Mr #24 - Nigel Blandsell

The preamble:

I'd been messaging Mr #24 on an off for a month or so. His emails were good, we shared common ground in our love of Garth Marenghi's Dark Place and Nathan Barley, he owned a cat, and he had excellent command of grammar. He was also a former racing driver, and his multitudinous photos in his blue racing onesie did catch my eye a little. He wasn't exactly a model, but he looked nice and smiley, and he was so polite in asking for a date I thought why the devil not!

The man:

Age: 36

Profession: Media wrangler slash part time racing instructor

Random factoid: Recently won a poker competition. Albeit a crap little local one where the prize was a little plastic trophy.

The date:

I felt a little sorry for Mr #24 before I met him, as I had been in full on shambolic mode all day. Since being up since 5am, I'd had a bonkers day at work, a tactical 4 hour mid-afternoon snooze, the unwise idea of cooking sausages in my dating ensemble, an embarrassing episode at the doctors whereby I got stuck in my dress then tearing it trying to present my arm to a hot doctor for the taking of blood pressure. Plus I was 15 minutes late and honking of chipolatas. But he was very sweet about it, so I thought I'd managed to get away with it. Just. 

We met at Oxford Circus, a cunning venue I thought as everyone has some idea of their favourite pub in the locale. But not Mr #24. Once again I was in charge of choosing the venue, so we pottered off to a quiet little pub that I knew served Sailor Jerry's, we found a little pew and set to with the date

He wasn't an unattractive man, but he'd certainly been cleverly selective with his choice of photos. He was paler, more petite, and his hair was somewhat greyer than I'd expected. But he had a nice friendly face, that is, when he wasn't eyeballing my cleavage or pulling odd faces like a 1920s schoolboy. 

Conversation was on the whole very safe: school life, university, public transport (literally the dullest but most universal of safe topics), Made In Chelsea, various injuries sustained over our lives (mine was a soup-related scalded leg, his was a broken cheekbone thanks to a run in with a fist in Portsmouth) and cats. 

He showed slightly uncomfortable over-interest in my tattoo, a little too much sympathy for my anecdotes, and literally agreed with everything I said all night. He was on the whole a very sweet guy, but I just found him blander than an average vanilla cheesecake on a white porcelain plate in a dining room recently painted floor to ceiling in magnolia. 

I wasn't entirely sure of his grasp of acceptable first date conversation either, especially as mid-evening he inquired as to the nature of my doctor's appointment. The temptation to tell him it was to sort out some fictional intimate infliction was almost too much, but I resisted. In hindsight, I wish I hadn't, because I reckon he'd have had to dug deep into his personality reserves for some sort of reaction had I mentioned the words 'syphilis', 'thrush' or 'haemarroids'. 

After two drinks, I was really flagging, and his persistent agreement was sapping the life out of me, so I had to turn down the offer of a third beverage and leg it to the bus. But, being the gentleman he was, he insisted on waiting for the bus with me which, as it turned out, took twenty awkward minutes to arrive. Thanks 25, thanks a bleeding lot. He didn't strike me as the face-burgling sort, so I thought I'd be able to escape snog-free, but I'd used up all my good small talk, so the best I could do was suggest how many routes he could take to get the train so he didn't have to wait for me. But wait he did. Two rather insipid air kisses and the arrival of a double-decker later, and I was away and dreaming of my beddy byes.

Memorable Quotes:

'I've watched all of the Lord of the Rings in one day before. On a number of occasions'

'I have eleven different types of tea at home.' And then, he listed them. All. He lives alone, just in case you were wondering...

'I got you a straw for your drink so we could tell which one was yours and which one was mine. And you're drinking with it. That's good'

'Did you know the right way for a ying and yang is for the white bit to be on the top. But Bruce Lee put the black on the top, and that's wrong.'

Events of note:

The couple sat in the corner of the pub virtually having sex. It was off-putting to say the least, and I hoped my date wouldn't notice and take it as an idea.

The verdict:

All in all it was a disappointing evening. I'm sure there are lot of ladies out there who'd love an agreeable chap to kowtow to their every word, but I like someone with a bit more balls to them. Come on love, have an opinion! Disagree with me about something for god's sake, challenge me! And don't spend the entire time agreeing with my chest, it's not going to be any more forgiving than my face you know...

Mr #23 - Spittle Italy

The preamble:

The dialogue between Mr #23 and I had been relatively short-lived, but he'd mentioned enough to pique my interest and I agreed to meet him within about 4 days of initial contact. All I new about his was he was Italian, he worked in digital marketing and he lived south of the river. Seemed fair enough, bring it on.

The man:

Age: 32

Profession: Digital marketing manager for the music and graphic industry

Random factoid: He said he was once chatted up by the boss-eyed lead Singer of Sigur Ros. Or so he thought. It was hard to tell, what with both eyes facing in opposite directions and all...

The date:

To be honest, I really didn't fancy a date tonight. It was a Monday, it was my first day back at an old job, and the only thing I wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and watch pap on television. But no, not tonight. When I started out on 52 First Dates I told myself I would never cancel a date unless there was bloody good reason, and being a lazy ass bastard wasn't one, so I begrudgingly met Mr #23 just outside Oxford Circus. 

My date wasn't the tallest nor the most attractive of chaps, but he was suitably jolly, and instantly I realised it would be an entertaining evening. 

We pottered off to a pub of my choosing, commandeered some cheeky vinos and took up pews. Sadly since all of the seats inside were occupied, we had to perch outside under a heater. As he was a smoker with hot Mediterranean blood, he was adamant this was not a problem. But this was a chill to properly test his Italian mettle. And for the next couple of hours he shivered uncontrollably and insisted this was just his passion for the conversation making him shudder like some sort of malfunctioning Flymo. Bullshit sunshine, you're freezing. But you're also polite, so we stuck it out a little more. 

His Italian accent was pretty thick, so I had to strap on my finest focus ears work out the key points of the conversation, but on the whole it was very entertaining and he had an impressive grasp of the common vernacular: we covered the state of kids in London today, what 5 albums you'd take to the moon (we did argue over some and work out that given we were both on the moon at the same time that it would make sense to share some...), his Sardinian heritage (sans Mafia connections), Mike Skinner, the art of making balsamic vinegar, Macs vs PCs, the merits of Pret A Manger and their artisan breads, online piracy, shoes as art and that time his grandma made him over-sized ravioli. 

Two glasses of wine down I was pretty sure I should head off home, but we were having a pleasant enough evening so I persuaded to had a third. We were both getting a bit squiffy, and after the third had been demolished, I was determined to head off to the bus. But not without an Italian escort skipping along beside me. Once waiting for the bus, he took the moment to slip me a rather grotesque Sambucca-flavoured chewing gum before then slipping me the tongue. What can I say, I was tipsy, and it wasn't horrific. At first. And then the bus came, and I tried to free my mouth enough to say my swift goodbyes. But he was rather more limpet-like than I expected and I missed the bloody bus. So then I was resigned to huddling up against John Lewis out of the bitterly cold with a man with an over-enthused tongue until the next bus came along. And ten minutes later, after having my mouth suitable routed,the bus arrived and I was blissfully able cut short his oral excavations and escape.

Memorable Quotes:

'I have grown to rather like the English Piccalilli. It is Kryptonite-like in colour'

'Last year I was jogging in Stockwell and ten youths stopped me. I knew I was going to be mugged. They asked what I was listening to on my iPod. I said NWA. They just nodded and let me go.'

Him to me: 'I think you may have hands bigger than mine. Yes, you have!' Reader, I did.

Events of note:

The admission that this fully grown man collected Playmobile. But not jut any Playmobile. Oh no. That would be silly. Only cops and robbers Playmobile. He is so empassioned by this particular genre of Playmobile that he even travelled to Malta, the country of its origin, to pick some up.

The verdict:

Considering how much I was dreading this evening for selfish reasons, I had a surprisingly enjoyable time. He was bright, he was funny, he had loads of interests. But despite all thee things, I just didn't really fancy him. And I'm not really sure why not. 

He wasn't unattractive, he had plenty to say for himself, but there just wasn't that funny little something there that would make me want to stare at my phone willing it to vibrate. And perhaps that he still collected little plastic figurines with interchangeable hairdos from my youth had something to do with it. Or the fact that yet again he had hands smaller than mine (what is it with me and my giant man hands? Who'd have thought this would be such a frequent deal-breaker?). 

Whatever it is, but I'm left massively unsure about the whole thing. He has asked to meet again, and I think under most other circumstances I would have said yes. But I think the fact that I would almost definitely be held tongue-hostage for most of the evening has made me less confident in agreeing. Oh balls.

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...