Mr #47 - the Bulgarian Sherlock

The preamble: Mr #47 and I hadn’t emailed for long. He had contacted me after reading my blog and decided to offer himself up for a date. I didn’t hesitate to say because his email was probably the best introduction I’ve ever read, he was polite, courteous, his English was brilliant, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. This is just a snippet taken from his message:

‘I am rather terrified of vacuum cleaners, auto-mobiles, women and traffic wardens. I quite like cats, cake, pipe tobacco, red meat, Glenmorangie, thrash metal, blues, jazz, rockabilly, Wagner, Fridays, tweed and fine suits, hiking, motorcycles (both vintage and racing) and the smell of old books.’

He had also attached a picture of himself, smoking one of his favourite pipes, with a most impressive mutton chop-moustache combo, and he mentioned that often he was greeted with shouts of ‘Oi Sherlock’ in the street. I had to meet this man. Mr #47 suggested that we met in an area of London that neither of us knew, and we’d go for a wander and see what we could find. So that’s exactly what we did. Well, planned to...

The man:
Age: 26
Profession: Freelance IT developer and consultant

Random factoid: He’s Bulgarian. I’d never met a real life Bulgarian before.

The date:

Mr #47 and I arranged to meet outside Westminster station. I knew to follow the smoke signals and to keep my eyes peeled for the vintage looking chap. Sure enough, propped up on the bridge, looking like someone from an Orson Welles novel was Mr #47. I will describe him for you, as he was quite possibly the smartest man I have ever seen in my life. As well as the evidential furry facial adornments, Mr #47 wore a sharp brown fedora, crisp shirt and tie combo, knitted vest with fob watch, tailored trousers and brown brogues. He was very handsome indeed. Sod Sherlock, think more Jude Law as Dr Watson. 

We greeted, he lit up his pipe, and he offered me his arm as we strolled along the Thames in search of somewhere for our date. He admitted early on he was a shy man, and had only been on one other date in the past 4 years as he wasn’t a fan of modern British women with their laddish ways. 

Pretty swiftly our plans of going somewhere neither of us knew were scuppered when he mentioned a wine bar he was fond of, and I mentioned an old pub my parents used to frequent in the sixties, so with a nod to Robert Burns and his best laid plans, we headed to my choice of venue first for a glass of wine.

Once inside, I soon realised it wasn’t quite the nice, cosy vintage haunt I remembered it to be, but Mr #47 was very gracious in saying he liked it, even though they only had house whiskey, and not the Glenmorangie he usually favoured. We briefly covered land law, postmodernism and the sound of regional accents before our drinks had mysteriously evaporated and it was time to move on. 

Mr #47 led me to a quaint old-fashioned wine bar and decided to order some port. Not being a port-connoisseur, I decided to also partake in the red stuff, and let Mr #47 choose our poison. His first suggestion was to share an entire bottle, but since I wasn’t a seasoned port-drinker and had work in the morning, I graciously declined, especially since his weapon of choice was a fine £75 bottle. Instead we opted for a large glass each, and on Mr #47’s recommendation ordered chocolate cake to accompany the beverage. Let me tell you, the port and chocolate fondant cake combination was exquisite. I never saw myself as a fortified wine fan, but I could definitely be persuaded now. 

The conversation continued: a lot more philosophy, the toxic effects of Absinthe or Creme de Menthe, thrash metal, eastern European drinking habits, unidentified drinking injuries, the merits of a finely-tailored suit, male facial grooming (thanks to cut throat razors, a tash comb and Geo F Trumper), the Cro Bar, Dylan Moran, the joys of British meats, Nazism, the laws of robotics, pipe etiquette, prejudice and the Tweed Run. 

Mr #47 brilliantly referred to every man as a ‘chap’, which in a Bulgarian accent was particularly endearing, and his love of philosophy exercised my brain muscles more than I’d done since studying at university. 

Two glasses of port down, it was time to call it a night, and Mr #47 offered to take me for a further stroll so I could get the bus. So off we went again, arm-in-arm past St Pauls. And then I got a glimpse of the sort of reaction that Mr #47 must get on a daily basis. On walking past a very boozy crowd outside a pub, some delightful wanker yelled ‘bloody ‘ell, it’s Sherlock!’. Mr #47 didn’t bat an eyelid, but inside I was fuming. Mr #47 was a chap with his own standards, his own delightful eccentricities, his own style and his own philosophies. It infuriates me that there are so many vile, narrow-minded drunken idiots out there that feel the need to behave in such an awful and hurtful manner. Of course, Mr #47’s appearance is entirely of his own decision. But live and let live. Anyway, pretty swiftly we reached the bus stop, Mr #47 politely enquired about the possibility of a second date, gave me a kiss on the hand, and saw me onto the bus. And that was that, truly a night to remember.

Memorable Quotes:

‘You’ve obviously never tried a Mediterranean cucumber’

‘I like the Nazis, they looked so cool’ I might point out that his liking of the Nazis did stop short of the murder of 3 million innocent individuals, just to be clear.

‘I once woke up wearing the barman’s shirt with a broken ear after a drunken night’

‘You’re the most intelligent person I’ve met since I’ve been in the UK, because when I talk about philosophy, you actually think about it, and not just argue.’

‘In the summer I tend to wear a striped blazer, straw boater and linen fishtail trousers with braces.’

‘I missed lunch the other day so I popped into McDonalds and had what they call a Big Tasty. What I didn’t anticipate was having to spend the next 20 minutes picking the cheese sauce out of my moustache.’

Events of note:

Before entering the first establishment, Mr #47 paused to empty the ash from his pipe. At this point, a man entering the building opposite stopped, and stared, giving us the right old stink-eye. When I enquired if he was alright, the truculent so-and-so went off on one about how that particular part of the pavement was his land, and that what Mr #47 was doing was against the law. What then ensued was a very awkward back and forth, with Mr #47 being as polite as he possibly could, whilst the resident was as belligerent as he could. Finally, Mr #47 conceded gracious defeat and we headed inside. But I know where that man lives now. And I’m willing with all my telekinetic powers that all the dogs in that area of London decide to shit on his doorstep.

The Verdict:

So, Mr #47 would like to take me out again. And you know what? I’d love to spend another evening with him. Yes, he’s a little old-fashioned, yes, he’s a tad eccentric, yes he takes pride in all things tonsorial. But he was quite possibly one of the nicest, brightest, most polite gentleman I have ever met. He was both gracious and intelligent, but still loves to get hammered, head bang and watch British comedy. But his gentlemanly values, polite manner and humble demeanour genuinely made me feel like a proper lady, which is something I found rather enlightening. Men of Britain, take note...

Mr #46 - Napoleon Cokeparte

The preamble:
Mr #46 had exchanged a few emails over the course of a couple of weeks, and I was not only impressed by his sense of humour, but also his enthusiasm for fancy dress (namely a Transformers costume). He also wrote and texted in full Queen’s English, with not a sniff of a LOL in sight, and even though he spoke a bit too much about the weather over text than I’d usually tolerate, I thought it only appropriate to meet the chap for a drink. Did I also mention he was handsome? Well, he was. That helped, what can I say, a girl's not made of stone!

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

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

 The date:
In a rare occurrence in my experience of going on dates, Mr #46 had a firm idea of where he wanted to go on our date, a certain underground bar in Covent Garden. So my new fringe and I pottered along to see what Mr #46 had in store, and as expected, he was propped up at the bar with a beer in hand. 

My first thought was how he was much more handsome in real life than in his pictures, which was a welcome surprise. But as with all things, there was a catch. His height. Yup, same size as me, a sniff off five four. That was definitely not mentioned on his profile. But instantly his compensatory confidence spoke volumes, and I knew straight away I was on a date with textbook Short Man Complex. 

He leant over the bar to summon service from the staff in a over-exaggerated, slightly embarrassing wavy-and-shout fashion, and it turned out he always went to that particular bar because he provided them with their software. They all knew him. ALL OF THEM. They must also have all known we were there on a date. I suspected he probably did this a lot, as it was a very slick routine, "the usual, barkeep", the banter with the staff. 

Once he’d finally sorted me out with a drink, we went over to perch on some stools in the corner where it was quieter. I mounted the high stool in one go. Mr #46, however, struggled to get his low-slung bum on his, and three laboured attempts later, he was finally fully-installed. What then happened was quite possibly one of the most bizarre dates I have ever been on, and I want to share with you as many details as I can possibly remember. 

Pretty swiftly I realised this guy’s confidence was chemically-assisted. All the telltale signs were there: the nose tweaking, the sniffing, the chewing off his own pretty face and the frequent trips to the toilet. He was drinking shorts (pun delightfully intended). No-one’s bladder is that small, not even Napoleon’s. And as a result, I hardly got a word in edgewise all night. There was no way on God’s earth I was going to be allowed to show him even a little bit of my personality, as the room was so full of his over-inflated ego, mine was being kept outside behind a velvet rope by the metaphorical bouncer. 

In terms of conversation, well, the one half anyway, he covered a broad range of subjects: how he’s started up his own IT company which was going to be massive next year, how he underpays his staff, and how he won’t take on anyone new as ‘each new member of staff is £20k less in my pocket’. Right.

I was briefly allowed to tell him about my housing situation, which he promptly hijacked by number-crunching the inflation levels on my rent, potential mortgage prices and by offering me a fraudulent work contract to help me get a mortgage. Charming. 

Staying on his favourite subject of money, he pointed out he would move closer to London, but £700k was ‘a little too much for him to pay to live where he wanted to’ (after I’d mentioned my seemingly measily dreams of getting on a shared ownership scheme for less than a tenth of that), and told me about an ExCel spreadsheet he’d made of his wishlist for what he’d spend his money on with certain targets, ranging from £500k to £100 million. FYI when he gets to £100 million, he’ll buy his own private mountain so he can ski down it. And maybe a helicopter to drop him off. Perish the thought he’d break his own neck whilst ski-ing on his own private berg! 

Financial ambitions aside, he then went back to his other favourite subject – himself. He told me that he was a break-dancer, before demonstrating some basic popping and locking moves from his stool (presumably too scared to dismount in case he couldn’t get back up again). Despite my egging him on to do the Worm in the middle of the floor, he was adamant a shoulder injury and ‘the wrong shirt’ would restrict him, so he declined. 

He bragged about his auditions for a number of game shows because he wanted to go on for the ‘free money’ (none of which he was selected for, I might add), regaled me with his Heath Ledger as The Joker and Yoda impressions, his knowledge of the entire Marvel comic franchise, showed me pictures of him drinking an entire bottle of Jaegermeister through a straw and a ‘hilarious’ anecdote of how he once woke up drunk and topless in the back of a Transit van. 

Soon it was my round, so I popped off to the bar to ask for his usual ‘special’, for which the staff refused to let me pay. It turned out, we’d been getting drinks on the house all night. When I took his drink back to him, a very expensive rare rum, diet Coke and ice in a 12oz glass (it HAD to be a 12oz glass. Just because...!) he sat and counted the cubes, and was put out that they’d ‘fucked up’ his order and given him 7 ice cubes and not 6. When I queried it and offered to remove a cube for him, he hurrumphed and said it just made the mix all wrong. 

Mr #46 then decided to go and get us some crisps, so he scampered off to the bar and shortly returned with...a glass full of foam bananas and flying saucers, which he then proceeded to gum his way through. As if Class As weren’t enough to make him talk, he now had half a pound of Haribo in his system. Good-o!

He then moved on to bragging about the time he ate seven and a half racks of ribs, an impressive feat, but not as impressive as the detail he then went into as he described trying go for a shit the day after. He even used the phrase ‘it started off as a one trouser leg off affair, but then it became a brace yourself against the stall walls kind of thing. Childbirth could never be as painful as that, at least women are designed to accommodate something that size’. Er, what the holy fuck??? 

Whilst this was all going on, a drunken birthday party were dancing around near us, and I could tell Mr #46 was itching to get on the dance floor to demonstrate his breaking prowess, and I started to feel bad for restricting him despite giving him full permission to shake his tail feather. 

We carried on chatting, but his dialogue was interrupted first by Mike and the Mechanics coming on the jukebox and him insisting on pausing the conversation so he could whistle along for the solo, and then, my favourite, pausing the conversation again to sing along to Peter Andre’s Mysterious Girl. He knew ALL the words (including the rap). Then suddenly, as if he body was suddenly sapped of sugar and narcotics, he slumped over on his stool, sat there in silence for a minute, announced ‘right, I’m over this’ and apparently that was it for the night. 

We headed off to the station, he rattled off all of his available train times like some sort of savant, and at the station he literally said a half-arsed bye, didn’t even look me in the eye, and ran off to get his train.

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

‘I’m like Rainman’

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

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

Events of note:

Everything. Just everything. I just wished he’d got on the dance floor and properly busted a groove. Although I did particularly like the look on his face when I highlighted that everyone looked like they’d come straight from work, and he looked a little crestfallen as he insisted he’d gone home to change and put on a shirt and shoes especially. Face it mate, you still look like an office worker.

The Verdict:

Once again, this is a bit of a no-brainer. No. But to be honest, I can’t imagine him wanting to see me again either considering I was hardly allowed to breathe a word, and he probably thought I was the most boring date in the world. But if I have to turn into a Lil Miss Cokey-Blownose to win his affections, I think I’ll stick to my rum and ginger beer, thanks. And the moral of the story? Drugs are bad kids, m'kay?

Mr #45 - The Real Greek

The preamble:
I hadn't been messaging Mr #45 very long before we agreed to meet, but I found him rather intriguing. He was very easy on the eye and enticingly moody-looking, with an artistic streak and an alluring profile, and I was keen to get to know this hopefully tall, dark and handsome Greek stranger. So when he suggested meeting for a drink, I jumped at the chance.

The man:
Age: 31
Profession: Illustrator

Random factoid: Has survived no less than 15 earthquakes when he lived in Greece.

The date:
The first I knew of Mr #45 was when he appeared in front of me at point blank range outside Boots inside Victoria station. He was relatively tall, reasonably handsome, and definitely moody. There was little to no small talk en route to the pub despite my attempts to crack out the fail safe questions, although he was the consummate gentleman in holding open every door for me as we went along. 

Once at the pub, we had to stand at the bar for about 15 minutes, and this bugger was not talking. At all. After about 5 minutes of decent interrogation, he wasn't giving much back, so instead I just stood there at the bar with him, behaved myself and shut up. 

Once equipped with drinks, we headed outside to find some seats. I plonked myself down at the nearest table without thinking and expected my date to do the same. But what then ensued was a rather lengthy debacle by which he inspected every single chair in the vicinity (and I'm talking about twenty here) until he found the cleanest one. Once he'd selected his chair of choice, we then had to move tables on account of a tiny bit of bird shit at the other end. Warning sign number one. See, I live with two parrots. Anyone that frightened of avian faeces probably wouldn't feel too comfy in a room with two of them that poo like clockwork (albeit normally in their own cages but occasionally on visitors to let them know who's boss). 

Once we'd sat in our final positions, we resumed the chatting. It took Mr #45 a little while to warm up, but once he got going, boy did he get going! I could hardly get a word in, and for me and my garrulous gob that's quite an achievement. He talked about his work as an illustrator, his previous jobs as doorman and railway worker, his extra work (nay background artiste work dahling) on such blockbusters as Johnny English, and his heady ambitions to become a regular extra in something like EastEnders or Hollyoaks (methinks he should go on a date with Mr #44 - they have a LOT in common!). 

He told me about his childhood friend who used to ritually slaughter local cats and hide the bodies, how he once saw a policeman have his eye gouged out with a broken bottle and bitched about how poor the rail replacement works are. He then decided to show me some of his 'etchings', and credit with credit is due, he's a very talented illustrator, although if we're being REALLY critical, his portrait of Captain Jean-Luc Picard was a tad over-generous on the cranium, and he did look rather like a Conehead. 

Over the course of the date, Mr #45 had gone from monosyllabic and moody to chatty and arrogant, and throughout the talking and drinking I became hypnotised by this grey bit of gum circling the inside of his mouth with cow-and-cud-like rhythm. Anyone who knows me knows what a mahoosive pet peeve open-mouthed mastication is of mine, and I could not take my eyes off it. At one point I willed it to leap down his throat just so I could get a word in. 

The only facts he gleaned out of me over the course of the date were where I lived (Whitechapel - you already knew that from emails), my job, and the fact I owned parrots (something I had to crowbar in there). I had to make a tactical trip to the bathroom after one drink, and by the time I returned he was yawning his gum-ridden chops off, and suggested we called it a day. Fine by me! And then, as we stood up to leave and I was finally able to see him in his full glory I saw them. Mustard-coloured shoes. Fucking mustard-coloured shoes. Three words my friends: straw, camel and back. 

We walked back to the station, and at the Tube entrance he kissed me on the cheek and said 'let's do this again sometime'. What, so you can talk about yourself all over again? No thanks. Sadly what came out of my mouth in that split second made me hate myself, as without thinking I blurted 'yeah, sure', and then pretending it hadn't happened I hot-footed it off down the escalator. Error. Bad CTS.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mate...the one who killed the cats...he has diabetes now and is like a balloon. Even the Army won't have him.'
'You have parrots? Why? Birds should never be kept as pets'. Uh oh...

Events of note:

During my only bathroom break of the evening, I ended up assisting a woman with the most spectacular mullet I've ever seen with a rather embarrassing coffee spillage on her revolting magenta shirt. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the coffee had probably done her a favour. I wish I'd taken a photo, just to mark the occasion.

The Verdict:

Oh dear. So much for the tall, dark and handsome cliche. Turns out his moody pictures were indicative of a very moody man, and a man who would probably have had just as much fun on a date sat in front of a mirror, like a giant bald budgie, pecking at his own refection and chattering to himself. And speaking of birds, anyone that anti my two favourite little feathered beasts is never going to be a genuine contender for my affections. Love me, love my parrots. That's the deal. Deal with it.