Mr #40 - Tweet to Woo?

The preamble:
I first met Mr #40 online on Twitter, he'd been someone who'd periodically pitched up in my timeline, we'd exchanged the odd tweet, and that was pretty much that. Then a month or so ago, for some reason which I can't quite remember, Mr #40 and I became embroiled in some team tweeting which largely involved poor Mr #40 being peer pressured into going on a date with me for the entertainment of a bunch of random women on Twitter who may or may not have known him in real life. 

Mr #40, all credit to him, took up the challenge, and we exchanged a few cursory emails and set the ball in motion for a date. Then Mr #39 happened, and Mr #40, having already read the blog, understandably got cold feet. But when Mr #39 didn't pan out to be my knight in shining armour, Mr #40 gracefully stepped back into the fold again, and the date was cemented.

The man:
Age: 40

Profession: Support worker and blogger

Random factoid: Used to be able to down a bottle of sweet Martini in 2 seconds. Where do you learn shit like that??? And why???

The date:
So, Mr #40 and I planned to meet on a Friday night after whatever the working week had to throw at us, and Mr #40 kindly suggested a venue near enough to my place of work that I'd be able to easily get there, but not so close that we'd be in the same room as a bunch of my co-workers, which is never the best idea for a first date. 

I was also pleased that prior to the date he had asked what sort of activities were 'off limits'. Too many inappropriate suggestions were at the forefront of my mind, but since he was a total stranger, I gently tried to rule out food (we all know my thoughts about eating on dates), ice-skating, zorbing and anything where I feared I might die (aside from the usual fear of meeting murderous strangers from t'internet. I think from the mere fact I'm writing this gives away the end of the story that Mr #40 isn't a murderer. Lucky me). 

Anyroad, along came the day of the date, alongside a clusterfuck of a Friday which nearly put pay to my dating plans a couple of times. After a brief cancellation and rapid rescheduling (you've got to keep them on their toes, right?), and then subsequent relocation to a dubious bar opposite my office thanks to a private party at the chosen venue, I finally met Mr #40. I literally had no idea what to expect of him, because I'd only ever seen his avatar on Twitter, which was of a handsome intellectual type, albeit a cartoon. The reality was similarly cartoony, somewhat more 'grumpy Glaswegian' than I'd expected. He was also older than my usual spattering of dates, and I suddenly felt oddly like I was on a date with a grown up rather than a peer, which was something I'm not sure I'm that comfortable with.

One thing I spotted very rapidly, was Mr #40 had a cracking set of facial expressions about him, almost hypnotically so, and he managed to pull a textbook face of disgust when talking about football. Conversation was a little slow to begin with, probably because the booze had not set in either side. But pretty soon things warmed up and we were chatting about all sorts of bullshit. What started out as talking about work soon evolved into chat about eating cat food, becoming a grandparent under 30, charities, art, school reports, Brits abroad, the use of swear words, carpets, eBay, Gibraltar and what an utterly bizarre choice of venue it was (I'd asked the name of the Mediterranean bar opposite and was directed to somewhere more like an ex pat working men's club on the main road in Vauxhall. Weird). 

A couple of drinks later, the post-work fatigue and the prospect of an early morning were setting in, and I gracefully declined the offer of a third beverage. I was all set to say our cheerios outside the bar whilst he hopped on the tube and I headed buswards, but at the last minute Mr #40 decided to get the bus with me which threw me somewhat. I had another half hour of unanticipated small talk out of my sleeve.

After I rather embarrassingly expressed my admiration for TFLs live bus updates, we got onto talking about books, especially the works of Roald Dahl. Mr #40, I know you're reading this now, it was Revolting Rhymes and Dirty Beasts you should be buying on Amazon at midnight once you've finished that bottle of Martini, they're awesome. A couple of childhood anthologies later, it was finally time to head our separate ways, and I rather ungracefully had to sprint for my rapidly approaching bus so I wasn't at risk of being asked to have another drink somewhere closer to home.

Memorable Quotes:
I''ve been blogging since 2000 - I discovered the internet and drugs at the same time' 

'I've eaten cat food before'

'I always buy things I can't afford off eBay when I'm drunk. I once bought a book from the Folio Society for £700.'

Events of note:

Mr #40 trying to explain the 'menegerie' of different voices he has in his head, all of different nationalities, who tend to make themselves known when he cooks cuisines from different countries. One 'voice' of note was that of 'Luigi', Mr #40's Italian alter ego, who seems to knock up a ravioli in spectacularly zealous fashion. Is that normal???

The Verdict:

Now then, the verdict. On the face of it, I had a very entertaining albeit slightly short evening with Mr #40. He was entertaining, funny, and once he'd warmed up he was a good conversationalist. But I was very aware of our 9 year age gap throughout, and sadly for me there wasn't anything there one the attraction front, nothing at all. And I hate myself as I type that because he has since messaged me saying he found me 'utterly enchanting', which can only lead me to believe he is not only incredibly sweet, was trying to win me over into writing a positive review (well done there), but that he must've had that bottle of Martini before coming to meet me. And I hate myself even more by writing this as I've since seen that before our date he'd tweeted to say how nervous he was about going on a date, which is a feeling I don't tend to get these days, but reading that has taken me right back to my not-so-halcyon days of pre-date nervous-pukes. 

I'll probably come under fire for saying this, but I don't think I'll see Mr #40 again. And it is essentially because I think once the dating small talk was done, I genuinely don't think there's much common ground as a foundation, and I think to agree to meet him again would give the wrong impression. But Mr #40 thank you for being lovely company this evening, and although I'm not Miss Right for you, there will definitely be one out there for you, one who you can show your 'etchings' to. You know what I mean...

Mr #31 - Smooth Criminal

The preamble:
Mr #31 was sadly another product of my post-Christmas date-lack panic, so once again there wasn't a tremendous amount of communication leading up to the date in question. But he seemed like a cheeky, chatty sort, and we had a few basics in common, taste in comedy included, so I said yay to a date.

The man:
Age: 37
Profession: Runs his own scaffolding firm

Random factoid: He's the first person I've ever met to own a Smart car. For some reason I'd always thought they were pretend...

The date:
I met Mr #31 outside the tube, and the first thing that struck me was that he was a textbook case for male pattern baldness, and that he'd been very careful to select only photos from his more hirsute days. 

That said, he wasn't unattractive by a long chalk, he had icy blue eyes and an excellent arrangement of gnashers. Well done him. 

We pottered off to a pub, he installed himself at the bar on a quest for wine, and twenty minutes later, yes TWENTY, he emerged with a bottle. I had had half an eye on him at the bar, and it was rather entertaining watching him get chatted up by some brassy blonde, and I'm pretty sure he slipped her his number as they were talking for a long time, and there was some mobile phone action.  

Once he'd returned with the booze, I very soon realised quite what an Essex lad he was, which made me feel incredibly posh, and I did try my best to de-plum so I didn't feel quite so self-conscious. The conversation was great. We covered the life and times of the Mighty Boosh, random inventions, the cats versus dogs debate, playing the piano, and had a lengthy argument about the Top Gun soundtrack. I even did the Marley and Me test on him, which he scraped past (he did say he would watch it if it was on, but wouldn't choose to). 

I couldn't help noticing the tattoo of a girl's name on his wrist, but didn't quite have the balls to enquire whether it was an ex, a daughter or a deceased pet. You can never tell these days. Before we knew it, we'd sunk a LOT of Sauvignon Blanc, it was time at the bar, and we had to go our separate ways. Not a bad evening. Or so I thought...

Memorable Quotes:
'Don't worry about needing to go for a wee, it happens to all of us.' Er, yes...yes it does.

Events of note:
So, all in all it was a rather pleasant night, no? Until it was time to say goodbye, when the following conversation occurred:

Mr #31: You getting the bus home then?

Me: Yes, the bus stop's just round the corner. You?

Mr #31: Actually my car's just parked round the corner

Me: Your car?

Mr #31: Yes

Me: But you're drunk

Mr #31: Yeah but I feel fine

Me: But you're over the limit

Mr #31: I'll be alright

Me: You shouldn't be driving. Why don't you hop on the tube?

Mr #31: I'll be fine, honest. I'll text you when I get in.

Er...that's not what I'm worried about! I'll tell you now, if I'd have seen his car, I would have rung up the police straight away and reported the fucker. Selfish, stupid, irresponsible bugger. With the benefit of hindsight I should have followed him, and I hate myself for that. In case you were wondering, he got in okay. Shame. I wish he'd been pulled over by the fuzz and taught a bloody lesson.

The Verdict:

Dare you need ask? Had he been a good boy and hopped on the tube home, I would have considered seeing him again. I'm sorry, but drink driving is a deal-breaker of the highest order. I'm not sure if I'll hear from him again, I suspect he's feeling pretty sheepish now and rightly so. But if he does suggest another date, I shall be gracefully declining, and telling him exactly why.

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.