Mr #20 - The BFG

The preamble:

I initially replied to a message from Mr #20 because, and I'll be brutally honest here, he was a giant. Regular readers of 52 First Dates will know my feelings towards gentlemen of the diminutive stature, so I thought fair's fair, let's give a giant a go! And by giant, I mean 6'6", which is a good 16 inches taller than me. Let's face it, the wedding photos would look bloody hilarious! However, after replying to the first couple of messages, I appear to have unleashed something scary. 

Every day, without fail and without reply from me, he would send me a very long message rambling on about all sorts of random stuff and usually trying to force more methods of communication upon me, email addresses, phone numbers, Facebook links. After a very hectic work schedule rendering me pretty useless at responding, and the fifth unanswered message in a row, he sent me a very pitiful email bemoaning my lack of contact and that he wished me all the best for the future. Dammit, you're needy! I eventually responded, because you can't get away with messaging people like that in online dating, no wonder you're single! Normally I would have not bothered, but I won't lie, I felt I needed a giant on my dating CV so I swallowed my instinct and replied apologising for being unavailable, but that I'd been busy. He was rather shocked by my honesty, and rapidly started back-peddling, apologising for his innate clinginess. Although this was then totally negated by enquiring as to what I was doing for a certain date in late December. Easy sunshine! 

Eventually I caved in and arranged a date, but after that sort of preamble, I wasn't really looking forward to it...

The man:

Age: 35

Profession: Social worker

Random factoid: I think the fact that he is 6'6" tall definitely has to go in this box.

The day of the date:

Today has been a weird day. Anyone familiar with previous posts will be aware that there has been a third party wafting around my romantic periphery for some time now. To explain, he was a boy I met online last December. He was a musician slash actor slash owner of indescribable hair, we went on a date, rescheduled for after Christmas, and then he vanished into the ether. But back in June, out of the blue, he appeared again through the same dating site, and we'd been messaging constantly ever since. This is a boy with major commitment issues, who's been buggering me around by being as intense as you can get, then falling off the radar. This has gone on for 4 months, and despite numerous attempts on my behalf to arrange a meeting, today I finally decided to pull the plug.  And not a day too soon, since a fortnight ago he confessed to meeting another girl, randomly booking a holiday to Vegas with her as a 'joke', insisting he didn't like her, but that he was going away with her anyway. Seriously, what planet are you on??? I'm just not cut out for that sort of game-playing. But truth be told it has made me really rather sad, mainly because it would've been so easy for us to meet up and see if we really got on as I thought we did, but his eternal embuggerations made it totally impossible. But I'm fed up of being dropped, picked up, dropped, picked up, dropped picked up, and so with great sadness, I told him no more. So that's that, 52 First Dates is no longer at risk of being thwarted. And when you read the rest of this entry, you'll see that's still the case.

The date:

So, it's a Monday, it's Hallowe'en, I'm feeling miserable, so what better way to spend such an evening than with a giant. A great big needy giant. And he wasn't lying about his height either, as many men do online, he really was the tallest man I've even met in my entire life (even taller than my friend Katy's dad - he's a giant too). 

He was also a bit of a man mountain too, clad in double denim no less. Hmm. He also had a substantial amount of facial piercings which were not evident in his profile pictures, including a blue sparkly rhinestone in his nose. 

He was jolly enough in person, although not green enough to be in a sweetcorn ad, but I thought he'd be pleasant enough company for the evening. Conversation kicked off, he spoke at great length about his 5 year old son who he clearly adores, his curiosity about my working schedule that had made me so unavailable, the fact he'd not had a girlfriend until he was 21 (although not intimately apparently, thanks for that Mr TMI dot com!), his MOT, an affair he had with an older married woman, the London riots, insurance claims and modern manners. 

What I liked about his was after our second drink, he called it a night as he was aware how hard I was working. But not before spending the last ten minutes asking me over to his for dinner this Friday, offering to drive me round London, seeing if I could take a day off next week or if he could come over to see me for an hour one evening. Christ, give a girl a break! 

After the bitter sting of rejection recently, don't get me wrong, it's all very flattering and it's lovely to know I'm not totally repulsive to the male race, but this is just too much. Seriously too much. I've only just met you, I'm not coming over to your house or getting in your car. No way. Especially when you see the event of note...!

Memorable Quotes:

'I'm fixing up a remote controlled car I bought from a kid in care...'

'I went for a beer with my mate Neville. He's 71, but he was good to me when I was homeless...'

'I used to really want to show Old English Sheep Dogs at Crufts. But all the men who show dogs at Crufts are gay. And I'm not gay. But I don't like how they poof up the dogs tails. It looks stupid.'

Events of note:

The subtle production of this from his jacket in front of the entire pub...oh wait, have I woken up in the fifties?

Yup, it's a single red rose. I've been promised a lot more in the future. Dear Jesus...

The verdict:

Considering my dread before the event, it was a surprisingly nice evening. But the long and short of it is, I didn't remotely fancy a man with a face like a sieve, bigger boobs than I have, who could probably hospitalised me if I accidentally got in between him and the sofa. 

He also called me 'babe' like it was going out of fashion. Plus anyone who uses LOL in a non-ironic sense is more than enough to grate on me, but someone who uses LOLOLOL as if it actually means something (laugh out loud out loud out loud? Seriously???) is someone automatically red-carded from my romantic playing field. 

On a more serious note, he was also the first parent I'd met out dating, and although I absolutely adore children, I'm not sure how I'd feel about getting involved with a parent at this stage. Maybe if the right man came along. But sadly, the Double Denim Big Friendly Giant isn't him...

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...