Mr #51 - The Stinky Ginger

The preamble:

Right, Mr #51, the penultimate date of 52 First Dates. Excited? Admittedly I wasn’t, but that’s because the poor timing of my house move has sapped all of my energy and enthusiasm for pretty much everything except removals, mortgages, and the frighteningly amount of money I appear to be haemorrhaging all over the place at the moment. So as has been the case over the last few dates, I had a panic, and accepted the next date that came my way. He looked smart, sounded sane, and was really rather ginger. In my experience of ginger chums, they usually have about 25% more personality and chutzpah than the average person presumably as a self-defense mechanism cultivated at school when kids are mean about things like this, so I thought I’d be in for an entertaining evening. 

The man:

Age: 30
Profession: Freelance computer programmer. Currently unemployed.

Random factoid: He’s currently taking singing lessons.

 The date:

We’d arranged to meet at Oxford Circus at 7pm, on account of the fact that Mr #51 didn’t know anywhere to go in Soho, so once again I had to think of somewhere to go. So, at 7pm on the dot, I stood myself in the entrance of Nike Town, and texted to let him know I was there. He promptly replied and said he hadn’t left yet. Great. So I decided to potter around Top Shop in the warm, waiting for my date to turn up and trying not to spend money. I may have accidently put my face in a cupcake whilst avoiding the allure of the jewellery section, but what can you do! My poor wallet was crying out for some action, and my empty tummy was also shouting out, so it was a compromise I had to make. 

Half an hour later, my phone went, and Mr #51 had arrived. I found him propped up outside Top Shop in all his titian glory, with tatty black jeans, a sort of aubergine velour tracksuit top on and a big stubbly grin. We greeted, and rather embarrassingly I went for the one kiss on the cheek, whereas he went for a full on hug and ended up snogging my neck. Great start. 

Anyway he seemed cheery enough, so I proposed a couple of pubs up Great Portland Street, and we started walking and talking. He had a brilliant Northern Irish accent which I really love, but I really had to fight the urge to join in with the Ulsterness for fear of offending. As we moseyed up the street, we chatted about London, and since he’d only been a resident for just over a year (and only in Clapham), he was forgiven for his geographical ignorance. We happened upon a reasonable looking pub, so we ducked in and grabbed a table. 

First impressions, once the awkwardness of the snog-hug had worn off were that he was quite nice, very dry, but nice. As he warmed up, he also had a pretty decent sense of humour. But he was obviously knackered, and whilst I was trying to ‘give good date’, he did spend the majority of the time rubbing his face like an over-tired toddler. We covered music, playing instruments, festivals, vegetarianism, comedy, camping, pets and cannibals. 

He took great pleasure in telling me how that day he’d been for a test at an employment agency, and he’d sat in a room cheating on his iPhone. He also decided to tell me about the drugs he’d taken, and recommended I didn’t try miaow miaow on account of it turning him into a zombie. Thanks for the tip. 

After a couple of drinks, the face-rubbing got even worse, so we decided to call it a day. And just as we stood up to leave, he dropped a bombshell. Quite literally. From his bottom. I have never smelt anything quite like it in my entire life. And it was definitely him, as it sure as hell wasn’t me and there was no-one else within a 7 metre radius. It was inhumane, I could even taste it. In fact, writing this now, I can still taste it. The look on his face said he hoped I hadn’t noticed, but the look on my face must’ve given it totally away. My immediate reaction was to start talking about public transport and how best he could get home, and we quietly but stealthily headed off to the tube, where I left him, before I ducked into Tesco Express to buy some mints to stick up my nose. Game over Mr #51.

Memorable Quotes:

‘Do you need to take cats for walks?’

‘Stephen Fry is too intelligent for me’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t do too well in the sun’

Events of note:

En route to the pub, we both stopped for some money, and there was a homeless guy sat right next to cash point where I was stood. Suddenly, an inopportune gust of wind lifted my dress right in front of this poor guy’s face, as if to say ‘Sorry dude, no cash, but here’s an ass’. Yes, I Monroed a hobo. Classy CTS, very classy.

The Verdict:
There was part of me that thought before going on #51 that the poor bugger didn’t stand a chance being so close to the end, but I did genuinely enter into the date with an open mind. And although for the most part the chat was fine and at times amusing, I felt like I was talking to someone a lot more immature than me, not just in personality stakes but in life stales too. But the final blow (literally) came with that dirty protest of his at the last minute, and after dropping a botty-bomb such as that, no thanks, no chance. 

So there you have it, 51 dates and still going. But there’s only one left. Who will it be? Well, let me tell you know, it’s going to be something a little bit different, and I’m going to need your help. Stay tuned for further instructions...

Mr #50 - the Nutter

The preamble:

So once again I owe you guys an apology - not for going on my date #50 late, oh no, I did meet him in good time, I've just not got round to writing him up on account of being homeless. So many apologies, and for this very same reason I fear Mr #51 may be a little tardy in the offing too, but since you've stuck with me this far, I hope you'll not object too much. 

Anyroad, Mr #50, would you like to meet him? Good. So Mr #50 had been messaging on and off for a couple of weeks, he looked very nice and safe, he used full sentences when texting which always a ticks a certain box with me. And amid the chaos of my packing and moving and misplacing most of my essential possessions, we arranged to meet near Angel for a drink.

The man:
Age: 37
Profession:  Importer of gourmet foods, namely nuts and dried fruit

Random factoid:  There was nothing random about this man whatsoever. Which was all in all rather disappointing...

The date:

Before we met, Mr #50 had promised to take me out on the Sunday afternoon for tea and cake. But as the date crept ever nearer, he retracted his offer in favour of a quiet Pimms, which under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind, but I'd been sat in all bloody day waiting for some bastard from Freecycle to come and collect my sofa (they never turned up by the way, I know you were wondering...) and I'd had cake on the brain for hours. 

When we confirmed our plans on the day, I was surprised that Mr #50 actually rang me a couple of times, which always catches me off guard a little as most people opt for the text approach rather than risk hearing what the other person sounds like and bottling it. You know what? He sounded lovely. Nice and normal. Great. Cake retraction forgiven. And I was looking forward to meeting him. So that evening I managed to peel myself away from my boxes to scamper over to Angel, where I met Mr #50.

He was tall, dark, handsome with rather lovely blue eyes. Excellent work I thought! Off we pottered to a pub of my choosing, equipped ourselves with a pair of Pimmses and got to know each other. Within a relatively short space of time, I'd established that Mr #50 was rather passive aggressive. He controlled the conversation with almost military precision, and whenever he tired of a subject and wanted to move on, he'd use the same phrase every time: 'oh it's all fun and games isn't it'. Over time, this got a little wearing. 

Conversation was, at his behest, mostly about relationships - infidelity (he'd been with his ex for 9 years before she left him for someone else), kids, home-buying, utilities companies, and his business. We're both in the same position as we're both in the process of buying somewhere to live, and are technically homeless, but he kept putting everything about his move into the perspective that he'd like to buy somewhere that when he gets into a relationship (which he may have mentioned about a million times) that he'll think about where they should both live, and rent his place out. This man was frighteningly keen to settle down. But then to try and counteract this incredibly keen assertion that he wants to move in with someone, he'd then profess who finding dating 'terribly fickle', and that he doesn't have the energy anymore. Not convinced sunshine. Not in the slightest. 

He was also all-too-keen to over analyse me, calling me 'my own person' (what the fuck does that even mean when it's at home? Or homeless), telling me I was very 'London' (again, what do you mean by that, likening me to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world?) and subtly patronising me for the fact that I live alone, am buying my own place and I have my own independence. 

The final nail in the coffin was when he managed to make me jaw drop by saying that if we were to get together, because both of us are homeless, we'd have to get 'at it' in the back of his Mini, like (and I quote) 'a pair of horny teenagers'. Game over. Game well over! 

Fortunately we were both sucking on dry mint leaves at this point, and seeing it was a school night, I made my excuses to leave. And despite my favourable first impressions, I did not look back.

Memorable Quotes:
'I don't want to have to resort to Thai brides until I'm at least 50'
'There's only so exciting almonds can be'. You're telling me!

Events of note:

Taking subtle notes on the decor in the pub for my new place...taxidermied birds, bowler hat lamp shades and dog print upholstery are now on the 'to buy' list.

The Verdict:
Am I going to see him again? No chance. I'd like to meet someone who appreciates my independence and also is content to have their own. Not someone who suddenly want to leap straight in to co-habitation and instantly becoming joined at the hip (in both senses of the word). I'm sure there's a lady out there in exactly the position to tick his proverbial boxes, but she ain't me. No siree.

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.