Mr #46 - Napoleon Cokeparte

The preamble:
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!

The man:
Age: 34
Profession: Runs his own software company

Random factoid: He once crashed into Wolf from Gladiators whilst snowboarding.

 The date:
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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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! 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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!

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??? 

Whilst 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. 

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. 

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.

 Memorable Quotes:
‘There’s this toilet in Marbella...’ The beginning of a cracking anecdote if ever there was one...

‘I’m like Rainman’

‘My mate was given an island for his 21^st birthday’

‘What was the music like when you went to the toilet?’

Events of note:

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.

The Verdict:

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?

Mr #37 - Dinky Dollars

The preamble:
I'd been messaging and texting Mr #37 pretty regularly for a month or so now, and he really piqued my curiosity. He was a man who worked for the big bucks, but in his spare time loves to cook, collect art and do work for charity. He had a good sense of humour on paper, didn't even attempt that irksome text speak, wrote well and sounded like an all round good egg, so I was all too happy to meet him for a beverage or two.

The man:
Age: 34

Profession: Investment broker

Random factoid: Has a phenomenally mixed heritage of English, Italian, Tunisian, Maltese, Sicilian and Spanish.

The date:
This was one of the rare dates where he chose the venue, always instant Brownie points since I've been running a little short of ideas of venues of places where the staff wouldn't start to suspect I was some sort of serial dater (and of course they would be correct). He chose a posh-sounding wine and cocktail bar on Brick Lane which on first glance looked like an excellent choice. I was the first to arrive, and whilst I perched at the bar trying not to look like I was meeting a stranger from t'internet I realised that actually it was a bit of a misguided choice of venue, given that the football was on on mahoosive screens all around the outside of the bar, and the place was starting to fill up with Manchester City fans. 

Ten minutes later, my date arrived. I knew he wouldn't be very tall, as he'd put 5' 5" on his profile. Turns out, he'd fibbed a little. As he walked through the door, I was struck by how petite he was, and thought he was a good couple of metres further away than he actually was. When I stood up to meet him, he was a good inch shorter than me, making him over-ambitious by a good 4 inches. It still baffles me why men lie about their height, it's not as if I'd never find out! 

Anyway he was very nice-looking, well-turned out, polite and rather chipper, so we got cracking with the date. We covered all sorts of topics, his art collecting, archaeology, his  roots, museums, that time he ate too much meat in America and ended up with gut rot (nice!), writing novels, films, pedigree cats, chocolate and kids theme tunes (a topic which seems to crop up on many a date - I think I may be trapped in my 9-year-old self sometimes). 

Mr #37 was quite a character - he had a myriad of interests, and archaeology was a big one, to the point that once a year he goes mud-larking (google it, I had to...) and has his own metal detector which he uses to find old bits of Roman gold. He also recently spent £500 on a giant fossil for his flat, would regularly spend £100 a week on an obscenely posh box of chocolates, owned a very expensive coffee machine and was starting up his own investment business. Money, it seemed, was a big trump card for Mr #37 which I have to say I found very bit off-putting, more so than the fact that he let it slip he was both newly-divorced and a dad (funny how this all comes out on dates and people forget to include on their profiles and in the preamble). 

On reflection, he spoke about himself a lot, and told me that he was writing his own autobiography because he thought he had a really interesting life, which did leave me wondering if all of his interests were manufactured just for the purpose of bolstering the biog. I also couldn't help noticing how he kept flitting his eye line between the football on the television and my chest. Note to self - don't wear this dress on dates again. A few drinks later, we were both showing signs of weariness and mutually agreed to call it an evening.

Memorable Quotes:
'When I was in New York I had a tongue sandwich, have you tasted tongue before?' Are we really gonna go there? Stop it, stop it now...

'I used to want to be Indiana Jones when I was little. I used to bury all my toys in the garden'

'Yeah, girls do like sparkly things don't they?' Yeah, me and glitter...such a girl, I LOVE that shit...

'Your dad used to fly Tornadoes in the RAF? He's my hero, I'd love to meet him...' Uh oh, flashback to Mr #18...

Events of note:

Mr #37 trying to explain what hedge funds ACTUALLY are. To the most financially inept person on the planet. I'll be honest, it didn't go well, and I'm still none the wiser. It's still people selling invisible shit to me and getting paid fucktonnes for it.

The Verdict:

Yes, he was shorter than me, skinnier than me by half, and had smaller hands than me. On physicality alone, I struggled to fancy him as he did make me feel like the Miranda Hart to his Frankie Dettori. Actually, he could have been Frankie on looks alone. And yes, yet again I'm doing what many women do when it comes to dating gentlemen of diminuitive stature, and I do feel for them, it must be so hard as we really can be a tough crowd. But ask any straight woman you know and I'll wager most prefer men who are bigger than them purely to allow for their own insecurities. I know, because I am one of them.

Mr #37 was a really interesting guy, and I really liked the fact he had so many interesting things to talk about (bar the finance crap). But the fact that he held money in such high regard was the real deal-breaker here, and literally every anecdote did boil down to dosh in some way. I'm not looking for someone with a shed load of cash stuffed under the mattress to buy me great big sparkly thing, nor someone whose sole purpose in life is to earn money. 

All in all, it was an entertaining evening, but we didn't have a tremendous amount in common even though we found common ground to talk about, and as much as I'm not sure I want to see him again, I think he probably feels the same.

...although my tits are expecting a text any minute now...

Mr #9 - Sloppy Seconds?

The preamble:

Mr #9 was actually one of the first men I started speaking to when the whole #52firstdates malarkey kicked off, but thanks to his infeasibly busy rock ‘n’ roll working schedule of recording, drinking, gigging, sleeping, it’s taken me a good three months to actually pin the bugger down to a date. But unusually for my internet dating shenanigans, this guy I knew actually definitely positively 100% existed before meeting him, which of course is always a good sign. How did I know? Through my lovely friend Jemma and a bizarre series of text messages which went as follows:

Jemma: Hey, how are you? I met your friend M at Download festival, he’s really lovely.

Me: Oh how great, yeah he’s awesome.

Jemma: What is his surname by the way, is it XXXX?

Me: No it’s not, it’s XXXX.

Jemma: Oh, well who is this M XXX then? Oh I know, he’s some award-winning record producer.

Me: Hang on…he doesn’t look a little bit like this does he? *cuts and pastes picture from Mr #9’s profile page, knowing he was also at the same festival*

Jemma: What the fuck? Yes, that’s him! How on earth do you know him?

Me: Because we’ve met online and we’re meant to be going on a date.

Jemma: Oh, well you definitely should, he’s a bit short, but he’s very funny and an excellent kisser.

Me: Er, thanks Jemma. Would you like to test drive all my future dates for me?

Jemma: Yes

So obviously this was a date that had to happen, mainly because Jemma was so determined that I was going to marry this man and that she’ll get a mention in the best man’s speech. And who am I to let a good friend down?

The man:

Age: 32

Profession: award-winning record producer

Random factoid: once recorded with Robbie Williams.

The date:

I finally met Mr #9 in Covent Garden after a ridiculous string of attempts to meet the elusive sonofabitch. True to expectation, he was very short, was no stranger to hair straighteners and looked rather like the prototype for the All Saints junior clothing line. But he was very sweet, and chirpy, and I felt rather relaxed about the whole thing. 

What I did rather like about him from a start, is he knew loads of nice bars in the area, and had a little over-ambitious pub crawl planned. What I didn’t like so much was the slightly relentless music snobbery and name-dropping…’when I was recording with so and so’, ‘when I was looking after this band’, ‘when I went to Sweden to record with whathsisface’, ‘when I was on the guest list for blahdeeblah’ – alright I geddit! Jeez, you are too cool for school, well done you. Or so I thought… 

I have neglected to point out that all of the beverages consumed thus far on his part were all rather fruity, and some of them frighteningly pink, and rankly stereotypically, lady beverages! 

Keen to move on from the barrage of musical badge-bearing, I tried to move onto the subject of films. I love films, films are great, and it’s always brilliant finding some sort of celluloid common ground. However as it turns out, there literally was none. None. I like dark and edgy films, Requiem for a Dream, Fight Club, American Beauty…he liked, wait for it, PS I Love You, She’s All That, Marley and Me and a shockingly high number of Sandra Bullock films. Fucking MARLEY AND ME??? That was a bombshell he was not getting away with. When I questioned this shameful choice of film, he said ‘but it’s just such a lovely happy film’. When I replied that it was the worst film in the entire world and that I would rather gouge my own eyeballs out with John McCruirick’s anal beard trimmer than have to sit through the opening credits again, he IMDBed it to prove that the rating of 7/10 justified its place in his film collection. He also decided that because I hated said film, that I was totally heartless, inhumane and, quite frankly, dead inside. Let me put this out there right now, I’ll happily stay a hollow shell of a human being if it means I never have to watch that fucking abomination of a film ever again. 

Anyway the more fruity drinks that were sunk, the feistier he became, and I was reminded somewhat of Napoleon in his assertive small person posturing. Don’t get me wrong, it was an enjoyable evening for all the banter, but I felt slightly like I had assumed the more masculine role with my hatred of schmaltzy rom coms and my suppings of rum, whilst he professed his love for films starring Sandra Bullock, gulping his strawberry-scented beverages and complaining that the heels on his cowboy boots made his calves hurt. But by the end of the evening, I think his constant protestions had tuckered the little guy out a little too much as he sat yawning at the bus stop, although I was most relieved he was too tired and disinterested in my heart of stone to attempts one of his legendary snogs. He scampered off, and once on the bus he texted me to say thanks for the evening, but to berate me for giving him poor directions. Ah well.

Memorable Quotes:
‘I hate all poor people and chavs’

Events of note:

The unnervingly loud clicks his heels made on the pavement as we trotted from pub to pub.

The verdict:

All things considered I did have a very entertaining evening, some for the right reasons, but mostly for the wrong. As much as I love someone who is passionate about their work, I’m a little resentful of being choked by their job snobbery. But the final nail in the coffin has got to be his love of the worst possible films imaginable. I think now, when selecting potential suitors, I’ll have to run the Marley and Me test beforehand. I’m not sure I could cope with that sort of situation again. Do I want to see him again? Probably not. And I’m pretty sure given that I am dead inside, that he won’t be terribly fussed either. Sorry Jemma, I know you had high hopes on this one, again no pun intended, so you’d better start tracking down Mr #10 for me ASAP if you want a hope in hell of getting a mention at the wedding speeches.