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 #18 - Who's Your Daddy?

The preamble:

Mr #18 and I had experienced the very briefest of email exchanges over a month or so ago. I have to say, I thought he was a bit of a pest. His technique of trying to get my attention was to randomly bombard me with messages when I'd not even had time to reply calling me such names as 'stinky poo face'. Quite why I actually gave him my number is still beyond me, because quite frankly, he was really rather annoying. And I was pretty convinced before meeting him that he would be duller than dish water's wit. That said, I'm glad I did agree to meet him, because boy did he prove me wrong...

The man:

Age: 30

Profession: Currently unemployed

Random factoid: Was expelled by school after a catalogue of adolescent errors including refusing to bring stationary to school, setting up his own book-maker's and employing the school bullies to do his bidding, giving himself a very serious fictional disease and threatening to piss on a teacher. You couldn't make this shit up...

The date:

I met the illustrious Mr #18 in Covent Garden. He was 20 minutes late. I was contemplating calling it a day, until a quiet little voice whispered the immortal words 'stinky poo face' in my ea and I knew my date had arrived. 

My first thoughts were...my how short you are, my what tiny child-like hands you have and dear lord, are you sure you're interested in girls??? My initial concern is something that later to be enforced by quite the most bizarre thing anyone has ever said to me on a date. But more about that later, stick with me, it's worth it. 

He had also arrived in the freezing October evening in just a t-shirt, and although he insisted he didn't feel any of the cold, his nipples spoke otherwise. We pottered off to the nearest pub, procured a pair of pints, and the interrogation began. 

It was hard not to keep my eyes off Mr #18#s dinky hands, as throughout the entire course of the date he just couldn't leave himself alone...scratching his arms, lifting his t-shirt, and conducting some sort of fruitful excavation of his ear which was really rather distracting. 

It rapidly occurred to me that I had been so preoccupied by his infernal childish nagging for a date, that I knew absolutely bugger all about him. So I asked. And what  got was nothing short of extraordinary. You will have already read about his school days, a lengthy anecdote that literally had me weeping. For such a quaint, quiet, camp chap, he clearly was quite the criminal mastermind. Not only had he concocted a very serious illness to get out of school, he'd also later done the same to get out of a job. He'd also bought a motorbike aged 15 and decided to run away from home. 5 miles into his great escape, he was picked up by the police for not wearing a helmet. 

Aside from his outpourings as a felon, we covered sharks, racism, Family Guy and a rather embarrassing observation he'd made about the fact that on my dating profile, I seem incapable of doing a nice face. And it's true, I AM incapable of doing a nice face. 

He referred to himself on no less than three occasions as a 'hunk', with a finely-tuned sense of irony and a laugh that was a text book comedy 'tee hee'. He knew all the words to the Lion Man theme tune, a talent he demonstrated not once, but twice and also confessed to having an ongoing bladder problem, which I can retrospectively verify, as he went to the toilet five times over the course of our 2 hour date.

It soon came time for me to call it a night, despite him insisting we went for another, but I just couldn't cope with laughing at this bizarre boy any more. We said a cheery goodbye, and I chuckled all the way to the station. And this is why...

Memorable Quotes:

Mr #18: 'So you're a forces child are you?'

Me: 'Yes, my dad was a fighter pilot'

'Are you being serious?'

'Yes'

'Is he single?'

'Er...what?'

'Is he single? I think I might love him'

'Er, no he's not'

'Do you think he'd go for someone like me?'

'Maybe. You do look a lot like my mother...'

This may all be very funny now, but this went on sporadically all night. I've never had to feel protective over a parent in such a way before, so tonight was a real eye-opening first.

Events of note:

Mr #18 recreating the famous 'you can be my wingman anytime' scene from Top Gun, inserting both his name and my father's instead of Maverick and Ice Man...

The verdict:

Mr #18, I am absolutely convinced, is some sort of comedy genius, whether he knows it or not. But his tiny child hands, his frightening nipples, his camp demeanour and the fact that I am now adamant that he would only be using me to get to my father are reasons enough that I don't think I will be pursuing our relationship any further. But genuinely, I have not chuckled so much on a date in a long time as I have tonight, so for that, in an unintentional way, thank you.

Update:
Since writing this blog entry, I've informed my father of Mr #18's interest, to which he replied 'he obviously has exceptional taste. Perhaps I should meet him'. My mother has also given her blessing on this peculiar union. I shall of course keep you posted. I, however, may have done a little sick in my mouth...

Mr #14 - Ode To Lithuania

The preamble:

Mr #14 and I first got chatting online through a dating site a month or so ago, and over the last few days due to him suffering some sort of fat-thumbs syndrome affecting texting on his touchphone, we started chatting over Facebook. 

This was a bit of an online dating first for me, as normally I tend to avoid the sharing of any sort of social networking sites, mainly for the barrage of embarrassing personal information on them, but also because my ridiculous blogging exploits are shamelessly splattered all over them.

 However on revealing that in some swift social networking searches he'd already found my Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn profile AND this illustrious blog, I had pretty much nothing to hide. 

He was well aware of the ongoing emotional embuggerance of Mr Third Party who had been occupying a lot of my mind time over the last week, and even though he knew he'd be written up in true 52 First Dates style, he agreed to meet up anyway, which to be honest was just what I needed to take my mind off the other emotional turbulance. 

But since he lived out in deepest darkest Dagenham, we agreed to meet somewhere halfway. But sadly for both of us, that halfway was Barking. Dear, sweet, phenomenally dump-worthy Barking.  

The man:

Age: 23

Profession: Financial analyst sort

Random factoid: Hails from Lithuania. That's right, a real life Lithuanian.

The date:

I think we've established already we were going to meet in Barking. I can't stress that enough.  Fucking Barking. 

I'd managed to notch up some significant pre-date nerves on this one, mainly because Mr #14, who from hereon in will be known as the Lithuanian Ninja for reasons I won't be able to properly explain, had suggested that as a challenge, when we were to meet at the tube, we were to stand there for 1 to 3 minutes in silence and stare at each other. At which point he would most probably kiss me. Hmm. Cue a massive swoosh of typical British pre-date prudishness. But when in Rome, or more aptly, when in Barking with a random Lithuanian, you go along with it. 

Anyway, I turned up at the station, and as promised, the Lithuanian Ninja just stood and stared at me. I giggled awkwardly. Fortunately for me, he decided to break the stare-stalemate and let me escape snog-free. He'd been prudent enough to google a local park so we could go for a little walk and a chat. Barking Park to be precise. So wandered, and we chatted, largely about how he thought I could improve my blog, which was some rather fabulous constructive criticism. We ended up grabbing a seat in the park in a description that I can only describe as halfway between a travelling funfair and a rubble dump. I took the time to photograph the location in detail, just to create the full mis-en-scene. So here we go. Brace yourself...

The view to the left:

The view to the right:

The view behind:

And finally...the piece de resistance...the view straight ahead:

So here we were, perched in Essex's least finest green land, and conversation kicked off. We covered poverty, academia, job-hunting, Eastern European languages and the paragon of British culture that was modern day Essex. 

The wind picked up and we started to get chilly, so as sad as we were to leave the glorious vista of rubble, we wandered off in search of some sort of coffee. It soon emerged, contrary to his previous claims of being a ninja, that the Lithuanian Ninja had left his ninjic tendencies at home, as I had to save him from being flattened by oncoming traffic at least twice.  

It also soon emerged that Barking lacked any sort of commercial coffee house so we traipsed around the town centre for ages, and not even a sniff of a Starbucks, the faintest clue of a Costa and zero Cafe Nero. The one place claiming to vend hot caffeinated beverages was closing its doors, so we had to resort to a location possibly even more spectacular than Barking Park. Yes, you've guessed it: Barking Shopping Centre. What more romantic a setting for a date, than being sat in the middle of the worst shopping centre known to man, opposite an Asda, supping gritty milkshakes. Well, we did it. And you know what? It was fucking hilarious. 

I was soon realising that the Lithuanian Ninja was a funny funny guy. He had a great sense of humour about the actual dating blog, the English-Lithuanian divide and the cultural hellhole that was Barking. He was also incredibly keen, and was not shy in letting me know, either by trying to sneak in a cheeky hug or by repeatedly saying 'I like you'. 

Since the whole snog-orientated preamble, I had sensed there may be a kiss in the offing, and whilst perched on the faux-leather sofa of Cafe Aroma and basking in the flattering neon lighting of Holland and Barratt, I did concede a cheeky kiss or two. What can I say, the romantic ambiance of Barking Shopping Centre must've caught me unawares! That and the intoxicatingly high sugar content of my mango smoothie. 

At this point, the Lithuanian Ninja made it clear he thought he was a genuine contender to thwart the future of 52 First Dates, a bar I fear is almost impossibly high these days. Soon the tannoy clamoured the closing of the shopping centre, and we moseyed our way back to the station to say our goodbyes.

Memorable Quotes (of which there were many):

'My dissertation was meant to be 72 pages long, but I cut it down to 69 as it's my favourite number'

'When I got to England I realised how good-looking I was'

'I hope no-one notices that I've got a hard on'

'I like to wear suits. For work? Smart suit. For home? Sports suit. For swimming? Swimsuit. For when I'm hot? Birthday suit.'

Events of note:

The Lithuanian Ninja's awesome demonstration of the difference between the various Eastern European and Russian accents. Turns out, nothing like Borat.

The verdict:

Mr #14 has gone and baffled me a bit. He's very sweet, incredibly funny, and is unfeasibly bright. And although on paper it was one of the worst dating locations ever, it was a genuinely brilliant date for lots of right and lots of wrong reasons. And it was really lovely to feel fancied, something that hasn't really happened a lot over my 52 First Dates quest thus far. And although we shared a lovely kiss in the romantic setting of the Barking Shopping Centre, I'm just not sure that the chemistry was really all there for me. Which is a real shame, as I'd have loved nothing more than to cite a Lithuanian Ninja as the reason for abandoning 52 First Dates. But sadly I fear that it's still game on for the next 38 dates, and I can only thank the Eastern European with a name a lot like a Bond villain for giving me a totally random yet totally awesome dating experience.

To Catch A Catfish

I thought I'd give you a little update regarding the whole Catfish saga of Mr #2, or the fictitious 'Seb'. For various reasons I can't go into on here now, I can't give you the full update, but I can tell you about one aspect of the ongoing drama which has gone even further to reinforce my disbelief and amazement at the power of social networking. For those who have just tuned in, yes, this is essentially a blog about a girl going on dates with boys. But very early on, a situation presented itself which showed the darkest underbelly of the world of internet dating, which you can read here:

So, we've established I was being groomed by someone who had stolen an innocent man's photos to pose as a single man online. We'd then, through the awesome power of friends and Facebook, found the poor sod whose photos had been stolen, and whose life was largely being used to entice unsuspecting singletons such as myself, a feat which too this day I still find unbelievable. And that, I thought, was that...

...That is, until a month or so ago when I received a message through Twitter that made me go cold. It quite simply said 'please can you message me. I am the latest idiot'. What the fuck?!?!? Since Seb-gate was still very much in the forefront of my mind, I messaged the girl back, known on here as Miss D. What immediately transpired was that she had messaged me the very morning that her mother, suspicious that her latest online beau might not have been all he cracked up to be, had googled his full name, the rather unusual name of Sebastian Pritchard-Jones. What she found, however, was not reinforcement he was who he said he was, but my previous blog entry naming and shaming him as a total fraudster, and told her daughter to read what I had written. I can't imagine how she will have felt just then, but I don't think it will have been nice. 

Devastated at this discovery, Miss D had rung him up immediately, called him a c***, and then tweeted me. They had been planning a trip away together, and until then, she had had had absolutely no idea he was leading her a merrily miserable dance. And why would she? He was a clever, manipulative creature, who had finely honed his act of making people believe what he wanted them to believe. This character is every online dater's nightmare. Once the realisation had settled in, I spoke to Miss D more. She sent me an extensive email of everything he had told her: names, places, anecdotes, habits, likes, dislikes, and the most frightening thing was every single detail was one I knew inside out. This was the finest rehearsed routine I have ever heard in my life. A monologue. A character. And Miss D had had exactly the same thing. It later transpired that the day I had told him to leave me alone, the day after THAT perfume bottle picture, he'd smoothly moved straight on to his next victim. The fact that I had maybe, possibly, potentially saved Miss D from a bigger hurt through my blog is reason enough that I started writing it in the first place. But the fact her mum found it on Google and that Miss D was able to get in touch by Twitter even more reinforces my sheer amazement at the power of the web. For every moment of fear and trepidation the internet gives me, the joy, surprise and warmth that comes back is threefold.

I have absolutely no doubt we are not the only two women he has done this to, and, judging from CT's experience (the guy whose photos were stolen), I'm sure there are other men too. This seems to me the well-versed patter of someone who wants their own relationship for a foreseeable shelf-life before, for whatever reason, the other party gets bored, suspicious or hurt. And I have no doubt that this is still going on now, although I would assume they've been savvy enough to change names, photos and dating sites. Who knows? The fact that online dating sites have no way of guaranteeing that their users are who they say they are will always concern me, but it is nothing you can ever really know for sure until it's potentially too late.  I take some solace that in all my internet dating experiences to date, this has been beyond exception, and the chances of encountering something as remotely as fucked up as this again is incredibly rare. But there is always a chance. After all, he knows who I am, because I am as genuine on these sites as I am to my friend and family, what's to say he couldn't find me again and spin me a whole new enticing yarn. As for everyone else? Well, it's the internet...I need say not one word more. On with Mr #14!

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...

Catfish Catch Up

For those of you who haven't been up to speed with my recent dalliances in online dating involving being 'groomed' for a month by someone who had stolen an innocent man's photographs, before reading on, have a little read of what happened here:

For those of you who do know the story so far, you may be interested to hear about recent revelations. After spattering my blog all over social networking sites in an attempt to get some answers, I was utterly astonished at some outstanding detective work amongst my Facebook friends. 

One of them recognised the background of the silent disco photo as being in Milton Keynes shopping centre. After posting this observation on my wall, within hours both her and another friend had managed to locate the man in the photos and had sent me links to his profile. This I am will absolutely in awe of, and Kathryn and Louise, you seriously are wasted if you're not currently working for CID. This innocent man will be known for current purposes as CT.

On Sunday morning I wrote perhaps one of the strangest emails that CT will have ever received. 'Hello, you don't know me, but I feel like I know you. Don't freak out now, but have a little read of my blog...' 

Would he reply? I know I would...but this is just too fucking weird right? Right!

Sunday night, as if by magic, CT got back in touch, and I can safely say he was as totally shocked by what was going on as I was. It turns out that many of the details I had been told, personal details, about his life, likes, loves had been lifted straight from his life. Other details had come from elsewhere. But in any case that, and the fact that I had been sent around 80 photos documenting his life over the last few years, was enough to freak him the fuck out. I've been duped by some sort of pathological liar, he's had his life stolen. Both really rather shit. So where now? 

I then went about sending CT every photo I had been sent from 'Sebastian' in an attempt to piece together how he could have acquired all these pictures. I sent him as much of a dossier as I could, including the last few digits of his phone numbers in case CT could identify it as maybe one of his so-called friends who would have had access to all these pictures. But what we then found out made us both feel physically sick.

CT emailed me back with Sebastian's exact telephone number, and said it belonged to a 'woman' called Amanda, whom he had been messaging back in 2008 through another website. He had never spoken to her over the phone, but like Seb, she'd cancelled meetings on a number of occasions. It turns out we had both been speaking to the same person. But was it a man? Was it a woman? Was it a couple? CT only has one photo that Amanda had sent him, but it's enough of a start to move this witch hunt on a notch...

So now we are desperately trying to track down anyone who may have also been duped / messaged / conned / lured by either of these two 'characters'. So, here is as much as we know:

'SEBASTIAN PRITCHARD-JONES' (not his real name, of course)

Age 35

Most recently used the dating username SOUJOURN

Apparently lives in Marylebone and works in a primary school in Westminster

Speaks with a Welsh accent

 

'AMANDA' (also we presume not her real name)

We are pretty sure this picture has also been stolen for purpose, so if you recognise her as someone you know, please also let me know.

The phone number both of them have definitely used is 07*** 228 114. They may have also used a phone with the number 07*** 068 375, the number used to send me threatening messages.

If you have either been chatting to either of these people, or someone with a phone number that looks like it may be the same, then please please PLEASE get in touch...CT and I know we can't have been the first and we certainly won't be the last, and we want to stop this person before anyone else gets hurt, conned, emotionally involved or have their time wasted. For all we know, this person could even be dangerous. So please, we ask you kindly, spread this around your social media, copy in @C_T_S if you're on Twitter. It helped me track down the innocent man whose photos have been stolen, I know we can find out more about what this person(s) has/have been doing, and to whom. Your help has been invaluable thus far, so let's kick this virtual witch hunt up a gear.

Dating Update

***12/07/13 - since this update was originally written, we have since identified those who had their photos used without permission, and I have removed the majority of them out of courtesy to those pictured***

Dear blog readers. Hello. I am sorry I have not fulfilled my promises this week with documenting date #5 and I owe you an explanation. One of the rules of Fifty Two First Dates is that if we meet someone worth seeing, we put the other dates on hold. Well, let me re-introduce you to Mr #2. Remember him? The one that stood me up because he ended up in hospital? You can catch his write up here.

Well, he has been taking over the last few weeks of my life in epic style. I would like you to meet Sebastian P-J, known as Seb, or affectionately known as the boy with the disabled eyes and the Sticklebrick hair:

Seb is 35 years old, has an older brother and sister, lives alone in his own 4 bedroomed house in Marylebone, and works as a primary school teacher in Westminster. His ex girlfriend Laura used to work in A&E and tragically died of breast cancer a few years ago. Since then, he has been on his own with the exception of an alleged affair with a daytime television presenter. 

He likes to paint, makes excellent roast potatoes, adores his 3 year old niece Tilly, used to play the drums in a band and last year did a photographic challenge during which he had to photograph himself doing something new every day. 

Seb is sweet, sensitive, the life and soul of the party, and on paper he is quite possibly the perfect boyfriend. 

And reading all of this back now, the same warning bells I had at the time are ringing again.

One thing that did concern me about Seb was from an early stage, his flirting technique needed a bit of work. He could be seedy. So each time he crossed one of these tasteless lines, I would tell him to stop being a sex pest, and to be-fucking-have. And, like any sensitive man would, he'd get back behind the line he had crossed. 

In typical 52 First Dates style, I agreed to meet him for a date, these reservations aside, because I had to meet my quota, and you can only judge a person properly when you're sat across a table for them. So, a few weeks ago, we arranged to meet on a Monday in a pub in Soho. And this is where is all began...

Monday afternoon rolled around, and an hour before we were due to meet, he texted to cancel on the grounds that he had had a disclosure at school. One of his pupils had told him that she was being abused by her father, and he had spent the afternoon involved with the police and social services. I think you'd have to be dead inside to not agree that sounds like a pretty rubbish day at work, so we decided to reschedule for Thursday that week. If you've read my previous blog entry, you'll know that I actually went on the date, but he hadn't turned up. And later it emerged that he had snapped a cruciate ligament during football training and had ended up in hospital. Wow, this boy really is unlucky!

The following week we started speaking on the phone. He would text me throughout the day and ring me every night. He would send me photos of himself, some doing kooky things, some of him on holiday, a couple of him lying in bed. He obviously wanted me to fancy him, and as you can tell from the photos, he's rather lovely on the eye. I was going to turn a blind eye to the borderline narcissism until I'd at least met the bugger. 

We'd chat for hours at a time, getting to know each other, finding common ground, taking the piss, developing our own in jokes and getting all the more closer. I won't lie, I was startingto fall for him. He had a story for everything, which with the benefit of my retrospectrometer bears all the hallmarks of a pathological fantasist. But for every sweet comment, funny photo, sensitive anecdote there was always a little question mark and yet another subtle little attempt to get me to give him a little sleazy titillation.

Over the space of about 2 weeks, I must've spent over 20 hours talking to this man. He told me about the death of his ex girlfriend, his best friend who was brain-damaged, an alleged affair he had with a poopular daytime television presenter, the practical jokes played between him and his brother, I felt I knew everything about this man. And in return he knew about my job, my hobbies, my previous relationships, skeletons in my closet. 

Looking back over our conversations now, for every hours on the phone, there was always one little seedy undertone. I can remember him casually slipping things like bra size, anal sex, and even menstrual cycles into conversation. But because they were all anecdotal, or heavily embedded in the in jokes or the sensitive side of things, the alarm bells tinkled a little, but it was nothing I felt I couldn't handle. These are topics that come up with friends, and after all this time, were were becoming friends, friends under a sort of pressure cooker intensity. But every time he tried to eek out something personal from me, my views on contraception, my personal cycle, I would bat them away out of the park and he'd be left with nothing. Reading this back now, I feel sick to my stomach. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that all this investment in me was for those tiny little seedy snippets.

You might think I'm mad in saying this but by now I still wanted to meet the man behind the smooth Welsh tones. I needed to check that Seb in real life was who I thought he was, and any such salaciousness could be spotted in person, and nipped in the bud. 

By this time my curiosity had already got the better of me, and I'd tried to find him online. But to pour fuel to my already-increasing suspicions, I could find no trace of him. Not even using journalistic tools used to verify identities. And I am, if I do say my self, pretty fucking good at finding people online. Everyone's on there somewhere, whether it'd for an old school photo, a Just Giving donation, or a vox pop in the local press. 

Nevertheless, we arranged to meet on the following Friday night and I was determined to get the the bottom of this. However, come Friday afternoon, he cancelled again, this time with the best reason yet: his brother, a policeman, had been having an affair with a colleague's wife. The colleague then found out, a fight broke out, the colleague winds up in hospital and the brother ends up in custody. Oh, and her baby might well have been his brother's. So Seb goes home to look after his devastated family, and once again I'm left high and dry and wondering what sort of a dramatic life this guy has. 

Anyway back to the story. I am now hearing daily warning bells like tinnitus, but to honour my blog, and because I'm ashamed to admit I was still gradually being more and more charmed by this man, I was determined to meet him to find out once and for all what was going on. 

Then, out of the blue on Tuesday, came some rather sinister messages one night from a strange number. The conversation went as follows:

07507 *** ***: New number peeps (20.32)

Me: Who is this? x (20.42)

07507 *** ***: You were great xx (21.01)

Me: Who is this??? x (21.12)

07507 *** ***: You know (21.24)

CTS: No I don't...this is your new number (21.43)

07507 *** ***:  I hear you are seeing somebody (21.51)

Me: Who is this? (21.52)

07507 *** ***:You fukin no who. Lets start where we left off xx (22.47)

Me: No I have no idea who you are. You either tell me who this is or stop messaging (23.04)

07507 *** ***:Don't mess with me Claire. Played hard to get b4 (23.08)

Me: Who is this? (23.08)

07507 *** ***:You know who so let us stop fucking around with the other geezer (23.10)

Me: No I do not know who this is. I don't have your number and I have no idea what you are talking about. Leave me alone. (23.10)

07507 *** ***:I will find out who he is. If I can't have youre nor can he (23.12)

Me: Who the fuck are you? (23.13)

07507 *** ***:Small the world but it pays to be street wise (23.14)

Me: Tell me who the fuck you are and how you have my number or I'm going to the police (23.17)

At no point had I ever told anyone I was 'seeing' someone, and my first instinct was that Seb had bought another phone to try and frighten me. This was all very wrong. During these messages, Seb called me and caught me in some distress that these messages, and the first thing I did was to check that it wasn't him. I just knew he had something to do with it. I just knew. He was mortified at the accusation, denied it fervently, and then offered to help by sending the number to his brother-in-law, another policeman on duty. 

He also queried whether this could be one of my skeletons come back to get me, something I knew was an impossible option. But then he offered to send a cab to collect me and I could stay in his spare room if I was frightened. Ding-a-ling-a-fucking-ling. Not on your life sunshine. 

I tried calling the strange number back and it rang and rang but no answer and no voicemail. The next day I tried the same and the phone was off. This bore all the markings of a PAYG phone, and one I suspected had been bought for purpose. And the more I thought about it, I suspected he had used something I told him in trust to scare me, and then he could sweep in and look after me.

The next few days were pretty horrific, he was still calling and messaging, one minute offering to look after me and the other expressing such horror that I was still questioning who he was. I knew I had to find out the answer to draw a line under everything. Everything I knew about him was just so intangible, nothing I could use to verify his identity. 

I was driving myself mad. 

Here was this handsome man who had been increasingly adoring of me, and yet the alarms were still clanging all over the shop. So today I finally asked where he worked. If he had nothing to hide, he would have told me. But because of these messages that had apparently spooked him too, he refused. 

"I'm not telling you that, its personal".

More personal than sharing pictures of you with your loved ones?

More personal than that time you did her "up the bum" and you both ended up in A&E?

More personal than telling me your ex's dying wish was to have a child with you?

This cemented my thoughts that he was to blame for the strange messages and that he wasn't who he said he was. 

I confronted him, and I said he either had to give me some proof of who he was or to leave me alone. I mentioned all of the failed date attempts, all at his behest, and said he had no intention of ever meeting me. The photo I then received told me everything I needed to know.

Why on earth would you buy someone some expensive perfume when you have never met them? Why? 

But even more bizarrely, look at the reflection in the bottle. 

Just look. 

That, my friends, is not the tall, dark, handsome Welsh stranger that had been messaging and calling me constantly for a month. Oh no. That is a total stranger. I have been joking all along about the film Catfish, and it turns out I have just been living it myself. 

I confronted Seb straight away only to be told I was being paranoid, and then I got a number of messages telling me what a fuck up I was, how I was wrong in the head and how he wished he'd never messaged me. His change of tone confirmed everything I needed to know. I now have more than enough reason to believe I had been being groomed all along. I won't lie, when I thought I was potentially fucking up something with someone I loved the sound of, I felt terrible. But now, I feel relieved. I am trying not to dwell over the hours of chats we have had over the last few weeks because I do feel incredibly violated, despite my constant vigilence of holding things back. 

I hate that I have given so much of myself to someone who, if we're being honest, I did have some reservations about from the very start before he started to win me over. Even as I type now, he has just messaged me, 6 hours on, telling me how he was falling in love with me, trying to get me back into open conversation. 

I will be having him blocked.

So now I have reason to believe that nothing he has told me over the weeks has been true. And I would like to make explicitly clear that every photo on this blog of an attractive thirty-something man with glasses I genuinely believe were used and abused without the subject's permission. 

Not only do I feel that my trust has been violated, but I feel desperately sad that there is someone out there whose photos are being used to lure and groom unsuspecting women. I should know, I've had over 80 of them. So if you recognise the man in the photos, please let him know that I in no way hold him responsible for this callous and calculating behaviour, but if you recognise the person reflected in the perfume bottle, please be very, very careful. 

As for me, well I guess I need to get back in the dating game and not let this affect me too much. I always heard horror stories that shit like this happened online, but I never expected it to happen to me. And now it has, and I am oddly grateful to have been able to resolve it and move on. So #5 here I come...and this time, I'm ready for pretty much anything. Don't underestimate Miss Mini-Marple...