off Boswell Street / Balcombe Street, he was a member of 5
Cavendish Square and Wentworth Golf Club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Whilst they were together, Seb had ongoing issues related to his
ex Laura, and Ali said she’d stand by him through therapy. Laura had apparently
told Seb she never wanted him to have another woman.</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Seb would frequently send Ali gifts, cash with a hand-written note
and flowers. He also claimed to have bought her jewellery and clothes, but they
never materialised. He also paid for taxis to take her to places, and claimed
to have added her to his bank account, although once again that never
materialised. Once he transferred a sum of money to her, but the money came
from an account under the name of Amy in April 2010. Seb said he’d had fraud committed on his
account, so he’d had to use his sister’s. Then after sending her the
gifts, if Ali didn’t appear grateful
enough he’d call her selfish and ungrateful, yet another way to exert power
over her.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-55YqGkMoqpo/UJp4LF58WPI/AAAAAAAAAnc/3oi_OWQsLaM/s1600/pg+007.JPG" style="clear: left; display: inline; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-55YqGkMoqpo/UJp4LF58WPI/AAAAAAAAAnc/3oi_OWQsLaM/s320/pg+007.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">After 4 months of his supposed therapy, they were due to me</span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">et up.
His family were away in Jamaica at the time, but because of his broken leg, Seb
couldn’t go. The family were stuck out there due to the volcanic ash debacle,
so when they final returned, Ali and Seb were meant to go and meet his parents
together. She woke up at 5am to go to the airport, tried to ring him but his
phone was off and she was heart-broken. He didn’t contact her for 2 weeks, and
when he did it was to accuse her of being unfaithful and claiming he had proof.
By this time, May 2010, things had got back on track, but Ali knew she was
never going to meet him.</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">In June 2010, behind Seb’s back, Ali decided to move to Sydney for
good to get away from him. In July 2010, Ali ran the London 10k race, and Seb
frightened her by saying he’d seen her there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Throughout their relationship, Seb was very controlling and
jealous. He stopped Ali going out, would tell her he didn’t like the clothes
she was wearing and would punish her by putting her in the ‘naughty corner’. He
also said he would killer her if anyone else had her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ali left
for Sydney on 9<sup>th</sup> November 2010. 45 minutes before she boarded the
plane, Seb rang her to give her one last chance to tell him the truth about
cheating on him, because he claimed he had her followed and had photographic
evidence. She had been on a date in the latter months, and there was something
about the way he phrased it made her
think he really did know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Once Ali was in Sydney, she had very little contact with Seb. He
said he’d booked a ticket to go out to Australia to ‘get her’, but of course he
never turned up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">So there you have it - Sebastian Pritchard-Jones has worked his sick fucking magic on at least six innocent people. Of course, it won't end there. And it hasn't. </span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><b><u>UPDATE</u></b></span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ali got in touch with me because totally out of the blue, because Seb had got back in contact via Skype trying to wheedle his way back into her life. He'd threatened to go to Australia to find her, but was trying to make her jealous by telling her about the new love of his life, Liz, who by all accounts is either yet another one of his victims or, most probably, is a figment of his fucked up imagination. He sent her pictures of himself allegedly with his new girlfriend Liz. Yet more stolen photos of unsuspecting people.</span><br />
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Since Ali got in touch, her Rachel and I have been emailing regularly, sharing all the photos and information we have to try and find out more about who the hell this 'thing' is.</span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif"> </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ali also has a massive dossier of photos illustrating all of Seb's alleged family and friends. </span><br />
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<span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">Interestingly in one of Ali's photographs she spotted that not one but both of their Seb's were in the same photo. These guys were obviously friends.</span></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Ali has a number of group shots featuring her Seb, and we need to find out who this guy is as there's no way he can know that one of his 'friends' is using his image, personal parts of his own life to groom and abuse women.</span></div>
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<o:p><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Another really major area of concern with me is that of </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip'. </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> This is obviously a very poorly man whose photos are being callously used to curry sympathy for someone for the vilest reasons possible. We have accumulated a number of photos of </span><span face="'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif">'Phillip' </span><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"> that Seb has been sending around various women and it's not right. The person behind this sickery must have contact or access to him, and his family and carers need to know about it. It chills me to the bone that someone is using someone like this for such ill means, but unfortunately this is the only way I can let people know about it.</span></o:p></div>
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<o:p><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">So there you go, Sebastian Pritchard-Jones strikes again. Someone out there must recognise people in these pictures. Someone out there must have heard these stories before. I always had my reservations that the internet harboured a whole load of weird, and this is one pretty bloody good example. This creature is stealing lives, weaving lies and doing a whole lot of emotional harm. But who's to say he'll stop there? Please help us find him. Email this article to everyone you know, tweet it, slap it all over your Facebook and help us stop this mind-fuckery before more people get hurt.</span></o:p><br />
<o:p><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif"><br /></span></o:p>
<o:p><span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">And if you have heard any of these stories before, if you've been a victim of this serial nutjob or know anyone in any of these pictures, please please <a href="mailto:cts@52firstdates.com" target="_blank">email me</a>. I don't believe for one minute any of these innocent people shown in these pictures know about or would ever consent to them being used in the manner with which they are, and I want to do everything I can to stop any more people getting hurt by what appears to be a very sick and very sad individual.</span></o:p></div>
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<span face="Trebuchet MS, sans-serif">Until next time readers...and mark my words, there will be a next time...</span></div>
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CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com107tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-63342312824778598822012-07-29T21:48:00.003+01:002022-03-18T18:04:17.919+00:00Mr #52 - The Great Dane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<u><b>The preamble: </b></u><br />I don't actually need to tell you an awful lot about the preamble leading up to Mr 52 - The Great Dane, because you guys chose him yourself by public vote. A friend of his had originally suggested he got in touch and put himself forward to be Mr 52, and fast forward a month or so and the prospect of me actually hopping on a plane and popping over to Denmark became very real indeed. But as promised, we chose a date, I booked my tickets, and waited for the day to roll around. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">In the interim we'd bonded over our mutual love of Eddie Izzard, cheese, Tim Minchin, cake, turning Disney films into grammar lessons, the possibility of time travel, meteoromancy, Douglas Adams,a gallbladder called Merv and bacon, so I was pretty convinced we'd be able to find something to talk about on the date. Brace yourself for an epic write up of an epic date...</div>
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<u><b>The man:</b></u></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">Age:
27</span><br /><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Profession: Computer games designer</div>
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Random factoid: He is a full time resident of Copenhagen and the final date in my year-long challenge of 52 First Dates. I know that's not so much of a random factoid, but it's certainly a title worthy of some sort of a badge, at least. </div>
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<u><b>The date:</b></u></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"></span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The date for me started at a rather antisocial 5am yesterday, made even more so thanks to the fact that the entire nation had been up partying the night away because of the Olympic ceremony, and after all the fireworks had stopped I managed to only grab 4 hours sleep. But as is always the way on a big day, I was literally cast out of bed by an imaginary poltergeist and thrown into the shower before I had a chance to contemplate whether I was hungover or not. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Two Tube rides and a train journey later, I was at Gatwick, on my own, passport in hand, thinking 'what the fuck am I doing?'. But I knew what I was doing. I was about to get on a plane to fly to a country I'd never been to before, where I didn't know a word of the native language, to go on a date with a boy I'd never even spoken to. It was either the coolest thing I'd ever done, or the craziest. Perhaps a mixture of both. I won't lie, I was bricking it. The pressure was on. Not only was there the geographical pressure, but the fact this was the final date in my epic quest was also in the forefront of my mind. I also really wanted it to go well, to end the blog on a high, although I suspected whatever that outcome was, Mr 52 and I would get on. One slightly nervous phone call to my mum later, and it was time to get on the plane. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Cue some photos to illustrate aeroplane travel:</span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Tt_wmZqWF0/UBWHZgEvJKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/4idgQ6wrBDk/s1600/IMG-20120728-01195.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7Tt_wmZqWF0/UBWHZgEvJKI/AAAAAAAAAe4/4idgQ6wrBDk/s320/IMG-20120728-01195.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bSYR2qPDkL0/UBWHjhfghMI/AAAAAAAAAfI/XIw-pV0qO6Y/s1600/IMG-20120728-01197.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bSYR2qPDkL0/UBWHjhfghMI/AAAAAAAAAfI/XIw-pV0qO6Y/s320/IMG-20120728-01197.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LkPozznGh4A/UBWJvXsmSnI/AAAAAAAAAgA/TykF1xL_LV4/s1600/IMG-20120728-01198.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LkPozznGh4A/UBWJvXsmSnI/AAAAAAAAAgA/TykF1xL_LV4/s320/IMG-20120728-01198.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Fast forward 2 hours and I'm setting foot in Denmark. On checking my phone, I saw that The Great Dane had sent me an email and it seemed he was equally in denial about what was about to happen too - certainly I don't think either of us thought when he sent me that very first email 6 or so weeks earlier that I'd actually end up on his nation's doorstep knocking to see if he wanted to come out and play. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We were both excited and terrified in equal measure, but certainly for me it was absolutely the right thing to do, both for myself and for the blog. The last date deserved to be something a little bit special. And you readers decided international travel was what it needed. My fear of flying and I thank you greatly. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I'll tell you now, as I walked through those arrival gates my heart was in my mouth. That morbid fear of the unknown date that first prompted me to set about 52 First Dates had made a surprising cameo appearance, and I was terrified. But as soon as I clapped eyes on The Great Dane and he was exactly as I had imagined, it evaporated into the hot Danish air. He was very tall, handsome and smiley, and I wouldn't mind betting partially in shock that I'd actually turned up. Greetings were swift, and we headed off to the Metro to find our way into town for the date.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As a Londoner, I expect public transport everywhere else in the world to be equally as nightmarish - a thousand different lines, sweltering heat, and being trapped in the armpits of a sweaty stranger. In Copenhagen, they have only two lines. Just two. Even I couldn't get lost here! Actually I probably could, given that it turns out Danish words sound nothing remotely like the way they're written to a native English speaker, but more on that later. And luckily there were no sweaty armpits to get stuck into, although it was really rather warm, and I was trying my best to chat to The Great Dane without looking like my make up was sliding off my face withing the first 10 minutes of our meeting. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">When he'd first written to me, he'd mentioned that he was very shy, and when faced with a strange little English girl, that shyness decided to take a trip on the Metro with us. It's obviously very easy for me to be vocal about my pre-date nerves, since I've been on more dates than lots of people have had hot dinners, but I always forget how it must feel for the other person, particularly when their date has flown nearly 1000km to go and see them. But we chatted on nonetheless, mostly me honking on about the Olympics opening ceremony from the night before, and how random it was that I'd actually turned up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Our first port of call was an area of Copenhagen called Christiantown (and I apologise in advance to any Danish readers who might spot glaring mistakes in my spelling etc - I'm not sure how I'll get some of your linguistic symbols in here yet so it may be a bit of a challenge). Christiantown is a sort of independent hippy commune slash nature reserve in the centre of town where there's a green light area for marijuana, lots of shrubbery, lots of water, and an awesome collection of houses hand-built by their owners. Imagine Occupy London, but with less attitude, greater commitment and much better architectural skills.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We wandered around for a good hour or so in the baking heat, watching the locals potter around on their bicycles, seeing dragonflies go about their business, errant golf carts and the teeny tiniest frog I've ever seen in my life scamper off into the undergrowth. The Great Dane was in full tour guide mode, which I think must've taken a lot of the 'date' pressure off, and he did an exceptionally good job too of showing me all the key landmarks, telling me about the local history, before we drifted off into the territory of dubbing foreign films, Disney, property prices, and how best to avoid untimely death. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The highlights of this part of the day for me were the little frog, watching The Great Dane leap around the pathway to avoid squishing the many snails that had come out to join us en route, and spotting a really cool table and chairs, complete with tea set that had been set up in the middle of the water for the ducks to sit on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Pretty soon our nature reserve yomp had given us quite a thirst, so we sat in the sun outside a refreshments shack in Christiantown sipping on an icy cold cola and watching the locals go about their business. As a little gift, I'd brought along a copy of Douglas Adams' The Deeper Meaning of Liff which I knew he'd never read, plus a tiny knitted Apple Mac computer I'd made, and we sat chuckling over the definition of Twomileborris (noun): <span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><em>A popular East European outdoor game in which the first person to reach the
front of the meat queue wins, and the losers have to forfeit their bath plugs.</em> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Once the drinks had been quaffed, we set sail again to have a wander into the main part of town. It turns out, Copenhagen has a shed load of churches and a shed load of theatres. The Great Dane's knowledge of his hometown was exceptional, but my favourite parts of the tour were the things that probably weren't on the usual tours: where he works, a street affectionately known as 'the Piss Street', and the statues of famous Danes outside the university that he had no idea who they were, but guessed their profession by their haircut.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He was noticeably more relaxed, and I finally felt like I wasn't terrifying him any longer by being a foreign visitor. And what made me feel even more at home was someone had kindly gone and grafittied my initials about the place which made me feel even more welcome. How very kind.</span></span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ktwyUBolBFQ/UBWS0Ly9d8I/AAAAAAAAAgU/taq9e1NH03w/s1600/IMG-20120728-01201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ktwyUBolBFQ/UBWS0Ly9d8I/AAAAAAAAAgU/taq9e1NH03w/s320/IMG-20120728-01201.jpg" width="238" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We gradually headed further into town where The Great Dane had decided we'd have lunch. His chosen venue? <a href="http://www.theroyalcafe.dk/" target="_blank">The Royal Cafe</a>. This place is awesome. A traditional Danish dish is smørrebrød, which is a sort of open sandwich, but at the Royal Cafe, they give it 'a contemporary sushi twist', and call is 'smushi'. They're in delightfully small portions, so you choose a few different dishes as you would in a sushi restaurant. It's impossible not to love smushi based on the name alone. But you'd love it even more when it comes out to the table. Cue photo of food porn (my crap BlackBerry camera clearly didn't do these justice)... </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IbEMV3zSMt0/UBWUBmlfNVI/AAAAAAAAAgs/sOp502AVDLw/s1600/IMG-20120728-01202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IbEMV3zSMt0/UBWUBmlfNVI/AAAAAAAAAgs/sOp502AVDLw/s320/IMG-20120728-01202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">From left to right, I chose a potato and smoked cream cheese smushi on a round little rye bread with radishes, asparagus and little fresh beansprouty type things, a wafer thin marinated beef smushi on a slice of tomato and rye break with wasabi cream, onion slivers and a caperberry, and a puff pastry triangle with a creamy chicken salad smushi with peas, carrot ribbons and more beansprouty business. And it was all beautifully served on a tile made by the pottery company next door. It was exceptional. I've never eaten anything so beautiful (and tasty, of course!) in my life. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We sat outside in this cobbled courtyard, neither of us wanting to destroy these little edible works of art, mulling over whether it would be practical to live in a hexagonal tower (part of this awesome building next door, testing out regional accents (he does a very convincing Australian) and staring in awe at the beard that must've taken the waiter about 3 years to cultivate. Soon enough, the smushis had mysterious vanished and coincidentally our bellies had burgeoned, and it was onwards with the tour.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Lots of churches, theatres, funny little back streets and local trivia later, we'd started to walk off our smushi-tums. The Great Dane took great pleasure in trying to get my to try and pronounce all these long place names which I was ashamedly utterly crap at, but it was funny having a go anyway. I don't think I've ever encountered a language where I've literally not had any clue where to start, as normally I'm pretty good at picking up the odd foreign word or phrase. The best I could do was try the Danish word <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Culture_of_Denmark#Hygge" target="_blank">'hygglig'</a>, which is a fundamental aspect of Danish culture, and the Danish word for <span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Gummibears, 'Bubbi Bjørnene'. You can listen to the theme tune sung in Danish <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jPGBBX-L5pQ" target="_blank">here</a>.</span> </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Time was ticking on, and The Great Dane was determined to take me for cake before I had to get my flight, since we'd spent an awful lot of our preamble talking about sweet treats. So we arrived at <a href="http://laglace.dk/en/" target="_blank">La Glace</a>, and then bamboozled ourselves with the menu. I've never seen cakes like it, and their macaroons were absolutely beautiful. I'm kicking myself for not taking more photos, but their website shows them much better than I ever could. Sadly for us, we'd arrived 5 minutes before closing, so we had to buy to take away, but bought we did! I went for the <a href="http://laglace.dk/en/index.php/selection/lagkager/othellokage" target="_blank">Othellokage</a> and The Great Dane went for the <a href="http://laglace.dk/en/index.php/selection/lagkager/aeblekage" target="_blank">Æblekage</a>. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Cake in hand (but without cutlery which in hindsight was an error), we grabbed some iced coffee slash slushy drinks and went to find somewhere outside to eat. And, as if on cue, it started to rain. Brilliant. We wandered through the streets of Copenhagen half on the hunt for somewhere to sit and half on the hunt for free plastic cutlery. The Great Dane struck gold by half-inching some of the tiniest plastic spoons I've ever seen from a nearby ice cream vendor, and eventually we made it back to the canal lock where it had stopped raining, but the wind had taken up the helm instead. Try eating custardy cake in the wind with long hair and it's neither easy nor sexy. But needless to say it was pretty awesome eating Copenhagen's finest baked offerings watching tour boats waft on by. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The Great Dane had long-dispensed with the sensible tour information by this point, and instead was telling me how actually we were sat by the River Styx, and when the tourists pay the ferryman, he takes them to the end of the canal whereby the entire boat plunges into Hell, and to be frank I much prefer his version of events.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Sadly time was not on our side, and the prospect of a return flight to London was ever more pressing, so we hopped back on the Metro and headed back plane-wards. The Great Dane spent the entire journey back trying to explain to me the ticket system for the Metro, which I was apparently totally incapable of comprehending, either because a. I was borderline delirious from lack of sleep or b. because I was an utter moron. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Once back at the airport, and I'd successfully misread every single Danish sign en route and finally managed how to work the self check in system, it was time to say goodbye. We had a hug at the bottom of the escalator, and I wandered off to security. The minute I'd gone through the gates that you can't get back through I was immediately stung with regret that I'd not suggested we went for a beer at the airport to round off what had been a really wonderful day. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Suddenly I was on my own again at the terminal, exhausted after a day's travel and touring, and I started to feel rather tired and emotional. This was it, the end of 52 First Dates. I'm embarrassed to admit I shed a few tears whilst sat cuddling a 1kg bad of Daim Bars I'd irrationally bought to try and use up some Danish Krone, and I can't really tell you why I did. I checked my phone again and the response I'd already been getting through texts and tweets and Facebook told me there were lots of people around the world who'd been waiting for news on the date, and rather cruelly didn't tell them very much other than the fact I was back at the airport again. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">One eventful flight featuring some free white wine and a woman with a broken arm later and I was back in Blighty. And finally, after four tube ride, two flights, two Metro journeys and a bus ride, 17 hours after I'd left home, I was back there again. Shattered, emotional, but happy.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<b><u>Memorable Quotes:</u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">There were loads throughout the whole date, but I can't remember them off the top of my head. But this was the first date ever where I'd not taken a single note at the time.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<u><b>Events of note:</b></u></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Too many to mention - smushis, frogs, cake, canals, flights, I mean, you've read this far...</span><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<u><b>The verdict:</b></u></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">So here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for. The verdict on Mr #52, The Great Dane, the final date of my epic 52 First Dates quest. Yes, we will hopefully see each other again, we've already mentioned the possibility of him popping over to London so I can try and play tour guide in return, so we'll just have to wait and see. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">As for romance? Who knows. I think maybe I spoilt that a little bit by the very nature of the date - me flying in from another country for the day and relying on some poor guy to impress me with his hometown as well as himself. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">In some ways, the tour element will have been a welcome distraction to the 'date' factor, but in other ways it may have been a bit of a hindrance. I really don't know. This distance thing is a real bugger to be honest, it's not like he lives just down the road, and we can pop out for a few more nights and see how it goes, it has to be a lot more contrived than that, and that's the unknown quantity. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS",sans-serif">What I do know is Copenhagen is a really awesome city, and The Great Dane lived up to his name, a really awesome guy. This, for me, is a very happy ending to a very long year. Watch this space.</span><br />
<br />
<strong><u><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">PS:</span></u></strong><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As a further note, I have to say I can't believe 52 First Dates is finally over. Fuck! Over the last 13 months or so, I've been on 52 dates with 52 completely different men. I won't lie, it's not been easy. Sometimes it's been scary, sometimes it's been weird, sometimes it's been fun. But now it's over I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Do I celebrate? Do I comiserate? I honestly don't know. But what I do know, and I'm teary as I type, is I need to thank you all for sticking with me along this journey. It's genuinely been a life-changing experience for me and I don't regret a single minute of it. But I wouldn't have been able to do it without the kind words of encouragement that my wonderful readers...my virtual friends...have sent me every step of the way. It's been a wonderful assurance knowing that so many of you have been living these experiences with me, and hopefully enjoying them. Honestly, that means the world. So from the bottom of my heart I thank you. for reading, and I thank you for chosing such a wonderful 52nd date for me. I already have plans with what will happen to 52 First Dates away from here, but in terms of this blog I hope to carry on writing in some form or other, so you won't have heard the last of me yet. Sorry about that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Thank you</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">CTS x</span><br />
<br /></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-63030451931207160532012-07-16T17:27:00.001+01:002012-07-16T17:27:40.832+01:00And the winner is...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">So that's it. The lines have been closed, the votes have been individually counted and verified, and I can now reveal that the identity of Mr #52 is (drum roll please...)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><strong>Mr #52A - The Great Dane!</strong></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'd like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who voted for your favourite, and more especially, to the five very game gentlemen who allowed me to put them up for the final vote. It was actually a pretty closely run battle, the leader changed a couple of times, and at the end there were only 20 votes in it. But many congratulations to The Great Dane, and good luck...you may need it!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Stay tune for further updates! Now, where did I leave my passport...</span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-18046926201498353562012-07-11T14:00:00.004+01:002022-03-18T17:51:22.614+00:00Mr #52 - The Final Five<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif"">So,
this is it folks. A month ago I put a rather pitiful message out to the internet
appealing for potential candidates to be the final date in my 52 First Dates
challenge because, quite frankly, I would really love<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a happy ending to the blog, and I’d been
doing a pretty rubbish job of finding decent men online. And you’ll never guess
what...I actually got some responses! From nice guys! I know, you’re probably
as shocked as I am! But delighted nonetheless. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif"">Anyway, over the last few
weeks, I’ve been emailing back and forth, and finally I’ve been able to narrow
them down to these five chaps below. And for the record, I would love to go on
a date with each and every one of them. But there can be only one. To protect
their identity, I’ve given them each a pseudonym, and there are no photos here,
because that’s not what it’s about. Let me introduce them to you, and why I wanted
them to be in my final five *<b>cue some sort of dramatic Apprentice-style
music in my mind</b>*<o:p></o:p></span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr 52A – aka The Great
Dane<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">The
Great Dane and I initially bonded over a mutual love of Eddie Izzard, why cheese
is the best thing ever, how Disney can be used to teach grammar, and irresponsibly
long hash tags. He’s 27, works as a software developer, and lives in the
glorious city of Copenhagen. He has an awesome sense of humour, the capacity to
endure 11 days at a festival without dying of alcohol poisoning, sunstroke or
cholera, a command of the English language that puts most of us native speakers
to shame, and he looks excellent in sunglasses. He can also bake. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr 52I – aka Not So
Keane<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Not
So Keane and I first hit it off over comedy typos, why cucumber and celery
should be made illegal, the merits and pitfalls of a Pret crack-mayo addiction,
but most of all, of our mutual hatred of Keane. He’s 33, works as a draughtsman
mapping the new sewer system under the Thames and is a fellow resident of
London town. He too has an excellent sense of humour (you’ll see a theme
developing here), an awesome appreciation of food programmes and is only ever
photographed in multiples of four.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr 52J – aka Twinkletoes<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Twinkletoes
and I have actually been in touch on and off for the last 6 months or so, and
we were at some point meant to go on a date, but this never really happened.
Twinkletoes caught my attention largely because he calls me Twinkletoes with no
obvious regret, but mainly because he has a maturity level similar to myself
(chuckles at rude-shaped fruit), we like the same music and he can move his
eyebrows independently. Twinkletoes is 26, an IT Project Manager who I believe
might still live with his mum, although I can’t quite remember. He’s also a
cheeky chappy and an ardent royalist who tries to curry sympathy by diagnosing
himself with brittle bones.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr 52K – aka Lethal
Brizzle</span></span></u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Lethal
Brizzle first caught my attention when he sent me a link to his dating profile
and I read the words ‘handy with a screw driver’. There are, of course, other
redeeming features, such as similar tastes in music, the ability to sport a
beard with aplomb, and the fact he offered to bring Fruit Pastilles on a first
date. He’s a 29 year old ‘IT professional’ (I still don’t know what that means,
you do computer shit, right?) who resides in the charming city of Bristol. Why did
I like him? He is introduced as ‘the infamous Lethal Brizzle’ at weddings, occasionally
wears hi-vis, and has been known to use his shoes as a pillow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr 52O –aka Captain
C-Diff</span></span></u></b></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Captain
C-Diff first wrote to me recommendation from a friend of his, and what struck
me about him was his delightful inability to monitor his inner monologue, our
mutual adoration of Elf and his love of writing (which, luckily for him,
happens to also be his job). He is a 35 year old copywriter from Cardiff (hence
his pseudonym, he’s definitely not a potentially lethal virus to the best of my
knowledge) who calls his best friend his boyfriend and ranks St Elmo’s Fire
(Man In Motion) as his all time favourite power ballad. When he’s not writing
things, he also sends random girls infographics about malted milk biscuits over
the internet. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So
who should I go on a date with? Now, and rather tentatively I do so, I’m
handing it over to you to cast your vote. You can choose who you’d like to be
Mr #52 up until midnight on Sunday<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>15<span style="font-size: small;"><sup>th</sup>
July (I’m not sure why then exactly, but most of these things seem to end at a
midnight on a Sunday, so I may as well follow suit) and I’ll let you all know
who the (un)lucky fellow is next week. So what are you waiting for? Cast your
votes.....</span></span><a href="http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/VSYL7MH" target="_blank"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">NOW</span></a><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">! <--- there's a link under the word NOW, just in case you missed it. People do sometimes, especially when the word is so short. Probably should've thought that through earlier. Probably shouldn't be dwelling on it so much)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com40tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-11874344671795140402012-06-11T16:58:00.002+01:002022-03-18T17:48:44.707+00:00Mr #52?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So, I’ve finally done it! 51 first dates down and now it’s time for the last one. I won’t lie, it’s been an awesome experience, for a myriad of weird and wonderful ways. And now I’m faced with the final date, and somehow I’m sad to let it go. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">For the last couple of months, I fear I’ve maybe lost sight of the purpose of this project – to find someone special – because as soon as the big five two hove into view, the competitive part of me wanted to reach the bitter end. But perhaps that’s what it’s become, bitter, and that’s not doing the blog any justice at all. I knew I had to get to number #52 and I knew I had to do something very special for it. 52 First Dates deserves to end on a high, and of course, I’d rather like a happy ending for me too.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> <o:p> </o:p></span><br />
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">My first plan of action involved doing what I have never done in this entire process – putting my pride on the line asking someone nice out on a date, and being the one to make the effort. Over the last four months or so, I’d struck up a rather lovely long distance correspondence with a rather lovely single Danish boy. We’d spoken about the big serious things: religion, love, family values, as well as the trivial things: Will Ferrell, rum, cake, coffee, log cabins and knitwear. As the last few dates approached, I’d decided to swallow my pride and do the unthinkable: to summon up the proverbial balls ask this boy to be Mr 52. Because whatever would have happened, assuming he agreed in the first place, I knew we’d get on as people, and I knew it’d end the blog on a high. I had this silly idea that for the grand finale of 52 First Dates I’d bake a cake, hop on a plane to Copenhagen, deliver said cake and hopefully share a slice over a cheeky espresso, and then hop back on the plane to England again. For me, it’d have been positive closure to what has been a life-changing experiment, and for everyone who’s stuck with me through the blog, their chance to see me do something different and positive. Good plan right? Yes, in principle... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Trouble was, in the interim of my making this decision, the lovely Danish boy had found himself his own rather lovely girlfriend. Balls. Since I’m not the sort of girl to meddle with other people’s happiness, that idea bit the dust pretty sharpish. But DP, if you're reading this, there's still a cappuccino cupcake with your name on it should you ever end up in London town.</span><br /><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Anyway, back at the ranch, I was once again left with the quandary of how to make date #52 as special as I’d hoped. Enter my good friend Maggot*, a PR guru who then suggested in so many words that my choices of dates have been pretty poor at best and fucking diabolical at worst, and to let the long-suffering readers of 52 First Dates choose the final date for me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> Brilliant!<o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So, dearly beloved readers of 52 First Dates, this is where you come in. I put it to you that since you probably all know me better than myself by now, having endured every buttock-clenchingly cringe-worthy moment of the last 51 weeks of my life, that you help to find Mr #52 for me. You may know the perfect person to tick this elusive box, or even fancy yourself for this coveted slash much-afeared position. Well now’s the time to play Cupid and get that little bow and arrow of yours out (but perhaps leave the nappy at home). You’ve been on these dates with me (virtually), you know the sorts of things and people I like and don’t like, I’m obviously making a total balls-up of finding a boyfriend myself so perhaps you can do a better job.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">All you need to do is get your proposed Mr #52 (or in fact yourself if you fancy being the boy to break 52 First Dates) to </span><a href="mailto:cts@52firstdates.com" target="_blank"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">email me</span></a><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> with some information about themselves / yourself and a photograph, and hopefully some light-hearted correspondence will ensue (although I must add by means of a casual disclaimer that this isn’t guaranteed, not because I’m rude or anything like that, I’m always happy to email, but I’m just a bit shit at times, especially when I’m in the middle of moving house). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">I’ve given myself a month to do this because quite frankly I’ve grown too cynical about this whole dating malarkey, and I figure a month sans dates will give me enough time to get my turbulent domestic situation sorted and more importantly to cleanse my former date-induced scepticism so Mr #52 has the fairest of shots. Therefore, on the 11th of July 2012, I shall short-list 5 possible candidates (or just list them if five or less apply for the date which is more than likely) and I’ll open them up to a poll whereby you vote for the final date of 52 First Dates. I trust you will be kind. I will then go on said date, and write it up so you all know how it went. Simples! And, as an added incentive, if you voted for the right Mr #52 and I end up marrying him, you will of course all be invited to the wedding**. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">In the interest of fairness, I should probably also give you some vital information about myself (or lifted from my online dating profile) so budding Mr #52s know a little bit about who or what they’re up against.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Name</b>: CTS (obviously not my real name, but my real initials)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Age:</b> 31<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Profession:</b> Edit producer formerly in television, now for a charity.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Random factoid:</b> Used to be a falconer</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Likes:</b> knitting, baking, chutney-making, playing the piano, cake, teaching her parrots pointless things, writing in the third person, Tim Minchin, weird films, dark comedy, gigs, blowing raspberries, a wide range of cheeses, cats, Elf, sarcasm, writing, secret London pubs, feathers, loud guitars and louder drums, regional accents, festivals, crispy smoked bacon, Hackney, taxidermy, Eddie Izzard, my nephew, a good book, riding around on the top deck of the bus, cricket, the correct use of grammar, the Overground, lie ins, Charlie Brooker, overripe bananas, being independent, the ukulele, long words, antidisestablishmentarianism.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Dislikes</b>: lateness, bad grammar, stubbing my toe, cucumber, the word ‘moist’, arrogance, spiders, Keane, being disappointed in the human race, the Daily Express, laziness, low-fat spreads, money-lovers, seafood sticks, noisy eaters, unripe bananas, football hooligans, Marley and Me, people who chew gum with their mouths open, the Tube.</div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> <o:p> </o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Would like to meet:</b> Someone fun, funny, possible funny-looking but ideally not funny-smelling. Own teeth and hair essential (or at least acceptable substitutes toupees notwithstanding). Someone who likes to ponder the pointless as well as the poignant. Someone who can make me laugh. Someone who will hopefully not make me cry (unless it’s through laughter, see previous point). Artists, musicians, creative types especially welcome. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Oh, I have a face too. This is it.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So to sum up, I CTS ask you lovely readers to help me find my happy ending. You can help me out by spreading the word, passing this on, telling your friends and helping me round 52 First Dates off with a wonderfully big bang. So until next time, thank you and goodnight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"> </span></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-51782421065003750102012-06-08T13:44:00.001+01:002022-03-18T17:42:44.993+00:00Mr #51 - The Stinky Ginger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The preamble: </span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Right,
Mr #51, the penultimate date of 52 First Dates. Excited? Admittedly I wasn’t,
but that’s because the poor timing of my house move has sapped all of my energy
and enthusiasm for pretty much everything except removals, mortgages, and the
frighteningly amount of money I appear to be haemorrhaging all over the place
at the moment. So as has been the case over the last few dates, I had a panic,
and accepted the next date that came my way. He looked smart, sounded sane, and
was really rather ginger. In my experience of ginger chums, they usually have
about 25% more personality and chutzpah than the average person presumably as a
self-defense mechanism cultivated at school when kids are mean about things
like this, so I thought I’d be in for an entertaining evening. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b style="background-color: transparent;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
man:</span></b></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Age: 30</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Profession: Freelance computer
programmer. Currently unemployed.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Random factoid: He’s currently taking
singing lessons.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p> </o:p></span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The date: </span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We’d
arranged to meet at Oxford Circus at 7pm, on account of the fact that Mr #51
didn’t know anywhere to go in Soho, so once again I had to think of somewhere
to go. So, at 7pm on the dot, I stood myself in the entrance of Nike Town, and
texted to let him know I was there. He promptly replied and said he hadn’t left
yet. Great. So I decided to potter around Top Shop in the warm, waiting for my
date to turn up and trying not to spend money. I may have accidently put my
face in a cupcake whilst avoiding the allure of the jewellery section, but what
can you do! My poor wallet was crying out for some action, and my empty tummy
was also shouting out, so it was a compromise I had to make. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Half an hour
later, my phone went, and Mr #51 had arrived. I found him propped up outside
Top Shop in all his titian glory, with tatty black jeans, a sort of aubergine
velour tracksuit top on and a big stubbly grin. We greeted, and rather
embarrassingly I went for the one kiss on the cheek, whereas he went for a full
on hug and ended up snogging my neck. Great start. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Anyway he seemed cheery enough, so I proposed a couple of pubs up Great
Portland Street, and we started walking and talking. He had a brilliant Northern
Irish accent which I really love, but I really had to fight the urge to join in
with the Ulsterness for fear of offending. As we moseyed up the street, we
chatted about London, and since he’d only been a resident for just over a year
(and only in Clapham), he was forgiven for his geographical ignorance. We
happened upon a reasonable looking pub, so we ducked in and grabbed a table. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">F</span><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">irst impressions, once the awkwardness of the snog-hug had worn off were that
he was quite nice, very dry, but nice. As he warmed up, he also had a pretty
decent sense of humour. But he was obviously knackered, and whilst I was trying
to ‘give good date’, he did spend the majority of the time rubbing his face
like an over-tired toddler. We covered music, playing instruments, festivals,
vegetarianism, comedy, camping, pets and cannibals. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">He took great pleasure in
telling me how that day he’d been for a test at an employment agency, and he’d
sat in a room cheating on his iPhone. He also decided to tell me about the
drugs he’d taken, and recommended I didn’t try miaow miaow on account of it
turning him into a zombie. Thanks for the tip. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">After a couple of
drinks, the face-rubbing got even worse, so we decided to call it a day. And
just as we stood up to leave, he dropped a bombshell. Quite literally. From his
bottom. I have never smelt anything quite like it in my entire life. And it was
definitely him, as it sure as hell wasn’t me and there was no-one else within a
7 metre radius. It was inhumane, I could even taste it. In fact, writing this now, I can still taste it. The look on his face
said he hoped I hadn’t noticed, but the look on my face must’ve given it
totally away. My immediate reaction was to start talking about public transport
and how best he could get home, and we quietly but stealthily headed off to the
tube, where I left him, before I ducked into Tesco Express to buy some mints to
stick up my nose. Game over Mr #51.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Memorable
Quotes:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">‘Do you need to take cats for walks?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘Stephen
Fry is too intelligent for me’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘In
case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t do too well in the sun’</span></div>
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</span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">En
route to the pub, we both stopped for some money, and there was a homeless guy
sat right next to cash point where I was stood. Suddenly, an inopportune gust
of wind lifted my dress right in front of this poor guy’s face, as if to say ‘Sorry
dude, no cash, but here’s an ass’. Yes, I Monroed a hobo. Classy CTS, very classy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
Verdict:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">There was part of me that thought
before going on #51 that the poor bugger didn’t stand a chance being so close
to the end, but I did genuinely enter into the date with an open mind. And although
for the most part the chat was fine and at times amusing, I felt like I was
talking to someone a lot more immature than me, not just in personality stakes
but in life stales too. But the final blow (literally) came with that dirty
protest of his at the last minute, and after dropping a botty-bomb such as
that, no thanks, no chance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">So there you have it, 51 dates and still going. But
there’s only one left. Who will it be? Well, let me tell you know, it’s going
to be something a little bit different, and I’m going to need your help. Stay
tuned for further instructions... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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</div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-1629378548400223382012-06-05T20:15:00.001+01:002022-03-18T17:36:42.952+00:00Mr #50 - the Nutter<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The preamble: </span></strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So once again I owe you guys an apology - not for going on my date #50 late, oh no, I did meet him in good time, I've just not got round to writing him up on account of being homeless. So many apologies, and for this very same reason I fear Mr #51 may be a little tardy in the offing too, but since you've stuck with me this far, I hope you'll not object too much. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Anyroad, Mr #50, would you like to meet him? Good. So Mr #50 had been messaging on and off for a couple of weeks, he looked very nice and safe, he used full sentences when texting which always a ticks a certain box with me. And amid the chaos of my packing and moving and misplacing most of my essential possessions, we arranged to meet near Angel for a drink.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The man:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Age: 37</span><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Profession: Importer of gourmet foods, namely nuts and dried fruit</span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Random factoid: There was nothing random about this man whatsoever. Which was all in all rather disappointing...</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The date: </span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Before we met, Mr #50 had promised to take me out on the Sunday afternoon for tea and cake. But as the date crept ever nearer, he retracted his offer in favour of a quiet Pimms, which under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind, but I'd been sat in all bloody day waiting for some bastard from Freecycle to come and collect my sofa (they never turned up by the way, I know you were wondering...) and I'd had cake on the brain for hours. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">When we confirmed our plans on the day, I was surprised that Mr #50 actually rang me a couple of times, which always catches me off guard a little as most people opt for the text approach rather than risk hearing what the other person sounds like and bottling it. You know what? He sounded lovely. Nice and normal. Great. Cake retraction forgiven. And I was looking forward to meeting him. </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">So that evening I managed to peel myself away from my boxes to scamper over to Angel, where I met Mr #50.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He was tall, dark, handsome with rather lovely blue eyes. Excellent work I thought! Off we pottered to a pub of my choosing, equipped ourselves with a pair of Pimmses and got to know each other. Within a relatively short space of time, I'd established that Mr #50 was rather passive aggressive. He controlled the conversation with almost military precision, and whenever he tired of a subject and wanted to move on, he'd use the same phrase every time: 'oh it's all fun and games isn't it'. Over time, this got a little wearing. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Conversation was, at his behest, mostly about relationships - infidelity (he'd been with his ex for 9 years before she left him for someone else), kids, home-buying, utilities companies, and his business. We're both in the same position as we're both in the process of buying somewhere to live, and are technically homeless, but he kept putting everything about his move into the perspective that he'd like to buy somewhere that when he gets into a relationship (which he may have mentioned about a million times) that he'll think about where they should both live, and rent his place out. This man was frighteningly keen to settle down. But then to try and counteract this incredibly keen assertion that he wants to move in with someone</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">, he'd then profess who finding dating 'terribly fickle', and that he doesn't have the energy anymore. Not convinced sunshine. Not in the slightest. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He was also all-too-keen to over analyse me, calling me 'my own person' (what the fuck does that even mean when it's at home? Or homeless), telling me I was very 'London' (again, what do you mean by that, likening me to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world?) and subtly patronising me for the fact that I live alone, am buying my own place and I have my own independence. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">The final nail in the coffin was when he managed to make me jaw drop by saying that if we were to get together, because both of us are homeless, we'd have to get 'at it' in the back of his Mini, like (and I quote) 'a pair of horny teenagers'. Game over. Game well over! </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Fortunately we were both sucking on dry mint leaves at this point, and seeing it was a school night, I made my excuses to leave. And despite my favourable first impressions, I did not look back.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">'I don't want to have to resort to Thai brides until I'm at least 50'</span></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">'There's only so exciting almonds can be'. You're telling me!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Taking subtle notes on the decor in the pub for my new place...taxidermied birds, bowler hat lamp shades and dog print upholstery are now on the 'to buy' list.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The Verdict:</span></b></span><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Am I going to see him again? No chance. I'd like to meet someone who appreciates my independence and also is content to have their own. Not someone who suddenly want to leap straight in to co-habitation and instantly becoming joined at the hip (in both senses of the word). I'm sure there's a lady out there in exactly the position to tick his proverbial boxes, but she ain't me. No siree. </span></span></div></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-46220077191895131332012-05-25T22:00:00.001+01:002022-03-18T17:32:34.885+00:00Mr #49 - The Mole<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The preamble: </span></strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Okay confession time again folks. Mr #49 was yet another last
minute booking on account of the fact that I’m moving home in less than two
weeks, and the fact that I a. Don’t have anywhere to go to and b. Don’t seem to
have thrown out a single thing in the last 6 years has meant I’ve been somewhat
preoccupied with my living situation and my forthcoming dates have slipped down
my priorities list a little. Something more important than 52 First Dates I
hear you cry? Well exactly! To be honest, it’s all bloody inconvenient and I’m
irked at best that this bloody move is bloody thwarting the twilight weeks of
my dating experiment, but such is life. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">So bearing these excuses in mind, you
won’t be surprised to hear that Mr #49 was yet again rather a last minute panic
booking since all my time at the moment is spent filling cardboard boxes with
crap rather than sifting through eligible bachelors online, and I won’t lie to
you, I’m not exactly being inundated with offers at the moment, so you know the
phrase, beggars can’t be choosers. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">We’d been emailing on and off a couple of
weeks though, he sounded and looked sweet enough to share a cheeky vino with
(from his limited profile and distant holiday photos), and since we both had
other plans for the evening (his were to jet off to Lithuania, mine were to
look at...packing materials!), it made sense to meet for a
quick drink early and to see if it was worth it for a second date.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The man:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Age:
32</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Profession:
Hostel manager<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">Random factoid: He was the first date I’ve ever been on where I
had absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, which made for a rather odd
first introduction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The
date: </span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">I met Mr #49 at Waterloo station, and it was rather embarrassing
having to call him and say with my usual blustering eloquence ‘er...hi...er...sorry,
I don’t know how to say your name, but it’s Claire from t’interwebs, who are
you, where are you and what the hell do you look like?’. Fortunately he
identified himself as ‘the guy in the black leather jacket and jeans’ (which is
helpful amidst hundreds of tourists mostly matching that description), but a random
wave across the road and I’d spotted him in the exact perspective I’d seen him
in his profile photos. And as he came closer, I soon realised why there were no
close ups. No, it wasn’t his rather curiously dyed black hair as compensation
for his receding hairline. No, it wasn’t the fact that he looked like a
shorter, stockier Chico Slimani. It was the massive blue mole (yes, blue) the
size of a garden pea slap bang in the middle of his nose. And it had stubble,
yes, the mole was partially unshaven. It was hypnotic! And all I could hear in
the back of my mind was Mike Myers saying ‘moley moley moley’. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Anyway he was
chirpy enough, so we popped along to a nearby bar, procured some beverages and
got to chatting. Immediately I became aware that this guy didn’t have any
appreciation of personal space, and insisted on standing uncomfortably close at
all times, so close in fact I could feel his moley moley moley breath on me,
and it wasn’t pleasant. I have to say, this guy’s small talk wasn’t great, but
he made up for his lack of moley moley moley banter by smiling relentlessly and
laughing at everything I said, regardless of whether it was joke or not. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Conversation
was generic at best: the weather, public transport, where we both lived London
and moley moley moley festivals. One very random and straw-clutching area of common ground we
stumbled upon was the fact we both listen to Metallica, and he really came
alive when describing to me a moley moley moley Metallicaed tribute band he’d
been to see. It was so good in fact, that he said it was better than seeing the
real band live, and he’d taken the time to film their set on his moley moley
moley mobile phone which he delighted in showing me. Bless him (moley moley
moley). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Fortunately as the wine and moley moley moley small talk dried up, it
was time for us to head off to our respective plans, so we decided to call it a
day. Mr #49 kindly insisted on waiting around at the bus stop for me, squeezing
an extra 15 more moley moley moley minutes of awkward small talk out of me
(thanks TFL) before my bus arrived and I had to bid Mr #49 and his illustrious
mole farewell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Mr
#49: ‘I live in the hostel where I work. It’s really good, I can have free
pizza any time I want’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Me: ‘wow, you’re really living the dream aren’t you?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Mr #49: ‘Yes!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Midway through our date, I noticed what appeared to be a coach-load
of American pensioners filing in through the front door and wending their way round
the corner. What was particularly memorable about this crocodile of old folk
was that it as never-ending! Literally, ten minutes and they were still going!
Mr #49 and I even stopped our conversation to watch what must have been in excess
of over 150 greying Americans with baseball caps and bum bags (or, if we’re
being geographically appropriate, ‘fanny packs’) plodding in through the front
door and into a mysterious back room where I was convinced they were being
rounded up and held hostage.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The Verdict:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif""><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Bless
him, Mr #39 was a sweet boy, but other than Metallica as common ground, there
was literally nothing there, no chemistry, no chat, no nothing. He dressed like
Tom Cruise in the eighties and looked like Chico from X Factor. Oh, and that
mole. Call me superficial, but seriously, THAT MOLE! When recounting the events
of this date to my mother, she rather brilliantly remarked ‘well if you got
together with him sweetheart, you could always ask for him to have it topped
off’? Thanks mum, but no.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
</div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-27933733396547660542012-05-20T11:25:00.002+01:002022-03-18T17:28:55.469+00:00Mr #48 - Ricey Missiles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><strong>The preamble:
</strong></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">There hadn't been a tremendous amoung of preamble between Mr #48 and I before we'd arranged a date. The reason was I'd had such a lovely evening with <a href="http://www.52firstdates.com/2012/05/mr-47-bulgarian-sherlock.html" target="_blank">The Bulgarian Sherlock</a> last week, we'd arrranged to meet again for a second date this Wednesday (which was delightful by the way, thank you for asking, but that's as much as you're going to get on here on account of the fact it's 52 First Dates...not 52 First, Second, maybe Third Dates depending on how CTS gets on), and I felt uncomfortable meeting someone else in the interim. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">But I was aware that I needed to cram a date in during the week, and since all of my evenings were booked up with other things, I had a bit of a panic, and took up the offer of a coffee with Mr #48 from an online dating site on Saturday afternoon. Two things struck me about Mr #48 after we'd exchanged numbers...a. he was really grumpy by text, and managed to make me feel that a quick message to confirm the date was interrupting his incredibly busy working schedule and b. he was absolutely rubbish with predictive text, and never made any attempts to remedy it eg. I can come to White japes. Er, did you mean Whitechapel? Weird.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
man:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Age:
37</span><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Profession:
Freelance lettings agent. Mmm, estate agents. My favourite...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">Random
factoid: He knew more about the history of the Rotherhithe Tunnel than anyone I'd ever met. This is nothing to be proud of...</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
date: </span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Saturday afternoon galloped around with frightening aplomb, and before I knew it I was heading off to Brick Lane to meet Mr #48. As per usual, I texted him to let him know where I'd be, what I looked like and to warn him I'd had a fringe cut since I'd updating my profile pictures. His response? 'I'll be in a black jacket'. At this point I hoped that no-one else on the busy bustling Brick Lane would be wearing a black jacket too (hmm...) or even more worryingly that he was wearing more than just a black jacket (although that would have definitely added a certain je ne sais quoi to the date. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Fortunately, when I arrived, he was the only one matching that description, and yes, he did have his trousers on. Phew. Unusually for my dates, he was tall, very rough around the edges, not particularly attractive (well, nowhere near as nice as he'd looked in his pictures), and was a prop'ah geez'ah! </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Before we set off, he made it perfectly clear to me that he needed to eat and that he had to leave in enough time that he could go and watch the football, one man, two missions. We marched up the lane to grab a coffee, and I noticed he didn't have much appreciation for personal space, and as we kept walking I found myself veering closer and closer to the wall on the right hand side. Fortunately before I grazed the skin clean off my right arm, we found a quaint little mezze place, so we commandeered a table, I ordered a peppermint tea, and to my surprise he went for the same, as well as ordering a mammoth bowl of brown rice and meatballs. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As we waited for his food to arrive (I wasn't eating as it was mid-afternoon, I'd already had lunch, and we all know I'm not the biggest fan of eating on first dates unless there are mitigating circumstances), he cracked on with the small talk, with him taking particular notice to my dress and necklace, both of which he was not content to just look at but was determined to paw. Easy now. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Being the football-heathen I am, I foolishly asked what the big match was (I knew there was a big match, that's enough surely????) and was then subjected to a rather painful pop quiz of my knowledge of the Europa League. After ten excruciating minutes, Mr #48 conceded that it was okay that I didn't know that much about football, because I am a girl after all. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As the subject changed, the teas and meatballs arrived, and the rest of the date ensued in between giant mouthfuls and munchings. The date was relatively brief on account of Mr #48's pressing engagement with the big game, and the subject matter was varied. He covered Thailand (well, he did mainly on account of his just arriving back from 5 months away there and all of the accompanying anecdotes, and my contribution that I'd never been to Thailand, but their cuisine is ace), lettings prices in London (don't get me started!), birds, the weather (pleeeeeeeease!), car and van hire (his instigation, not mine thank you very much), the fact he has no idea what a fringe is, quinoa and the Rotherhithe Tunnel.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Soon enough, the meatballs had evaporated, and his internal body clock was telling him it was beer with the lads time. He went off to pay for the food and teas, and then spent the following 10 minutes arguing loudly with the guy behind the bar about the bill, as he was adamant that he had been overcharged. It turned out he hadn't, and rather sheepishly he returned to collect his jacket and we headed off. He frog-marched me back down the lane again and offered me a lift home, which I gracefully declined on account of not wanting to get in a car with someone I didn't really trust to keep himself to himself. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">We arrived at a stunning Rolls Royce and he offered up his goodbyes. And as I walked away, I noticed in my peripheral vision the lights on a battered old Fiesta on the opposite side of the road go, and Mr #48 stealthily scampered over to climb into the vehicle. I pretended I hadn't noticed.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Memorable
Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">'So where exactly do you live, what road? Don't worry, I won't stalk you or sit outside your house or anything...' Sorry love, not taking any chances...</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">'I do like brown rice. Makes me feel all healthy and stuff.'</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">'Look at you and yer Brick Lane shoes!'</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Events
of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Over the course of the date, I'd successfully managed to dodge no less than ten brown rice missiles as Mr #48 chattered away through mouthfuls of food, all of which I had to quickly pick off my dress when he went to the bar.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The
Verdict:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">As we said goodbye at his imaginary car, Mr #48 suggested he'd give me a ring and we could go out for 'prop'ah booze!'. Sadly, I fear that's a bullet I'm still going to have to dodge. He wasn't very attractive, was too much of a wide boy and we just didn't have anything in common. I was retrospectively grateful he had something else to do afterwards so I didn't have to call the date short myself, but to be honest I was rather pleased to escape. </span>
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</div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-29598474856241484012012-05-09T23:45:00.007+01:002022-03-18T17:24:52.081+00:00Mr #47 - the Bulgarian Sherlock<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"> <span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><strong>The preamble: </strong></span> </span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Mr #47 and I hadn’t emailed for long. He had contacted me after reading my blog and decided to offer himself up for a date. I didn’t hesitate to say because his email was probably the best introduction I’ve ever read, he was polite, courteous, his English was brilliant, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. This is just a snippet taken from his message: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">‘I am rather terrified of vacuum cleaners, auto-mobiles, women and traffic wardens. I quite like cats, cake, pipe tobacco, red meat, Glenmorangie, thrash metal, blues, jazz, rockabilly, Wagner, Fridays, tweed and fine suits, hiking, motorcycles (both vintage and racing) and the smell of old books.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">He had also attached a picture of himself, smoking one of his favourite pipes, with a most impressive mutton chop-moustache combo, and he mentioned that often he was greeted with shouts of ‘Oi Sherlock’ in the street. I had to meet this man. Mr #47 suggested that we met in an area of London that neither of us knew, and we’d go for a wander and see what we could find. So that’s exactly what we did. Well, planned to...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The man:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Age: 26</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Profession: Freelance IT developer and consultant</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 12pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">Random factoid: He’s Bulgarian. I’d never met a real life Bulgarian before.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The date:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Mr #47 and I arranged to meet outside Westminster station. I knew to follow the smoke signals and to keep my eyes peeled for the vintage looking chap. Sure enough, propped up on the bridge, looking like someone from an Orson Welles novel was Mr #47. I will describe him for you, as he was quite possibly the smartest man I have ever seen in my life. As well as the evidential furry facial adornments, Mr #47 wore a sharp brown fedora, crisp shirt and tie combo, knitted vest with fob watch, tailored trousers and brown brogues. He was very handsome indeed. Sod Sherlock, think more Jude Law as Dr Watson. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We greeted, he lit up his pipe, and he offered me his arm as we strolled along the Thames in search of somewhere for our date. He admitted early on he was a shy man, and had only been on one other date in the past 4 years as he wasn’t a fan of modern British women with their laddish ways. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Pretty swiftly our plans of going somewhere neither of us knew were scuppered when he mentioned a wine bar he was fond of, and I mentioned an old pub my parents used to frequent in the sixties, so with a nod to Robert Burns and his best laid plans, we headed to my choice of venue first for a glass of wine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Once inside, I soon realised it wasn’t quite the nice, cosy vintage haunt I remembered it to be, but Mr #47 was very gracious in saying he liked it, even though they only had house whiskey, and not the Glenmorangie he usually favoured. We briefly covered land law, postmodernism and the sound of regional accents before our drinks had mysteriously evaporated and it was time to move on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Mr #47 led me to a quaint old-fashioned wine bar and decided to order some port. Not being a port-connoisseur, I decided to also partake in the red stuff, and let Mr #47 choose our poison. His first suggestion was to share an entire bottle, but since I wasn’t a seasoned port-drinker and had work in the morning, I graciously declined, especially since his weapon of choice was a fine £75 bottle. Instead we opted for a large glass each, and on Mr #47’s recommendation ordered chocolate cake to accompany the beverage. Let me tell you, the port and chocolate fondant cake combination was exquisite. I never saw myself as a fortified wine fan, but I could definitely be persuaded now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The conversation continued: a lot more philosophy, the toxic effects of Absinthe or Creme de Menthe, thrash metal, eastern European drinking habits, unidentified drinking injuries, the merits of a finely-tailored suit, male facial grooming (thanks to cut throat razors, a tash comb and Geo F Trumper), the Cro Bar, Dylan Moran, the joys of British meats, Nazism, the laws of robotics, pipe etiquette, prejudice and the Tweed Run. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Mr #47 brilliantly referred to every man as a ‘chap’, which in a Bulgarian accent was particularly endearing, and his love of philosophy exercised my brain muscles more than I’d done since studying at university. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Two glasses of port down, it was time to call it a night, and Mr #47 offered to take me for a further stroll so I could get the bus. So off we went again, arm-in-arm past St Pauls. And then I got a glimpse of the sort of reaction that Mr #47 must get on a daily basis. On walking past a very boozy crowd outside a pub, some delightful wanker yelled ‘bloody ‘ell, it’s Sherlock!’. Mr #47 didn’t bat an eyelid, but inside I was fuming. Mr #47 was a chap with his own standards, his own delightful eccentricities, his own style and his own philosophies. It infuriates me that there are so many vile, narrow-minded drunken idiots out there that feel the need to behave in such an awful and hurtful manner. Of course, Mr #47’s appearance is entirely of his own decision. But live and let live. Anyway, pretty swiftly we reached the bus stop, Mr #47 politely enquired about the possibility of a second date, gave me a kiss on the hand, and saw me onto the bus. And that was that, truly a night to remember.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">‘You’ve obviously never tried a Mediterranean cucumber’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘I like the Nazis, they looked so cool’ I might point out that his liking of the Nazis did stop short of the murder of 3 million innocent individuals, just to be clear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘I once woke up wearing the barman’s shirt with a broken ear after a drunken night’</span></div><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p><span style="background-color: #fff9ee; font-size: 12pt;">‘You’re the most intelligent person I’ve met since I’ve been in the UK, because when I talk about philosophy, you actually think about it, and not just argue.’</span><br /></o:p></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘In the summer I tend to wear a striped blazer, straw boater and linen fishtail trousers with braces.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">‘I missed lunch the other day so I popped into McDonalds and had what they call a Big Tasty. What I didn’t anticipate was having to spend the next 20 minutes picking the cheese sauce out of my moustache.’</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Events of note:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Before entering the first establishment, Mr #47 paused to empty the ash from his pipe. At this point, a man entering the building opposite stopped, and stared, giving us the right old stink-eye. When I enquired if he was alright, the truculent so-and-so went off on one about how that particular part of the pavement was his land, and that what Mr #47 was doing was against the law. What then ensued was a very awkward back and forth, with Mr #47 being as polite as he possibly could, whilst the resident was as belligerent as he could. Finally, Mr #47 conceded gracious defeat and we headed inside. But I know where that man lives now. And I’m willing with all my telekinetic powers that all the dogs in that area of London decide to shit on his doorstep.</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The Verdict:</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">So, Mr #47 would like to take me out again. And you know what? I’d love to spend another evening with him. Yes, he’s a little old-fashioned, yes, he’s a tad eccentric, yes he takes pride in all things tonsorial. But he was quite possibly one of the nicest, brightest, most polite gentleman I have ever met. He was both gracious and intelligent, but still loves to get hammered, head bang and watch British comedy. But his gentlemanly values, polite manner and humble demeanour genuinely made me feel like a proper lady, which is something I found rather enlightening. Men of Britain, take note...<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-6458585473201288452012-05-03T11:22:00.002+01:002022-03-18T17:19:45.871+00:00Mr #46 - Napoleon Cokeparte<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The preamble: </span></strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Mr #46 had exchanged a few emails over the course of a couple of weeks, and I was not only impressed by his sense of humour, but also his enthusiasm for fancy dress (namely a Transformers costume). He also wrote and texted in full Queen’s English, with not a sniff of a LOL in sight, and even though he spoke a bit too much about the weather over text than I’d usually tolerate, I thought it only appropriate to meet the chap for a drink. Did I also mention he was handsome? Well, he was. That helped, what can I say, a girl's not made of stone!</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The man:</span></strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Age: 34</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br /></span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Profession: Runs his own software company</span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Random factoid: He once crashed into Wolf from Gladiators whilst snowboarding.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">The date:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">In a rare occurrence in my experience of going on dates, Mr #46 had a firm idea of where he wanted to go on our date, a certain underground bar in Covent Garden. So my new fringe and I pottered along to see what Mr #46 had in store, and as expected, he was propped up at the bar with a beer in hand. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">My first thought was how he was much more handsome in real life than in his pictures, which was a welcome surprise. But as with all things, there was a catch. His height. Yup, same size as me, a sniff off five four. That was definitely not mentioned on his profile. But instantly his compensatory confidence spoke volumes, and I knew straight away I was on a date with textbook Short Man Complex. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">He leant over the bar to summon service from the staff in a over-exaggerated, slightly embarrassing wavy-and-shout fashion, and it turned out he always went to that particular bar because he provided them with their software. They all knew him. ALL OF THEM. They must also have all known we were there on a date. I suspected he probably did this a lot, as it was a very slick routine, "the usual, barkeep", the banter with the staff. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Once he’d finally sorted me out with a drink, we went over to perch on some stools in the corner where it was quieter. I mounted the high stool in one go. Mr #46, however, struggled to get his low-slung bum on his, and three laboured attempts later, he was finally fully-installed. What then happened was quite possibly one of the most bizarre dates I have ever been on, and I want to share with you as many details as I can possibly remember. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Pretty swiftly I realised this guy’s confidence was chemically-assisted. All the telltale signs were there: the nose tweaking, the sniffing, the chewing off his own pretty face and the frequent trips to the toilet. He was drinking shorts (pun delightfully intended). No-one’s bladder is that small, not even Napoleon’s. And as a result, I hardly got a word in edgewise all night. There was no way on God’s earth I was going to be allowed to show him even a little bit of my personality, as the room was so full of his over-inflated ego, mine was being kept outside behind a velvet rope by the metaphorical bouncer. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">In terms of conversation, well, the one half anyway, he covered a broad range of subjects: how he’s started up his own IT company which was going to be massive next year, how he underpays his staff, and how he won’t take on anyone new as ‘each new member of staff is £20k less in my pocket’. Right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">I was briefly allowed to tell him about my housing situation, which he promptly hijacked by number-crunching the inflation levels on my rent, potential mortgage prices and by offering me a fraudulent work contract to help me get a mortgage. Charming. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Staying on his favourite subject of money, he pointed out he would move closer to London, but £700k was ‘a little too much for him to pay to live where he wanted to’ (after I’d mentioned my seemingly measily dreams of getting on a shared ownership scheme for less than a tenth of that), and told me about an ExCel spreadsheet he’d made of his wishlist for what he’d spend his money on with certain targets, ranging from £500k to £100 million. FYI when he gets to £100 million, he’ll buy his own private mountain so he can ski down it. And maybe a helicopter to drop him off. Perish the thought he’d break his own neck whilst ski-ing on his own private berg! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Financial ambitions aside, he then went back to his other favourite subject – himself. He told me that he was a break-dancer, before demonstrating some basic popping and locking moves from his stool (presumably too scared to dismount in case he couldn’t get back up again). Despite my egging him on to do the Worm in the middle of the floor, he was adamant a shoulder injury and ‘the wrong shirt’ would restrict him, so he declined. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">He bragged about his auditions for a number of game shows because he wanted to go on for the ‘free money’ (none of which he was selected for, I might add), regaled me with his Heath Ledger as The Joker and Yoda impressions, his knowledge of the entire Marvel comic franchise, showed me pictures of him drinking an entire bottle of Jaegermeister through a straw and a ‘hilarious’ anecdote of how he once woke up drunk and topless in the back of a Transit van. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Soon it was my round, so I popped off to the bar to ask for his usual ‘special’, for which the staff refused to let me pay. It turned out, we’d been getting drinks on the house all night. When I took his drink back to him, a very expensive rare rum, diet Coke and ice in a 12oz glass (it HAD to be a 12oz glass. Just because...!) he sat and counted the cubes, and was put out that they’d ‘fucked up’ his order and given him 7 ice cubes and not 6. When I queried it and offered to remove a cube for him, he hurrumphed and said it just made the mix all wrong. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Mr #46 then decided to go and get us some crisps, so he scampered off to the bar and shortly returned with...a glass full of foam bananas and flying saucers, which he then proceeded to gum his way through. As if Class As weren’t enough to make him talk, he now had half a pound of Haribo in his system. Good-o!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">He then moved on to bragging about the time he ate seven and a half racks of ribs, an impressive feat, but not as impressive as the detail he then went into as he described trying go for a shit the day after. He even used the phrase ‘it started off as a one trouser leg off affair, but then it became a brace yourself against the stall walls kind of thing. Childbirth could never be as painful as that, at least women are designed to accommodate something that size’. Er, what the holy fuck??? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">W</span><span style="color: #222222;">hilst this was all going on, a drunken birthday party were dancing around near us, and I could tell Mr #46 was itching to get on the dance floor to demonstrate his breaking prowess, and I started to feel bad for restricting him despite giving him full permission to shake his tail feather. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">We carried on chatting, but his dialogue was interrupted first by Mike and the Mechanics coming on the jukebox and him insisting on pausing the conversation so he could whistle along for the solo, and then, my favourite, pausing the conversation again to sing along to Peter Andre’s Mysterious Girl. He knew ALL the words (including the rap). Then suddenly, as if he body was suddenly sapped of sugar and narcotics, he slumped over on his stool, sat there in silence for a minute, announced ‘right, I’m over this’ and apparently that was it for the night. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">We headed off to the station, he rattled off all of his available train times like some sort of savant, and at the station he literally said a half-arsed bye, didn’t even look me in the eye, and ran off to get his train.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><br />
</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">‘There’s this toilet in Marbella...’ The beginning of a cracking anecdote if ever there was one...<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">‘I’m like Rainman’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">‘My mate was given an island for his 21</span><sup style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">st</span></sup><span style="color: #222222;"> birthday’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">‘What was the music like when you went to the toilet?’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222;">Everything. Just everything. I just wished he’d got on the dance floor and properly busted a groove. Although I did particularly like the look on his face when I highlighted that everyone looked like they’d come straight from work, and he looked a little crestfallen as he insisted he’d gone home to change and put on a shirt and shoes especially. Face it mate, you still look like an office worker.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS","sans-serif"" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The Verdict:</span></strong><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Sue Ellen Francisco","serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span face=""Franklin Gothic Book","sans-serif"">Once again, this is a bit of a no-brainer. No. But to be honest, I can’t imagine him wanting to see me again either considering I was hardly allowed to breathe a word, and he probably thought I was the most boring date in the world. But if I have to turn into a Lil Miss Cokey-Blownose to win his affections, I think I’ll stick to my rum and ginger beer, thanks. And the moral of the story? Drugs are bad kids, m'kay?<o:p></o:p></span></div></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-12073961039621213622012-04-24T22:34:00.002+01:002022-03-18T17:10:47.063+00:00Mr #45 - The Real Greek<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">T</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">he preamble: </span></strong><span style="color: #222222;"><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">I hadn't been messaging Mr #45 very long before we agreed to meet, but I found him rather intriguing. He was very easy on the eye and enticingly moody-looking, with an artistic streak and an alluring profile, and I was keen to get to know this hopefully tall, dark and handsome Greek stranger. So when he suggested meeting for a drink, I jumped at the chance.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The man:</span></strong><span style="color: #222222;"><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Age: 31</span></span><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Profession: Illustrator</span><br /><div class="widget Blog" id="Blog1"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"><div class="date-outer"><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry"><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8025587412431298815"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Random factoid: Has survived no less than 15 earthquakes when he lived in Greece.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">The date:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">The first I knew of Mr #45 was when he appeared in front of me at point blank range outside Boots inside Victoria station. He was relatively tall, reasonably handsome, and definitely moody. There was little to no small talk en route to the pub despite my attempts to crack out the fail safe questions, although he was the consummate gentleman in holding open every door for me as we went along. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Once at the pub, we had to stand at the bar for about 15 minutes, and this bugger was not talking. At all. After about 5 minutes of decent interrogation, he wasn't giving much back, so instead I just stood there at the bar with him, behaved myself and shut up. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Once equipped with drinks, we headed outside to find some seats. I plonked myself down at the nearest table without thinking and expected my date to do the same. But what then ensued was a rather lengthy debacle by which he inspected every single chair in the vicinity (and I'm talking about twenty here) until he found the cleanest one. Once he'd selected his chair of choice, we then had to move tables on account of a tiny bit of bird shit at the other end. Warning sign number one. See, I live with two parrots. Anyone that frightened of avian faeces probably wouldn't feel too comfy in a room with two of them that poo like clockwork (albeit normally in their own cages but occasionally on visitors to let them know who's boss). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Once we'd sat in our final positions, we resumed the chatting. It took Mr #45 a little while to warm up, but once he got going, boy did he get going! I could hardly get a word in, and for me and my garrulous gob that's quite an achievement. He talked about his work as an illustrator, his previous jobs as doorman and railway worker, his extra work (nay background artiste work dahling) on such blockbusters as Johnny English, and his heady ambitions to become a regular extra in something like EastEnders or Hollyoaks (methinks he should go on a date with <a href="http://www.52firstdates.com/2012/04/mr-44.html" target="_blank">Mr #44</a> - they have a LOT in common!). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He told me about his childhood friend who used to ritually slaughter local cats and hide the bodies, how he once saw a policeman have his eye gouged out with a broken bottle and bitched about how poor the rail replacement works are. He then decided to show me some of his 'etchings', and credit with credit is due, he's a very talented illustrator, although if we're being REALLY critical, his portrait of Captain Jean-Luc Picard was a tad over-generous on the cranium, and he did look rather like a Conehead. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Over the course of the date, Mr #45 had gone from monosyllabic and moody to chatty and arrogant, and throughout the talking and drinking I became hypnotised by this grey bit of gum circling the inside of his mouth with cow-and-cud-like rhythm. Anyone who knows me knows what a mahoosive pet peeve open-mouthed mastication is of mine, and I could not take my eyes off it. At one point I willed it to leap down his throat just so I could get a word in. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">The only facts he gleaned out of me over the course of the date were where I lived (Whitechapel - you already knew that from emails), my job, and the fact I owned parrots (something I had to crowbar in there). I had to make a tactical trip to the bathroom after one drink, and by the time I returned he was yawning his gum-ridden chops off, and suggested we called it a day. Fine by me! And then, as we stood up to leave and I was finally able to see him in his full glory I saw them. Mustard-coloured shoes. Fucking mustard-coloured shoes. Three words my friends: straw, camel and back. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">We walked back to the station, and at the Tube entrance he kissed me on the cheek and said 'let's do this again sometime'. What, so you can talk about yourself all over again? No thanks. Sadly what came out of my mouth in that split second made me hate myself, as without thinking I blurted 'yeah, sure', and then pretending it hadn't happened I hot-footed it off down the escalator. Error. Bad CTS.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><br /><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">'My mate...the one who killed the cats...he has diabetes now and is like a balloon. Even the Army won't have him.'</span></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">'You have parrots? Why? Birds should never be kept as pets'. Uh oh...</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
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<b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">During my only bathroom break of the evening, I ended up assisting a woman with the most spectacular mullet I've ever seen with a rather embarrassing coffee spillage on her revolting magenta shirt. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the coffee had probably done her a favour. I wish I'd taken a photo, just to mark the occasion. </span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div>
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<strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The Verdict:</span></strong></div>
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<div class="post-body entry-content">
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Oh dear. So much for the tall, dark and handsome cliche. Turns out his moody pictures were indicative of a very moody man, and a man who would probably have had just as much fun on a date sat in front of a mirror, like a giant bald budgie, pecking at his own refection and chattering to himself. And speaking of birds, anyone that anti my two favourite little feathered beasts is never going to be a genuine contender for my affections. Love me, love my parrots. That's the deal. Deal with it.</span></div>
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</div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8032580153342228975.post-48384438273425596312012-04-21T11:44:00.003+01:002022-03-18T17:06:00.048+00:00Mr #44 - Telly Addict<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">T</span><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">he preamble: </span></strong><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr #44 and I have been texting on and off for what seems like forever, but in truth I think it was around Christmas when he sent his first fateful message. His dating profile was minimalist, but he appeared to be a very svelte, elegant and handsome Indian fellow from his profile (like he was modelling for an catalogue company - lots of choice knitwear) and he sounded pretty keen, so we exchanged numbers.</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">But 4 attempts to meet later his texting was getting a little irritating, and I think he may now hold the record for the most uses of the word 'babe' in the course of our messaging history, which regular 52 First Dates readers will acknowledge is a real pet peeve mine. We'd been messaging so long, and he was trying to spark up text chats during work on such a regular basis, I decided we really should meet once and for all lest we ended up texting until Hell froze over. So finally, after months or sporadic and partially irksome messaging, we arranged the date. </span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">He chose the venue, and it was in a brand new pub...right in the middle of Kings Cross station. Hmm...</span></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><br /></span>
<strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The man:</span></strong><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Age: 38</span></span><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Profession: IT developer</span><br />
<div class="widget Blog" id="Blog1"><div class="blog-posts hfeed"><div class="date-outer"><div class="date-posts"><div class="post-outer"><div class="post hentry"><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8025587412431298815"><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Random factoid: Used to be an extra, and has starred in such commercials as McDonalds, Barclays and Halifax (he was one of the people making up the giant X).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">The date:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">I bowled up to the date a bit late on account of being distracted by beverages with workmates, and the first thing that struck me about my date, when I eventually identified him, was that he looked nothing, and I mean NOTHING, like his profile photo. He was about a foot shorter, a foot wider and none of the luscious hair previously depicted in his photos. There was also a distinct lack of knitwear, and he was clad head to toe in a very crisp business suit complete with novelty cuff links. I, however, had turned up in jeans, converse, shirt and waistcoat and headscarf. It rapidly occurred to me that we were by far the oddest couple in the bar (which was surprisingly nice for a venue slap bang in the middle of a train station), and anyone looking at us would have instantly spotted that we'd met online, as we were, most probably, the oddest couple in the actual world. It was almost laughable. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr #44, however, was very cheery and polite, so we grabbed some drinks and set about possibly the most elusive date of the quest. Pretty much the first thing Mr #44 brought up was the subject of online dating - it turns out he was new to t'interweb dating having escaped an arranged marriage, and I was the first person he'd met. He seemed baffled that I had told people about the fact I did online dating as he found it embarrassing. I, obviously, underplayed my involvement for obvious reasons. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">We spoke at length about his all his older siblings had been married off in an arranged fashion, but following the death of his mother, his father had chilled out a bit and let forced nuptials slip for the sake of his youngest son - pretty intense for the first 15 minutes of a date! He then started probing into the circumstances surrounding my singledom, and before I could protest my innocence he launched into how he'd tried to rekindle the love of his life a couple of months ago, but she'd knocked him back, and going online for dates was his rebound mechanism. Good-o! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Anyway, once the deep and meaningfuls had been covered, the lighter chat got underway. I did have to question the inconsistency between his photo and the reality as it was such a drastic difference, and he claimed that his photo was from 5 years ago. And actually it probably was from 5 years ago...from someone else's Facebook profile! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">It turned out he's quite the telly fan, being a massive EastEnders fan, and a connoisseur of all things Take Me Out, Britains Got Talent, X Factor and The Voice. He spoke with great adoration for a little known character called William on the latter (or Will.I.Am to everyone else in the world). </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Once on his favourite subject and he'd relaxed a little, there was no stopping him! He then revealed his love for old school movies, and he had an almost Rainman-esque knowledge of Carry On films. He then moved onto his various talents, of which creating council tax databases, drawing and dancing were but a couple, and he recreated with glee and gusto his audition dance to be part of the Olympics opening ceremony dance. He'd made it through to the second round, and was pretty confident that his skills would be seen by the entire globe, so when you watch the opening ceremony, keep an eye out for the Indian guy from the background of a McDonalds advert who looks nothing like a tall, slim handsome catalogue model throwing some rather spectacular shapes. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Mr #44 was a fidgetty sort, and the more he spoke, the more he involved himself with some rather off-putting under-the-table scratchings which increased as the evening went on. But he was really entertaining company, but I have to admit I was relieved that the babe-infused textings might finally be over.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Memorable Quotes:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><br />
<span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">When I returned from the facilities - 'what did you think of the toilets?'</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">'You have perfect eyebrows'</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">'George Clooney, he's such a heart throbe, I think he's the ultimate heart throbe'</span></span><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">. (note - I have not misspelt this quote)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">'On Saturday night, I love to get takeaway, and sit in and watch TV all night at home. In my 3 bedroom house.'</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="color: #222222;"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="MsoNormal" dir="ltr" style="background: rgb(255, 249, 238); margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><b><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222;">Events of note:</span></b><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">After declaring his skills at being able to draw 'with a pencil, on the papers, bare-hand', I challenged Mr #44 to demonstrate his skills, and demonstrate them he did. This is what he did. I think I should point out that although, this is pretty much exactly what I look like in real life (and yes, I am just as sketchy...)</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ELCE7KBvnwk/T5KNFnObHHI/AAAAAAAAAcM/2LOXvJF6u9s/s1600/Sketch.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ELCE7KBvnwk/T5KNFnObHHI/AAAAAAAAAcM/2LOXvJF6u9s/s400/Sketch.JPG" width="280" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><strong><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The Verdict:</span></strong></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Bless him, Mr #44 was excellent value, and he absolutely has a heart of gold. But I don't think I've ever met someone so drastically different to me, and although it made for a good write up, I was never destined to move to Romford to spend my Saturday nights in eating fried chicken and watching talent shows. </span></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif"><br /></span></div><div class="post-body entry-content"><span face=""Trebuchet MS", sans-serif">Within 10 minutes of my getting on the bus, he'd texted to try and arrange another date. I'd dozed off on the bus before replying, and half an hour later when I awoke to get off at my stop, he had messaged again pressing for an answer. I graciously declined, but I wished him well on his quest as I'm pretty sure there'll be a chicken-loving lady out there somewhere for whom Essex and X Factor are the absolute dream. But not me. That said, that chicken burger was rather lush...</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>CTShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02786395045890215519noreply@blogger.com17