Mr #9 - Sloppy Seconds?

The preamble:

Mr #9 was actually one of the first men I started speaking to when the whole #52firstdates malarkey kicked off, but thanks to his infeasibly busy rock ‘n’ roll working schedule of recording, drinking, gigging, sleeping, it’s taken me a good three months to actually pin the bugger down to a date. But unusually for my internet dating shenanigans, this guy I knew actually definitely positively 100% existed before meeting him, which of course is always a good sign. How did I know? Through my lovely friend Jemma and a bizarre series of text messages which went as follows:

Jemma: Hey, how are you? I met your friend M at Download festival, he’s really lovely.

Me: Oh how great, yeah he’s awesome.

Jemma: What is his surname by the way, is it XXXX?

Me: No it’s not, it’s XXXX.

Jemma: Oh, well who is this M XXX then? Oh I know, he’s some award-winning record producer.

Me: Hang on…he doesn’t look a little bit like this does he? *cuts and pastes picture from Mr #9’s profile page, knowing he was also at the same festival*

Jemma: What the fuck? Yes, that’s him! How on earth do you know him?

Me: Because we’ve met online and we’re meant to be going on a date.

Jemma: Oh, well you definitely should, he’s a bit short, but he’s very funny and an excellent kisser.

Me: Er, thanks Jemma. Would you like to test drive all my future dates for me?

Jemma: Yes

So obviously this was a date that had to happen, mainly because Jemma was so determined that I was going to marry this man and that she’ll get a mention in the best man’s speech. And who am I to let a good friend down?

The man:

Age: 32

Profession: award-winning record producer

Random factoid: once recorded with Robbie Williams.

The date:

I finally met Mr #9 in Covent Garden after a ridiculous string of attempts to meet the elusive sonofabitch. True to expectation, he was very short, was no stranger to hair straighteners and looked rather like the prototype for the All Saints junior clothing line. But he was very sweet, and chirpy, and I felt rather relaxed about the whole thing. 

What I did rather like about him from a start, is he knew loads of nice bars in the area, and had a little over-ambitious pub crawl planned. What I didn’t like so much was the slightly relentless music snobbery and name-dropping…’when I was recording with so and so’, ‘when I was looking after this band’, ‘when I went to Sweden to record with whathsisface’, ‘when I was on the guest list for blahdeeblah’ – alright I geddit! Jeez, you are too cool for school, well done you. Or so I thought… 

I have neglected to point out that all of the beverages consumed thus far on his part were all rather fruity, and some of them frighteningly pink, and rankly stereotypically, lady beverages! 

Keen to move on from the barrage of musical badge-bearing, I tried to move onto the subject of films. I love films, films are great, and it’s always brilliant finding some sort of celluloid common ground. However as it turns out, there literally was none. None. I like dark and edgy films, Requiem for a Dream, Fight Club, American Beauty…he liked, wait for it, PS I Love You, She’s All That, Marley and Me and a shockingly high number of Sandra Bullock films. Fucking MARLEY AND ME??? That was a bombshell he was not getting away with. When I questioned this shameful choice of film, he said ‘but it’s just such a lovely happy film’. When I replied that it was the worst film in the entire world and that I would rather gouge my own eyeballs out with John McCruirick’s anal beard trimmer than have to sit through the opening credits again, he IMDBed it to prove that the rating of 7/10 justified its place in his film collection. He also decided that because I hated said film, that I was totally heartless, inhumane and, quite frankly, dead inside. Let me put this out there right now, I’ll happily stay a hollow shell of a human being if it means I never have to watch that fucking abomination of a film ever again. 

Anyway the more fruity drinks that were sunk, the feistier he became, and I was reminded somewhat of Napoleon in his assertive small person posturing. Don’t get me wrong, it was an enjoyable evening for all the banter, but I felt slightly like I had assumed the more masculine role with my hatred of schmaltzy rom coms and my suppings of rum, whilst he professed his love for films starring Sandra Bullock, gulping his strawberry-scented beverages and complaining that the heels on his cowboy boots made his calves hurt. But by the end of the evening, I think his constant protestions had tuckered the little guy out a little too much as he sat yawning at the bus stop, although I was most relieved he was too tired and disinterested in my heart of stone to attempts one of his legendary snogs. He scampered off, and once on the bus he texted me to say thanks for the evening, but to berate me for giving him poor directions. Ah well.

Memorable Quotes:
‘I hate all poor people and chavs’

Events of note:

The unnervingly loud clicks his heels made on the pavement as we trotted from pub to pub.

The verdict:

All things considered I did have a very entertaining evening, some for the right reasons, but mostly for the wrong. As much as I love someone who is passionate about their work, I’m a little resentful of being choked by their job snobbery. But the final nail in the coffin has got to be his love of the worst possible films imaginable. I think now, when selecting potential suitors, I’ll have to run the Marley and Me test beforehand. I’m not sure I could cope with that sort of situation again. Do I want to see him again? Probably not. And I’m pretty sure given that I am dead inside, that he won’t be terribly fussed either. Sorry Jemma, I know you had high hopes on this one, again no pun intended, so you’d better start tracking down Mr #10 for me ASAP if you want a hope in hell of getting a mention at the wedding speeches.

Mr #8 - Stroke Jokes

The preamble:

#8 was a relatively short-lived internet dating correspondence who, although his photos didn't really appeal, his penchant for quoting Eddie Izzard and a similar taste in music did. After only a couple of emails, he politely and almost tentatively offered his number and a drink, and since I'm now considerably more relaxed and open-minded about the 52 First Dates challenge now (plus I hadn't done my date for this week and needed to squeeze one in on Sunday or face the wrath of the 52 First Dates followers), I gracefully accepted.

The man:

Age: 32

Profession: IT...aren't they all? Apart from the failed writers and speech therapists. Oh, and fictional primary school teachers...

Random factoid: He once stood next to Liv Tyler at a bar and 'exchanged looks'. I can only imagine what those looks were, but let's just say I doubt he got her number...!

The date:

The date was in a quiet, quite nice pub in London Bridge. I won't lie, I'd been wrestling a beast of a hangover all day, and was getting increasingly less enamoured by the prospect of having to scrub up and be on my best behaviour. But, I managed to get out of my pyjamas and booze-induced funk in the nick of time, and pottered off to meet Mr #8. 

When I got the tube, he rang to find our mutual location, and eventually we managed to track each other down. What I didn't seen until we were in the pub was a message he'd sent saying he was the one looking nothing like his photos with a bag full of chainsaws. Funny, but perhaps the wrong audience for someone who has recently experienced the darker side of blind dates. 

He was neither terribly tall, nor terribly attractive, and we won't even mention the couple of teeth missing that were only detectable on a broad grim, but he had a nice relaxed manner about him, and I thought it probably wouldn't be that bad an evening after all. The pub was a good choice, although my choice of drink wasn't...sadly I had to stick to shandy on account of my innate rubbishness, and I give him kudos for not giving me the right royal ribbing I deserved for such a poor poor selection. 

There was plenty to talk about, for sure...we covered favourite crisps, our shared love of grammatical fascism, preferred condiments on bacon butties, novelty tattoos, bad internet dates (yes, I did pull the Catfish one out the bag...turns out it's quite the anecdote when talking to a stranger you've met online...),and why animals with normal names are brilliant. I did, however, manage to freak him the fuck out when I said out of the blue 'I think Jason is quite a good name for a dog', and it turned out his first dog was called Jason. The look on his face was one of  the shock of someone faced with a profoundly accurate psychic, and absolute fear that I'd probably just rumbled all of his internet passwords. 

He did, however, tread a fine line in some of his choice phrases. Mr #8 decided, rather late on, to test my mettle by offering up a swear off, claiming that modern expletives aren't quite good enough, but sadly when I offered up 'poo bum willy' after he dropped the bombshell of 'I once said to someone "the guilty orgasm of a rape victim"', he retreated well behind safe conversational lines with haste. And rightly so, what the holy fuck was he thinking? Rape is not and should not be a puchline in any scenario, let alone on a first date with a virtual stranger. 

It hit 9pm, three hours and three drinks after the offing, I was about to suggest home time, But he leaped in there with suggesting food. Food on a first date. So late? Oh no. I did have to put the kibosh on that immediately, partly because I was too tired to commit to another couple of hours worth of date and partly because I was too embarrassed to tell him I'd eaten not one but two curries today already to fend off the hangover from hell. I polished off the remains of my shandy, he dawdled at length over his. Come the fuck on now Mr #8, it's home time now, no-one needs to nurture foam.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mum had a stroke earlier this year. Best thing that's ever happened to her, even though she's still a bit of a drooling retard who occasionally wets herself.'

Events of note:

The first attempted snog of then 52 First Date challenge...at the tube station there was a rather uncomfortable grasp of both my shoulders, and I knew from the eye contact and approaching face I'd have to take evasive action and go for the cheek. Bless him for trying.

The verdict:

All in all, he was a nice guy, with a lot of shared interests, and a bit of a dark edge to his humour which for the most part I rather liked, rape and stroke jokes notwithstading. And considering I was dreading giving up my slovenly sofa day to go on dating parade, he was far better than I had expected. But the bottom line is, I just didn't remotely fancy him, which is a shame because I think if there'd been some whiff of attraction there, I would've given him a second pop. But as I type now, I'm trying to work out the politest way to say thanks but no thanks to his offer of meeting again. Very flattered, but no. Oh well.

Mr #7 - Baffling Barnet

The preamble:

Mr #7 came about from the usual online dating route, as opposed to the postmodern Twitter method of #6. And thank fuck too! There was some moderate chit chat involving common ground including favourite caffeinated beverages and the tickling of funny bones, and within a few relatively formal messages, the date was sorted. I shouldn't be so grateful that some dates just happen without vile twisted drama, but given I'm still fresh from the whole Catfish debarcle, I won't lie, if someone turns up to a date and looks acceptably like their profile photo, I feel the need to perform a small victory jig in public.

The man:

Age: 31

Profession:Working for an online supermarket
Random factoid: Nothing. Literally nothing.

The date:

Mr #7 chose the venue, and once again brownie points, because it was a rather adorably trendy yet unpretentious haunt on Essex Road. 

I arrived to a rather large glass of wine, and an unignorable shock of the most indescribable blonde hair I have ever seen. He seemed a little more nervous than the usual internet date, so I cracked a godawful funny about the reason for my tardiness. It almost worked, so we sat and commenced said date. The nervousness spilled out into the first port of conversation, because I was aware that even after the initial ten minutes, we were still talking about his favourite and least favourite forms of public transport. Fortunately conversation soon moved swiftly and safely on. I say swiftly and safely, which are both clearly fictitious adjectives since conversation had oddly veered towards the so-called "ladyboys" of Bangkok. As you do. I've never been to Thailand, so I hold him entirely responsible. Within the next hour and rather rapid large pinots we'd covered retro sweets, the woes of commuting, a lot of awkward mishearing and the politics of urinals. 

I had also, in my vaguely tipsy vulnerability, had managed to let slip about my stage fright in toilet scenarios. I don't regret it, it's sadly very true.  However, the biggest shock of the night came with my date breaking the shocking news to me that men are more than aware that girls fart whilst they're asleep. At this precise moment, I swore that I would never share a bed with a man again. Never.  Ever. It may thwart this challenge somewhat, but it's a risk worth taking. 

I say thwart, but I probably mean disregard...

Memorable Quotes:
Again, none of note, not unless you count 'I can't pee if I know someone is listening', in which case it's one of mine...I don't think that count, do you?

Events of note:

A large spittle missile striking my arm to a theatrical apology? Okay, maybe a little unfair. Maybe the impromptu arrival of some polenta wedges for carbohydrate type sustenance. Who orders polenta chips? What's wrong with potatoes? Seriously, I love potatoes, I'm not going to judge you. Well, I will judge you, if you order fucking polenta instead of potatoes! And judge you, I did.

The verdict:

Don't get me wrong, Mr #7 was a perfectly lovely man. But conversation was a little too forced at times, and I felt slightly sorry for a man who, when he sensed something funny, felt the need to put his hand over his mouth. This happened all night, and as a result made me feel really rather sad for whichever insecurity he was harbouring...it certainly wasn't his teeth, I had a sneaky peak earlier on and they were perfectly lovely.  But it all just felt a little forced, and the rapidity with which he sprinted to the bus led me to believe that perhaps he was a little to pleased to part my company. It's a shame, as we had an entertaining evening, but not so entertaining that I think we may make contact again. Oh well, back to the drawing board.