Mr #45 - The Real Greek

The preamble:
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.

The man:
Age: 31
Profession: Illustrator

Random factoid: Has survived no less than 15 earthquakes when he lived in Greece.

The date:
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. 

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. 

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). 

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 Mr #44 - they have a LOT in common!). 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mate...the one who killed the cats...he has diabetes now and is like a balloon. Even the Army won't have him.'
'You have parrots? Why? Birds should never be kept as pets'. Uh oh...

Events of note:

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.

The Verdict:

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.

Mr #36 - Mate's Dates

The preamble:
So this week I’ve had a bit of a nightmare finding my Mr #36. My first option decided a couple of hours before the date that ‘he couldn’t be fucked’ to hang around in town and do some shopping after he finished work at 5.30pm to meet me on Oxford Street at 7pm. Not everyone it seems works the ‘crazy insane’ hours I do. Personally I don’t think leaving work at half six to meet at seven is entirely unreasonable, but he obviously did. 

My next option was then lined up for today, but at around 4pm, he texted to say he was in the grip of a cash flow problem, and wouldn’t be able to meet me. Fuck. 

Since I’m busy for the rest of the week, I then had a bit of a dateless wobble, and decided to cast the net open to Twitter and Facebook to see if anyone could sort me out with a last minute date option. Enter Jemma, who kindly offered up a friend of hers that it turns out she’s been trying to set me up with some time. It turned out the gentleman in question was free, knew what he was getting himself into, and was up for being Mr #36. Brilliant! Date saved! He also in game fashion agreed to write up his version of the date afterwards, which would at least offer you something more than just my word for things. 

And, of course, there was the added bonus that we had a friend in common, and although she relishes in my more nightmarish of dates, I really didn’t think (or hope) she’d set me up with a total freak. And she didn’t. In retrospect, he, however, may beg to differ...

The man:
Age: 30

Profession: Works in development in television

Random factoid: Once ran in the Pamplona bull run. Spoiler alert: he survived.

 

The date:
As it was such a last minute date job, I offered up my favourite pub in Shoreditch, The Water Poet, as the venue. I was due to meet Mr #36 outside Liverpool Street tube, and with only a description of his coat, I genuinely had no idea what to expect. Fortunately, we managed to find each other without too many hitches, although an idea was mooted before we met that perhaps we could find similar-looking people to bring along so we could turn it into a double date, but sadly there were no looky-likeys knocking around Bishopsgate at that time. 

Mr #36 was a cheerful chap, and en route to the pub we got the whole 52 First Dates chat out of the way. I won’t lie, the chat did feel a little awkward at first which I put down to first-meeting nerves, but as soon as we procured a pair of pints, things loosened up and date properly got underway. 

As it turned out, Mr #36 now works in an office where I used to work, and we had a lot of common ground with talk of television. We covered birds (specifically parrots, birds of prey and pigeons), hamsters, dads, weddings, nephews, our mutual friend Jemma, Skegness, Nazi captives, recipes and MEAT (we’d been on meat heat in the office all day and I won’t lie, babyback ribs had been playing on my mind considerably). 

One thing that impressed me more than anything was that Mr #36 knew the rules of bacon sandwiches and sauces: red sauce for white bread, brown sauce for brown bread. Amazing. We got on really well, stayed there until closing time, and then wandered off to our respective buses. All in all, I would say this evening passed without a hitch, but you’ve not read the events of note yet...*hangs head in shame*

Memorable Quotes:
‘You should see my pigeon fanciers film’

‘I once swung my nephew into a tree’

Events of note:

About three drinks into the evening on a toilet trip, I decided to text Jemma to let her know how the evening was going.

‘He’s such a nice guy. Such a shame I don’t fancy him’.

On returning to the table, Mr #36 kindly informed me that I had mistakenly sent the message to him, and that he was expecting a verdict after the date, and not during. I died a little inside. And when I say a little, I mean a lot. What an absolute dick! Schoolboy texting error number 1. And I meant every word I said, he was such a nice guy, one of the best dates I’d been on actually as he was really entertaining. I just didn’t fancy him. After the aforementioned incident, we decided that if 52 First Dates ever makes it into a film, he would be played by Jason Segel. And quite frankly, it’s the least I could do to apologise...

The Verdict:

Need I say any more? I would love to go out boozing with Mr #36 again as he was a great laugh, and I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the evening (except of course for the minute where I realise what a knob I had been). But to be honest, I doubt very much he’d want to see me again after that.

Yours sincerely,

A very shame-faced CTS.