Mr #11 - Captain Coriander

The preamble:

I've been messaging Mr #11 for a wee while now, and although on the face of it he wasn't the usual kind of guy I'd normally go for, I knew pretty early on that he'd be an evening well spent regardless of whether there was any chemistry or not. He'd been very playful, and we'd already had some very funny banter about coriander, his favourite thing in the entire world, and a substance I have dubbed 'the evil weed'. But putting herbal differences aside, we agreed on a cilantro-free venue and the date was set.

The man:

Age:37

Profession: Artisan crafstman slash electrician

Random factoid: Once heckled Nick Cave in a Q&A session

The date:

I'd been warned early on that Mr #11's football team's performance had left him a state of emotional distress (oh dear Arsenal, oh very dear, thwarting my dates so, Wenger you big old bastard you), so I was under pressure to make the evening an improvement. 

He was running late thanks to neglecting to check TFL so I sorted myself out with a drink and waited for him to pitch up. Eventually, Captain Coriander blustered in with a faceful of apologies for his tardiness, this awesome shock of black curly hair, a delightfully shambolic manner  and I knew we'd be in for a fun evening. 

I did initially have reservations about age, since he was my oldest date to date (not that it's an age gap of Anna Nicole Smith proportions but you know what I mean) but after he'd acknowledged the fact I was a bit younger that was that and it wasn't mooted again.

Conversation was really varied, from his love of ancient history and Thailand to Polish builders, dads, Wiis and tragically losing his little sister. He also revealed his obsession with origami, not to mention the incredibly vexing petal technique (which I heard about in great great GREAT detail), and when I was at the bar he knocked me up a little flapping bird out of the Racing Post. 

Since it was a bank holiday Sunday and no-one had work to do in the morning, we decided to move on to an awesome rockabilly bar with bras on the ceiling and continued the banter. This was an evening of a few #52firstdates firsts...he was very complimentary and for once, because I need these things spelling out for me, I was aware that he actually fancied me. 

I think maybe there must've been something in the air in that bar though, as every time he popped off to the loo, some random boy would pop up and try and chat me up. Very strange. It got to about half twelve and I had to call time on the night on account of extreme tiredness and an ever-increasing vodka-to-blood ratio. We ambled off to get the night bus, which in true TFL style didn't turn up for 45 bloody minutes. Still, to while away the time we shared a lovely little kiss and a cuddle at the bus stop like some silly teenagers, and went our separate ways.

Memorable Quotes:

Would you like a drink?'
'Can I have a pint please?'

'Sure, what would you like?'

'Heroin'

'I'm afraid they're all out'
'Oh. In that case I'll have a Fosters'

Events of note:

I have never seen beer come out of someone's nose before like a sprinkler system. Until tonight. Dear lord!

The verdict:

I have to say Captain Coriander was excellent company, and one of the most down-to-earth guys I've met so far. I think he may be keen to meet again, and if he is I think I would like to see him again, just to see if there may be anything there other than booze-induced snoggings.

Mr #10 - Toothpaste Tash

The preamble:

Mr #10 was turned around in relatively swift time in my standard internet date terms. There were a couple of generic emails, and then I had an email at 3am saying 'I'm not going to be chatting on this all day so how about we just go for a drink'. Anyway, the next day, he followed it up with a 'sorry about that, I left my laptop on overnight and my "housemate" decided to send that message'. Oh that old chestnut! Whenever I leave my laptop on overnight, the parrots end up looking at porn on it. Honest guv'nor!

The man:

Age: 29

Profession: Runs his own landscaping business slash budding entrepreneur

Random factoid: Once met Michael Eavis

The date:

I won't lie, for whatever reason I wasn't exactly 100% up for tonight's date, and I suppose it was a bit doomed before it started because I had grand plans of having a romantic night in on my sofa with my favourite men, Ben, Jerry, Ernest and Julio. However, determined to honour my word, I popped off to meet Mr #10. I have to say, first impressions were far from favourable: very short, unnervingly sweaty, half-dressed,  super-scruffy, bushy-bearded, and  looked about 10 years older than his claimed age. He was also my first ginger of the project, so for the record I don't want people thinking I'm not an equal opportunities dater. He also appeared to have not looked in the mirror  nor any other reflective surface since brushing his teeth, as he was sporting a rather fetching Colgate-tash. When I clocked him, he nervously offered a hand to shake, but trying to be in keeping with the dating theme I went for a peck on the cheek. A very rough and sweaty cheek. Uh oh. I knew this wouldn't be a long haul effort, but nonetheless, effort I'd put in. It rapidly transpired that Mr #10 had been drinking vodka until 5am, hence the booze-sweats and shabby appearance. Classy. I wished he'd have cancelled at that point. For the most part of the date I felt like I was having to interview him: where do you work, what do you do, where do you live, what are your views on sharks, how gutted were you when Steve Irwin died, if you were to go on the Dragon's Den what product would you pitch...all the usual routes of conversation. He originally hails from Manchester, and as much as I appreciate Northerners have a very dry sense of humour which I'm rather fond of, he genuinely didn't appear to have one at all. I couldn't even raise a titter with my bullshit banter. Tough crowd. And I couldn't help but stare at the way he was constantly fingering his tonic bottle, and I wished that Sigmund Freud was sat on my shoulder taking notes.  I was also willing him to get his finger stuck in the bottle so a trip to A&E would have a. perked up the evening and b. brought it to a rapid conclusion. As he was warming up and making better headway with his gin and tonic, I was rapidly cooling, and  before long made some feeble excuse up about having to go home and make notes on Big Brother for work. Cos I work in telly y'see, that's what we do. Or not. Anyway, at 90 minutes, this stands at my shortest date thus far. And at around 5'4", so was my date. I'm pining for a giant right now...

Memorable Quotes:
'Next year I am going to buy a convertible. A Mercedes SLK and fly first class to the States.' Wanker.

Events of note:

Giving him wrong directions to the tube station. On purpose.

The verdict:

Tonight is a lesson well learned that putting a bit more effort into sussing the buggers out beforehand makes for a better choice of contender. He has just messaged to ask me out again, and I will politely put him out of his misery. I'm tempted to offer him some constructive criticism, but I kinda want a few more unsuspecting ladies out there to have similar anecdotes to tell their mates in the morning.

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.