Mr #32 - First Impression Backtrack

The preamble:
Mr #32 claimed to be very new to the whole online dating malarkey, so was pretty upfront about about asking for my number...

'Hello. You're hot. Would you like to go for a drink with me?'

Well, if you put it like that, alright then. So I whizzed him my number and we arranged a date without knowing an awful lot about him. What then ensued was some rather bizarre texting etiquette. 

I have to say from previous experience, I normally try to limit the amount of texting before a date, as sometimes it turns out they just want some girl to message late at night or when they're bored, and sometimes hopes on either or both sides get built up out of all proportion. Mr #32's technique was somewhat more unconventional. He'd message a lot, and berate me for not wanting to engage in lengthy text banter. He'd also call me 'love' a lot, which is a proper pet peeve of mine, and I did have to pull him up on it as it was getting close to jeopardising the date. His idea of humour, was also incredibly questionable. 

An example:

Mr #32: So are we going to get pissed on Saturday then?

Me: I'm not sure about that, I don't like to get drunk on first dates... (not I didn't say 'I never')

Mr #32: Oh, we're going on a first date are we? Better wash my willy then

Me: *silence*

He'd also told me I would definitely fall in love with him, and would frequently text late at night complaining that he couldn't sleep LOL, another pet peeze of mine. If you need to write LOL at the end of something, it's clearly not funny in the first place. He'd also texted to warn me that his teeth weren't perfect, not goofy, but not perfect. He'd been systematically doing his utmost to give him possibly the worst first impression before I'd met him, but because I'd already committed, I went  ahead with it anyway. But I was not looking forward to it...

The man:
Age: 28
Profession: Works in finance

Random factoid: Once walked past Jimmy Corkhill from Brookside in the street.

The date:
I was absolutely dreading this date. I actually considered bottling it on the day, but since he was already in London for the football and was going to hang around to see me, I just couldn't do it. So I met him.

We met outside Covent Garden tube. I'll be honest, he wasn't very attractive. He was very tall, and was awkwardly bulky, although not fat. His teeth were in a little disarray but nothing major, but his face was covered almost entirely with what looked like shaving rash, even his forehead. His hair was gelled upwards into what I can only describe as a point, like a hairy little drawing pin. He also had tucked his rather baggy jeans into his boots in some sort of All Saints-esque apery, which to be honest he wasn't pulling off. Truth be told I was already thinking about a possible exit strategy in the event this was as bad as I thought it'd be. 

We ambled off to a pub of my choosing, settled in a well-lit corner, and set to with a date. I have to hold my hands up right now and say I think this is probably one of the biggest turnarounds from first impressions I had ever done. Turns out, he's really rather funny. REALLY funny. We covered work, the decline of ginger people, Youtube clips, Latin, Ethiopian cuisine, Mika, Tupperware, his Chinese flatmate and Blue Peter. 

We also had an awful lot in common - same taste in music, film and we both share a love of all things German. He also was pretty outspoken about how he felt about me, and kept talking about how he liked my hair and eyes, and when he found out that I baked asked me to marry him flat out. It was very amusing and rather sweet, if a little embarrassing as I'm not used to that sort of complimenting on dates.

Before we knew it, we were both giggly and tipsy, it was time at the bar and the pub was shutting up shop. So we headed off to the bus stop, said our goodbyes, and scampered off in opposite directions.

Memorable Quotes:
On leaving to go to the loo for the first time: 'there's a Snickers in my jacket pocket. I know it's there. Steal it, and I will hunt you down...'

'I once went to see Christina Aguilera at Wembley.'

Events of note:
Every time I went to the bar, he'd disappear off to the loo without saying a word. He was like the Dungeon Master, only three times the size and without the dubious hairdo. And the little Spanish barman in the background trying to catch my attention with his bar juggling skills.

The Verdict:

This genuinely was a revelatory date. Never before have I had such a poor impression of a guy before meeting him, and never before have they totally turned it around, and then some. Personality-wise, he was spot on - he was funny and irreverent enough for my taste, we liked loads of the same things and I had a really enjoyable evening with him. The only downside is there was just absolutely zero physical attraction there from my side, and I mean not even a glimmer, which is just such a crying shame as he was awesome company. I know they say attraction is about the whole package, but this one I just couldn't get past the wrapping.

Mr #30 - Captain Apathy

The preamble:  

There was pretty much no preamble leading up to my date with Mr #30, the reason being I had a bit of a panic! It was the start of a new year, I had a date lined up for the Saturday, and two hours beforehand the bugger texts to cancel on account of manflu. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't because I had been looking forward to this particular date for ages, but because I didn't have a back up! I couldn't find a back up! And after an desperate afternoon of trying to bag a date for the Sunday afternoon, I failed miserably, and the best I could do was for the Monday night. That would just have to do, and I'll have to find another one for later in the week to make up the quota. Sad, but true...

The man:
Age: 29
Profession: Works in social housing
Random factoid: Is the only person I have ever met whose favourite nut is the walnut. This in itself should have been a warning...

The date:
Mr #30 wasn't terribly forthcoming on the date venue front, so I took the plunge and plumped for a non-committal pub I rather like in Soho. We met outside the tube, and to be honest, I'd spotted him waiting there about five minutes earlier, and my precise thoughts were 'oh god, that's him isn't it! That's bloody him...' And it was. 

His pictures had been very kind. Sadly his actual real life face let him down. He'd turned up in a manky woolly hoodie, grubby jeans and questionable trainers, and seemed pretty quiet and not very forth-coming. This was not going to be easy. 

We ambled over to the pub, actually not the pub I originally had in mind, it was one a lot closer, to make things swifter. At the bar, he announced he was having a January detox, so we procured a couple of pints of OJ and lemonade and found possibly the draughtiest corner of the pub to sit in. 

I have to say, after getting over the fact that the world was going to end during 2012, he warmed up a little. Behind the snuffling into his sleeve and distinct lack of eye contact, the chat was reasonably entertaining: we covered nuts, more nuts in fact, religions, how he loves his job because he can argue with people, Tom Cruise films, Morocco and the fact that he once drank 20 pints of Guinness at a work do when no-one else was on the booze. 

I suppose one of the most telling things about him was that he gave up eating meat for a year. For why, says I? Oh because I could. I see. So for no good reason whatsoever. Well done you. 

Sadly, there were a lot of awkward silences, and I was aware I did have to pull some of my dickish surrealism out of my handbag in order to try and keep things going, which for the most part succeeded. And I spent the entire time trying not to look like I was on a first date as there were two very handsome guys sat nearby giving us the odd look. After a very long pint of something non-alcoholic, I had to make my excuses and head off to the bus.

Memorable Quotes:
'I don't get hangovers. Probably explains why I use and abuse alcohol so much. I'm detoxing now as I was on a bender for the entire of 2011'

'I dropped out of uni. I drop out of things a lot'

Events of note:
Probably the best event of the night actually was at my expense. I'd been curled up on the sofa with one leg tucked under me, and when nature called, I hopped up to answer, but sadly my foot didn't quite wake up in time, so I ended up performing some ridiculous fall slash limp on the lengthy walk to the ladies. By the time I reached the loo, my leg had almost returned to normal. I swear that's why Kaiser Soze's limp goes at the end of the Usual Suspects, it's nothing to do with the fact he'd been faking, he just had a dead leg! And before you get angry at me for spoilering the Usual Suspects, that was nearly 20 years ago. Bruce Willis is also a ghost in Sixth Sense. What of it?

Anyway, that's the last time I sit on my own feet on a date, that's for sure.

The Verdict:
Do you really need to ask? My initial thoughts were dread, they improved marginally, but at the end of the day he was far from the cute East London fop that his photos shows, his conversational skills required far too much coaxing on my behalf, and his general apathy towards life was somewhat sapping. Oh well, I thought things were going a little too well with Mr #29. Who is still away in Mexico, in case you were wondering. Still, no time to dawdle, I have a date to make up, so expect a Mr #31 coming your way shortly.

Mr #22 - Show Me The Funny

The preamble:

Mr #22 and I were originally due to meet a few weeks back. But the bugger stood me up. Normally this would irritate the hell out of me, but as he was a stand up comedian, I appreciated the irony and didn't let it deter me. The main off-putting factor about this lad, however, was the fact that he texted in the style a 14 year old scrote, but I'm learning more and more during the course of this challenge that I need to put my silly pretensions behind me once in a while, so I've done my best to ignore the wots, urs and flagrant disregard for basic grammar. Challenging my pretensions in this way so far, however, has done absolutely nothing to convince me other than I have my silly pretensions cemented for relatively valid reasons...

The man:

Age:27

Profession: By day, an IT monkey at the MOD. By night, a stand up comedian.

Random factoid: Lives with ten other people. Ten. And apparently it's not a commune. Whatever...

The date:

I'd finally managed to pin Mr #22 down to a date, and we'd arranged to meet at Liverpool Street station. An easy plan I thought...

*ring ring*
Mr #22: Hi, where are you?
Me: I'm outside Boots.
Mr #22: I'll be there in 5 minutes.
7 minute later...
*ring ring*
Mr #22: I'm outside Boots, where are you?
Me: I'm outside Boots. In the station...
Mr #22: Ah, I'm outside the Boots outside the station
Me: Okay, I'll be there in 5 minutes
5 minutes later
*ring ring*
Me: I'm at Boots outside the station, where are you?
Mr #22: I'm outside Boots.
Me: What can you see?
Mr #22: I can see buses
Me: That's not very helpful.
Mr #22: Oh, there' a pub called Dirty Dicks...
So it turns out there re not one, not two, but 3 branches of Boots at Liverpool Street station. Good start...but that was a funny as it got.

So, I met Mr #22 at the delightfully named Dirty Dicks. He was stood in a flat cap and navy quilted jacket, and I was wondering whether he'd left his tractor or the rest of the cast of TOWIE at home.

I dragged him off to one of my favourite local haunts (one that didn't sell tampons and laxatives), we sourced some beverages and got to the chat.

My first thought was, and probably a bit unfairly of me, that for a stand up comedian, he wasn't very funny. Part of me was tempted to be an absolute nightmare date, so at least he could have got some sort of decent material out of the night but I bottled it. Under the cold lights of the bar I guessed that he had definitely lied about his age, perhaps by as much as 10 years, and that he may have borrowed his nose from the late, great Pete Postlethwaite. 

He was a nice enough guy, quite quiet, a little shy to start with, and a little on the flat side. That said, the conversation was right up my street: a healthy in depth analysis of kids theme tunes from the eighties, what films you'd take to the moon, my parrots, classical music, lactose intolerance, comedians and shit Christmas presents. 

I have to say I was a little astonished at how long he seemed to nurture his pint for, and was a little more unnerved when he tried pushing his luck by asking for the most expensive drink behind the bar once I'd offered to buy a round. 

Two drinks down, it was chucking out time, so we wandered off back to the station together. En route back, he decided to unleash some of his self-proclaimed comedy gold one liners on me. I won't lie, he could've nicked them all from Penguin wrappers and I wouldn't have sussed the difference. They were pants. And I think despite me wanting to be as polite as I could, I was a tough crowd.

Memorable Quotes:

'My mum once threw a wine glass and called me a c***  after I refused to tidy my room. The bitch'. I would jut like to clarify, he said that, not me. 

Events of note:

Singing a charming little duet of the theme tune to the Littlest Hobo together, before having to consult Google when our lyrics went in different directions...

The verdict:

We had a very chilled out evening, but it couldn't have felt less like a date had my parents been there with me. I didn't fancy him physically, and although I didn't expect a performing monkey for a date, even our idle banter raised little chuckles from my side of things. It's not because I was on a date with someone who said they were funny for a living that I expected an entire evening of pant-wetting hilarity (wetting oneself is never a good idea on a first date) but I do like to have a laugh with someone, and tonight was drier than your average sandy bum crack. He was a nice guy, there was just absolutely nothing there. Nothing whatsoever. Oh, and even if he had been a hottie and I'd have wanted to cart him off home, the idea of shouting the name of one of my parrots in the the throes of passion is more than a deal-breaker. Yup, he's named after one of my pets... 

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.