Mr #19 - Rum, Forrest, Rum!

The preamble:

Mr #19 and I had exchanged messages on and off for a while now, and my reason for agreeing to meet him was mainly because he called himself a poet, and expressed the sort of enthusiasm for meeting me that I had not quite encountered before. And by enthusiasm, I mean sending me reams and reams of his own poetry, links to his band's music, and unfortunately after I'd agreed to meet him, wedges of text telling me how beautiful he thought I was, something I'm neither that used to nor am that comfortable with from a virtual stranger. He was very generous in his emotional outpourings on the whole, as I would expect poets to do. But the over-riding impression from our messages was that he was oh so very 'umble, had severe self esteem issues, and on the whole was quite possibly the most pessimistic person on the planet. I wouldn't be surprised if he ate bowls of nihilism for breakfast. Oh. This will be fun...

The man:

Age: 26

Profession: Poet (although technically and more prominently, a lawyer)

Random factoid: Only moved to England from Bangladesh 4 years ago. His English is rather beautiful, and currently far better than most you'd hear in your average secondary school, however, his morals remain firmly and unbudgingly at home with his parents.

The date:

We were due to meet week ago, but thanks to work flogging the near soul out of me, I had to reschedule. And when I did eventually reschedule, Mr #19 was incredibly surprised that I wasn't just standing him up. Well I didn't, but after being sat for half an hour on my tod outside Barbican station, he nearly found himself that way. 

Eventually, after a text about something about a red light obscuring our romantic intervention, he turned up. He was another 52 First Dates first - he was actually shorter than me. I was also later to find out, his hands were also smaller than mine, a most unnerving quality, feeling like you have giant man hands!

He also, and I need to work on a pencil sketch to ilustrate quite how weird this was, had a bizarre third tooth somewhat like a fang slap bang between his two regular top front teeth. I'll be honest, I couldn't keep my eyes off it, and I'm pretty sure it spent the night watching me too! 

I was also aware that he also had a lot of hair, but on meeting him, it was obvious he was self conscious about is, so he had not-so-subtly tucked it under his shirt, creating the impression of a modern-day Quasimodo, an analogy on which he rather embarrassingly drew on a number of occasions. But fear not, I wasn't to miss out on this hirsutiary delight - over the course of the evening he gradually released his barnet in full until I had the full hairy effect! I think you're getting a picture of him by now. 

We headed off to the nearest pub, and I was chuffed that he'd remembered I was a Sailor Jerry's fan. Initially this was thoughtful, even when he brought me slices of lime by hand, until he said 'what does it take to get you drunk', and it rapidly emerged he thought he could have his wicked way with the frequent supply of such a spirit. Even on insisting I bought a round, he said 'where I come from, there is no woman's round'. Unfortunately for him, as he was soon to discover, I could hold my liquor. He, however, couldn't.  

I won't lie, my date with Mr #19 was more than enlightening. He spent most of the night telling me how by Bangladeshi standards, I was very pale and therefore very beautiful. But also the fact that all of his friends from home felt that by definition I would be a shit wife. Easy now, we've only just met! 

After a couple of drinks, the true Mr #19 soon came out, as he was determined to convince me that in his own artistic way that life was meaningless, a mantra that it'd take a hell of a lot to persuade me of.

He also became rapidly possessive about any time I mentioned another man's name: 'I see you like Eddie Izzard...', 'yes I think he's a genius', 'oh so you love him then?'...'so you wrote your dissertation on David Cronenberg, do you fancy him?'...'er no, I was studying him for literary theory!'. He even asked if I was married, as I was wearing a ring. Costume jewelry. On the wrong finger too. 

To cut a very long story short, our chat was nothing short of hilarious. Despite his nihilistic view on anything and everything, he was paradoxically jolly. And despite me insisting on offering drinks, he pulled the culture card out time and time again and bought all the drinks. Unfortunately for him, he had no prior benchmark of my alcoholic stamina. 

We soon moved on to his proper venue of choice, a club where his 'band' were due to play. And let me tell you now, there is nothing more embarrassing than meeting all of someone's band mates and their accompanying friends on a first date. Nothing. 'So how do you know Mr #19?' 'Oh. you know...er, help?'.  Fortunately their own taste for narcotics spoke on my behalf otherwise that'd be REALLY awkward! 

Once in the venue, the fun really began. Throughout the bands, Mr #19 deemed it appropriate to have a hand firmly gripped around me at all times and at all costs, and insisted on playing air guitar on me throughout, even though I knew he couldn't play guitar as he was 'strictly front man only'. He literally, wouldn't let me go, not even to walk to the bar or the loo, I was on a weird arm-bungee at all times! 

It also got a lot funnier when he insisted on buying even more rums that he clearly couldn't handle and he thought that I wouldn't notice him taking big handfuls of my hair and sniffing it behind my back. But I did. Hell I did!!!! 

By the end of the evening, he kept asking me and asking me and asking me to tell him how great his poetry and his band were, because he was a self-confessed narcissist. I told him they were great, but in truth, had no idea, I was drunk, he was sniffing my hair, but l'll wager they were pretty shit.

Memorable Quotes:

'Where I come from, pale European women are very beautiful'

'Are they now?'

'If I were to ask your parents why you were so beautiful, what would they say?'

'She doesn't go out to play in the sun much???'

'Do you know, I think you're what Americans may call 'the One'...

'I think our signs are sexually compatible. what sign are you? Cancer? Pisces? Gemini? Taurus?' Just keep guessing sunshine, you'll get there eventually...well, not THERE there...!

Events of note:

Mr #19 bringing over more rums, dropping his specs on the floor, and then promptly face-planting it. It literally took me a good 2 minutes to pull myself together enough to peel him off the floor, before he sat dripping his rum-sodden long hair all over me and trying to recover the situation. I didn't have the heart to tell him there was no metaphorical AA man for whatever had just happened. None whatsoever.

The verdict:

I don't think I've ever been on a date so eventful, ever. Nor have I ever felt so guilty that someone insisted on plying me with rum and telling me I was beautiful. Not that I blame the rum, but no doubt it helped a hell of a lot. But no amount of booze was going to claw back the fact he was shorter than me, hairier than me, that evil extra denture, and the fact  he was trying to get me drunk, a plan which back-fired because he just couldn't handle his booze. 

And let's not mention the fact he rang me the moment I walked in the door to try and arrange a rematch and to try and convince me to join his band, as long as I promised to take any attention away from him. Seriously Snaggle-tooth, give me a fucking break! You are most definitely not my future husband. But I do think you'd make a rather interesting pet...? Perhaps we should discuss further. Over a rum... 

Update:
It is precisely 24 hours since I left Mr #19 staggering around the station, and he's tried calling me three times. I can also see him looking at my dating profile, and I feel a little bit sick. He's just left me a five minute long voicemail saying he has absolutely no recollection of the latter half of the date, but that he would like to prove to me that he can be the perfect gentleman. I think I'll wait until later before I text him to put him out of his misery, and then I shall be switching my phone very much off. Why is it the guys I really don't want to see are so keen on me, and yet the very few people I want to see again are just never interested. 

This, my friends, is life. 

And it sucks.

Mr #17 - Good Will Munting

The preamble:

Mr #17 and I had exchanged a few odd messages via t'interweb and then t'ext, and although he's quite a bit younger (and I'm thinking I should have learned my lesson on this a while back), he seemed articulate and intelligent beyond his years, so I thought why the devil not!

The man:

Age:24

Profession: Recently unemployed media sales person turned creative writing student

Random factoid: He'd not only just packed in his job as a media sales person in favour of impending studentry, he'd also managed to make himself homeless due to fallings out with his housemates. Clever boy.

The date:

Mr #17 and I met on the glorious Brick Lane, which automatically scored brownie points with me as it was close to home. Win. Sadly, that was about as good as the date got. 

When Mr #17 arrived, I was struck by how much like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting he looked...if Matt Damon was uglier, spottier and gingerer. Someone been doing some Photoshopping! 

Pretty swiftly my impression of Mr #17 was cemented. Within 15 minutes he told me I wasn't much of a flirt, probably because I wasn't perched on his lap pawing him already, although I just couldn't bring myself to tell him it was because I didn't fancy him remotely. Shortly after, he then enquired whether I had self-esteem issues, and then proceeded to flex his intellectual muscles by trying to psychoanalyse the fuck out of me. Er...what??? I've neglected to mention the fact that we were drinking spirits and mixers, although it rapidly became evident that he was on the doubles, whilst I was trying to keep a clearer head on singles. And I, it seemed, had to buy most of the drinks, on account of his recent unemployment. 

Conversation was driven by him, and was essentially a tool for him to crowbar in as much of his knowledge of Freud, Nietsche, Marx, Lacan and other such heavyweights as he could. Thank god I paid enough attention at university, and how pleased I am that my £10,000 student loan was well spent on being able to stand my conversational ground on a first date. 

It all came to a head when he used the immortal line 'I think all charities are evil' at which point I could stomach no more. He may have described what ensued as a heated debate, but I would put it more as a full on argument. Even after my insisting that if his nearest and dearest were struck down with something hideous and life-threatening, that he'd want to know some compassionate souls had donated money into medical research and support. But he still persisted with his whiskey-fuelled belligerence. That's it! Enough! I'm off! 

We headed off back down Brick Lane, in silence, apart from the random clinking as he ricocheted off inanimate objects. Knowing I lived locally, he drunkenly offered to walk me home, but no way on god's earth was Twat Damon knowing my residence. Instead, I insisted on waiting at the bus stop, at which point he decided to ram his tongue down my throat. If ever the number 25 bus has ever saved my life, it was now. I literally impaled myself on the bus driver in my desperation to get away from HMS Thunder Tongue, wished the doors would close faster than the speed of light, and that was that.

Memorable Quotes:

'I don't talk to my parents much. My mum is fucking stupid and my dad is a pretentious twat'. Nice, really nice.

Events of note:

Seeking solace chatting to the rather lovely bar staff who noticed my relief at being able to get away from him for five minutes. Oh, and the nice girls in the toilet that I spoke to in order to further prolong my absence.

The verdict:

No no no no no no no no no no no and no. 

Did I say no? 

NO!  

Seriously, he gives Mr #6 a run for his money! He texted whilst I was still on the bus trying to arrange a repeat meet, and I had to pull out the 'thanks but no thanks' card. His response? 'Oh! Why is that?' he asked, because he thought we were getting on so very well. Let me count the ways: you belittled me, you psychoanalysed me, you waved your intellect around like some great big wanky weapon, you're plug ugly AND you insisted I bought you doubles! But I've got news for you Sonny Jim...the last one I bought for you was a single, a single I tell you. Victory, albeit a small one, is mine. The hangover, however, is yours.

Mr #10 - Toothpaste Tash

The preamble:

Mr #10 was turned around in relatively swift time in my standard internet date terms. There were a couple of generic emails, and then I had an email at 3am saying 'I'm not going to be chatting on this all day so how about we just go for a drink'. Anyway, the next day, he followed it up with a 'sorry about that, I left my laptop on overnight and my "housemate" decided to send that message'. Oh that old chestnut! Whenever I leave my laptop on overnight, the parrots end up looking at porn on it. Honest guv'nor!

The man:

Age: 29

Profession: Runs his own landscaping business slash budding entrepreneur

Random factoid: Once met Michael Eavis

The date:

I won't lie, for whatever reason I wasn't exactly 100% up for tonight's date, and I suppose it was a bit doomed before it started because I had grand plans of having a romantic night in on my sofa with my favourite men, Ben, Jerry, Ernest and Julio. However, determined to honour my word, I popped off to meet Mr #10. I have to say, first impressions were far from favourable: very short, unnervingly sweaty, half-dressed,  super-scruffy, bushy-bearded, and  looked about 10 years older than his claimed age. He was also my first ginger of the project, so for the record I don't want people thinking I'm not an equal opportunities dater. He also appeared to have not looked in the mirror  nor any other reflective surface since brushing his teeth, as he was sporting a rather fetching Colgate-tash. When I clocked him, he nervously offered a hand to shake, but trying to be in keeping with the dating theme I went for a peck on the cheek. A very rough and sweaty cheek. Uh oh. I knew this wouldn't be a long haul effort, but nonetheless, effort I'd put in. It rapidly transpired that Mr #10 had been drinking vodka until 5am, hence the booze-sweats and shabby appearance. Classy. I wished he'd have cancelled at that point. For the most part of the date I felt like I was having to interview him: where do you work, what do you do, where do you live, what are your views on sharks, how gutted were you when Steve Irwin died, if you were to go on the Dragon's Den what product would you pitch...all the usual routes of conversation. He originally hails from Manchester, and as much as I appreciate Northerners have a very dry sense of humour which I'm rather fond of, he genuinely didn't appear to have one at all. I couldn't even raise a titter with my bullshit banter. Tough crowd. And I couldn't help but stare at the way he was constantly fingering his tonic bottle, and I wished that Sigmund Freud was sat on my shoulder taking notes.  I was also willing him to get his finger stuck in the bottle so a trip to A&E would have a. perked up the evening and b. brought it to a rapid conclusion. As he was warming up and making better headway with his gin and tonic, I was rapidly cooling, and  before long made some feeble excuse up about having to go home and make notes on Big Brother for work. Cos I work in telly y'see, that's what we do. Or not. Anyway, at 90 minutes, this stands at my shortest date thus far. And at around 5'4", so was my date. I'm pining for a giant right now...

Memorable Quotes:
'Next year I am going to buy a convertible. A Mercedes SLK and fly first class to the States.' Wanker.

Events of note:

Giving him wrong directions to the tube station. On purpose.

The verdict:

Tonight is a lesson well learned that putting a bit more effort into sussing the buggers out beforehand makes for a better choice of contender. He has just messaged to ask me out again, and I will politely put him out of his misery. I'm tempted to offer him some constructive criticism, but I kinda want a few more unsuspecting ladies out there to have similar anecdotes to tell their mates in the morning.

Mr #6 - Textbook Dating Don'ts

The preamble:

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

The man:

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

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

Mr #6: Guess

Me: Er...31?

Mr #6. No. I'm 21.

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

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

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

The date:

As I was at the tail end of a rather boozesome hen weekend, but still in need of a #6 to tick the right box for this week, I agreed to a quiet Sunday night beverage at one of my locals establishments. What I didn't expect was to be confronted by a man dressed as an unkempt barman wielding a rather strong rum and coke on my arrival. Hmm. All I wanted was a shandy. And so it began, probably one of the more unusual and postmodern of my dating experience thus far; a meta-date, as it were. 

Since Mr#6 had read my blog and confessed that my write ups thus far hadn't been 'too bad', I have decided to make this one even more brutally honest, knowing full well he'll be reading.  After all, Mr #6, you did keep insisting you were providing me with good blog fodder. Yes, yes you did. Just perhaps not in the way you had intended. 

So I suppose instead of a date post mortem, see this write up as more of a 'what not to do on a date guide' in case anyone else out there in cyberspace fancies adding themselves to my tally...

On a first date, DO NOT...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Events of note:

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

The verdict:

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