Mr #49 - The Mole

The preamble:

Okay confession time again folks. Mr #49 was yet another last minute booking on account of the fact that I’m moving home in less than two weeks, and the fact that I a. Don’t have anywhere to go to and b. Don’t seem to have thrown out a single thing in the last 6 years has meant I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with my living situation and my forthcoming dates have slipped down my priorities list a little. Something more important than 52 First Dates I hear you cry? Well exactly! To be honest, it’s all bloody inconvenient and I’m irked at best that this bloody move is bloody thwarting the twilight weeks of my dating experiment, but such is life. 

So bearing these excuses in mind, you won’t be surprised to hear that Mr #49 was yet again rather a last minute panic booking since all my time at the moment is spent filling cardboard boxes with crap rather than sifting through eligible bachelors online, and I won’t lie to you, I’m not exactly being inundated with offers at the moment, so you know the phrase, beggars can’t be choosers. 

We’d been emailing on and off a couple of weeks though, he sounded and looked sweet enough to share a cheeky vino with (from his limited profile and distant holiday photos), and since we both had other plans for the evening (his were to jet off to Lithuania, mine were to look at...packing materials!), it made sense to meet for a quick drink early and to see if it was worth it for a second date.

The man:
Age: 32
Profession: Hostel manager

Random factoid: He was the first date I’ve ever been on where I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, which made for a rather odd first introduction.

The date:

I met Mr #49 at Waterloo station, and it was rather embarrassing having to call him and say with my usual blustering eloquence ‘er...hi...er...sorry, I don’t know how to say your name, but it’s Claire from t’interwebs, who are you, where are you and what the hell do you look like?’. Fortunately he identified himself as ‘the guy in the black leather jacket and jeans’ (which is helpful amidst hundreds of tourists mostly matching that description), but a random wave across the road and I’d spotted him in the exact perspective I’d seen him in his profile photos. And as he came closer, I soon realised why there were no close ups. No, it wasn’t his rather curiously dyed black hair as compensation for his receding hairline. No, it wasn’t the fact that he looked like a shorter, stockier Chico Slimani. It was the massive blue mole (yes, blue) the size of a garden pea slap bang in the middle of his nose. And it had stubble, yes, the mole was partially unshaven. It was hypnotic! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was Mike Myers saying ‘moley moley moley’. 

Anyway he was chirpy enough, so we popped along to a nearby bar, procured some beverages and got to chatting. Immediately I became aware that this guy didn’t have any appreciation of personal space, and insisted on standing uncomfortably close at all times, so close in fact I could feel his moley moley moley breath on me, and it wasn’t pleasant. I have to say, this guy’s small talk wasn’t great, but he made up for his lack of moley moley moley banter by smiling relentlessly and laughing at everything I said, regardless of whether it was joke or not. 

Conversation was generic at best: the weather, public transport, where we both lived London and moley moley moley festivals. One very random and straw-clutching area of common ground we stumbled upon was the fact we both listen to Metallica, and he really came alive when describing to me a moley moley moley Metallicaed tribute band he’d been to see. It was so good in fact, that he said it was better than seeing the real band live, and he’d taken the time to film their set on his moley moley moley mobile phone which he delighted in showing me. Bless him (moley moley moley). 

Fortunately as the wine and moley moley moley small talk dried up, it was time for us to head off to our respective plans, so we decided to call it a day. Mr #49 kindly insisted on waiting around at the bus stop for me, squeezing an extra 15 more moley moley moley minutes of awkward small talk out of me (thanks TFL) before my bus arrived and I had to bid Mr #49 and his illustrious mole farewell.

Memorable Quotes:
Mr #49: ‘I live in the hostel where I work. It’s really good, I can have free pizza any time I want’

Me: ‘wow, you’re really living the dream aren’t you?’

Mr #49: ‘Yes!’

Events of note:

Midway through our date, I noticed what appeared to be a coach-load of American pensioners filing in through the front door and wending their way round the corner. What was particularly memorable about this crocodile of old folk was that it as never-ending! Literally, ten minutes and they were still going! Mr #49 and I even stopped our conversation to watch what must have been in excess of over 150 greying Americans with baseball caps and bum bags (or, if we’re being geographically appropriate, ‘fanny packs’) plodding in through the front door and into a mysterious back room where I was convinced they were being rounded up and held hostage.

The Verdict:

Bless him, Mr #39 was a sweet boy, but other than Metallica as common ground, there was literally nothing there, no chemistry, no chat, no nothing. He dressed like Tom Cruise in the eighties and looked like Chico from X Factor. Oh, and that mole. Call me superficial, but seriously, THAT MOLE! When recounting the events of this date to my mother, she rather brilliantly remarked ‘well if you got together with him sweetheart, you could always ask for him to have it topped off’? Thanks mum, but no.

Mr #48 - Ricey Missiles

The preamble:

There hadn't been a tremendous amoung of preamble between Mr #48 and I before we'd arranged a date. The reason was I'd had such a lovely evening with The Bulgarian Sherlock last week, we'd arrranged to meet again for a second date this Wednesday (which was delightful by the way, thank you for asking, but that's as much as you're going to get on here on account of the fact it's 52 First Dates...not 52 First, Second, maybe Third Dates depending on how CTS gets on), and I felt uncomfortable meeting someone else in the interim. 

But I was aware that I needed to cram a date in during the week, and since all of my evenings were booked up with other things, I had a bit of a panic, and took up the offer of a coffee with Mr #48 from an online dating site on Saturday afternoon. Two things struck me about Mr #48 after we'd exchanged numbers...a. he was really grumpy by text, and managed to make me feel that a quick message to confirm the date was interrupting his incredibly busy working schedule and b. he was absolutely rubbish with predictive text, and never made any attempts to remedy it eg. I can come to White japes. Er, did you mean Whitechapel? Weird.

The man:
Age: 37
Profession: Freelance lettings agent. Mmm, estate agents. My favourite...

Random factoid: He knew more about the  history of the Rotherhithe Tunnel than anyone I'd ever met. This is nothing to be proud of...

The date:

Saturday afternoon galloped around with frightening aplomb, and before I knew it I was heading off to Brick Lane to meet Mr #48. As per usual, I texted him to let him know where I'd be, what I looked like and to warn him I'd had a fringe cut since I'd updating my profile pictures. His response? 'I'll be in a black jacket'. At this point I hoped that no-one else on the busy bustling Brick Lane would be wearing a black jacket too (hmm...) or even more worryingly that he was wearing more than just a black jacket (although that would have definitely added a certain je ne sais quoi to the date. 

Fortunately, when I arrived, he was the only one matching that description, and yes, he did have his trousers on. Phew. Unusually for my dates, he was tall, very rough around the edges, not particularly attractive (well, nowhere near as nice as he'd looked in his pictures), and was a prop'ah geez'ah! 

Before we set off, he made it perfectly clear to me that he needed to eat and that he had to leave in enough time that he could go and watch the football, one man, two missions. We marched up the lane to grab a coffee, and I noticed he didn't have much appreciation for personal space, and as we kept walking I found myself veering closer and closer to the wall on the right hand side. Fortunately before I grazed the skin clean off my right arm, we found a quaint little mezze place, so we commandeered a table, I ordered a peppermint tea, and to my surprise he went for the same, as well as ordering a mammoth bowl of brown rice and meatballs. 

As we waited for his food to arrive (I wasn't eating as it was mid-afternoon, I'd already had lunch, and we all know I'm not the biggest fan of eating on first dates unless there are mitigating circumstances), he cracked on with the small talk, with him taking particular notice to my dress and necklace, both of which he was not content to just look at but was determined to paw. Easy now. 

Being the football-heathen I am, I foolishly asked what the big match was (I knew there was a big match, that's enough surely????) and was then subjected to a rather painful pop quiz of my knowledge of the Europa League. After ten excruciating minutes, Mr #48 conceded that it was okay that I didn't know that much about football, because I am a girl after all. 

As the subject changed, the teas and meatballs arrived, and the rest of the date ensued in between giant mouthfuls and munchings. The date was relatively brief on account of Mr #48's pressing engagement with the big game, and the subject matter was varied. He covered Thailand (well, he did mainly on account of his just arriving back from 5 months away there and all of the accompanying anecdotes, and my contribution that I'd never been to Thailand, but their cuisine is ace), lettings prices in London (don't get me started!), birds, the weather (pleeeeeeeease!), car and van hire (his instigation, not mine thank you very much), the fact he has no idea what a fringe is, quinoa and the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

Soon enough, the meatballs had evaporated, and his internal body clock was telling him it was beer with the lads time. He went off to pay for the food and teas, and then spent the following 10 minutes arguing loudly with the guy behind the bar about the bill, as he was adamant that he had been overcharged. It turned out he hadn't, and rather sheepishly he returned to collect his jacket and we headed off. He frog-marched me back down the lane again and offered me a lift home, which I gracefully declined on account of not wanting to get in a car with someone I didn't really trust to keep himself to himself. 

We arrived at a stunning Rolls Royce and he offered up his goodbyes. And as I walked away, I noticed in my peripheral vision the lights on a battered old Fiesta on the opposite side of the road go, and Mr #48 stealthily scampered over to climb into the vehicle. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

Memorable Quotes:
'So where exactly do you live, what road? Don't worry, I won't stalk you or sit outside your house or anything...' Sorry love, not taking any chances...

'I do like brown rice. Makes me feel all healthy and stuff.'

'Look at you and yer Brick Lane shoes!'

Events of note:

Over the course of the date, I'd successfully managed to dodge no less than ten brown rice missiles as Mr #48 chattered away through mouthfuls of food, all of which I had to quickly pick off my dress when he went to the bar.

The Verdict:

As we said goodbye at his imaginary car, Mr #48 suggested he'd give me a ring and we could go out for 'prop'ah booze!'. Sadly, I fear that's a bullet I'm still going to have to dodge. He wasn't very attractive, was too much of a wide boy and we just didn't have anything in common. I was retrospectively grateful he had something else to do afterwards so I didn't have to call the date short myself, but to be honest I was rather pleased to escape.

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...