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Tag Archives: dating

How to improve your sex life…

Construction Worker

Image by Fouquier via Flickr


  • Find yourself a partner!  😉



Things girls really don’t want to hear during sex…

Dimples of Venus on a woman in a bathing suit ...

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  1. Is that cellulite?
  2. Mr Winkey wants to play with Mrs Fou-Fou…
  3. Oh God! I’m stuck!
  4. Geddoffmee… I…Can’t…breathe…
  5. Do you take Visa?
  6. By the way, I haven’t really had a vasectomy…
  7. Hurry up!
  8. Hurry up! This room rents by the hour!
  9. Can I call you Mummy?
  10. Oh God, my back’s gone…
  11. This has never happened to me before…
  12. So how long, d’you think, before you’re there?
  13. Your mum is such a MILF!
  14. Jeez! Who opened the tuna?
  15. Ow! You’re not supposed to use your teeth!
  16. Wow! Look at your arse wobble!
  17. And to think, it was your mate I really fancied…
  18. I’m just trying to finish this game on Call of Duty…
  19. That was okay, but your sister was better.
  20. Uh-oh…The condom’s split…
  21. Those Wonderbras are amazing. I really thought you had tits…
  22. Did I take my Penicillin?
  23. Gosh, it’s so roomy in there…

How not to behave on a date…

Thorim costume

Image via Wikipedia

It’s that season. Everyone’s looking for a jolly good rogering love, so I thought I’d devote a couple of posts to great date etiquette. We’ve just had Things You Really Shouldn’t Say On A Date, and today, for your titillation, here is How Not To Behave On A Date…


  • forget to shower
  • forget to wear clothes
  • turn up in fancy dress
  • arrive late
  • arrive on a camel
  • arrive with someone else
  • forget to arrive at all
  • get yourself arrested
  • do a strip at the dinner table
  • ask to meet his parents
  • use baby talk
  • cut up his food
  • wind him
  • ask if he needs a wee wee
  • talk to your food
  • pretend your food talks back

Only follow these simple guidelines if you’re serious about dating. If you’re only going out because there’s naff all on TV, then have some real fun and DO all of the above. Not sure where you’d find the camel though….        😉


10 things guys should never say on a first date…

healthy penis

Image by sninky-chan via Flickr

  • My penis is called Mr Winkey ~ Do I need to elaborate? No, I thought not.
  • Do you like it doggy style?  Maybe, but you’ve just lost the chance of ever finding out. Introducing anything sexual on a first date is like signing your own death warrant. A girl wants to be wooed, not rude.
  • I live with my mum ~ and I’ve never had to take responsibility for any of my actions, or do my own washing. You won’t ever make a steak and kidney pie to match my mum’s, but I’ll expect you to spend your life trying. And laundering my Y-fronts.
  • Hi, my name’s Stuart and I’ve written a book ~ if a bloke ever says this to you on a date, take my advice and run! Don’t look back, just run. Run like your arse is on fire.
  • Can I kiss you? What a wussy-wufty thing to say! But it tells me everything I need to know: this guy is an insecure schoolboy incapable of taking the lead. He needs to man up and grow a pair.  Instead of asking permission, he should just bloody well do it!
  • You look much younger in your photo ~ crikey, and that’s before he’s seen you naked. Imagine how cherished he’ll make you feel when he’s got your flabby thighs wrapped around his neck.
  • God! Did you not ask anyone how big your bum looked when you put those jeans on? See above.
  • I’m on antidepressants, and/or I cry a lot ~ just put the poor bastard out of his misery right there and then, and stab him with a steak knife. Seriously, if he coughs up this much intimate info on a first date, he’s way too happy in his own wretchedness, and clearly not yet ready to let go. If you haven’t got the stomach for murder, walk away. Now. Before you’re begging him for Prozac.
  • Are those for real? Nobody’s ever made this comment to me as it’s pretty damned obvious I’ve never had a boob job; who in their right mind would pay  for a couple of fried eggs (penny-sweet-sized) boobies? But rather more endowed friends have assured me this is a common question. Ye Gods!
  • I’m still a virgin only acceptable if your date is aged sixteen. If he’s reached forty and claims never to have done the dirty, then don’t be fooled; he’s either lying or he has no pecker. And God help us all if he really is a middle-aged innocent. I mean, who wants to re-live that particular cherry-popping moment – ‘No, love, technically you’re still a virgin. It doesn’t count if you come in your pants.’

10 things women should never say on a first date…

The film's famous sequence where Jack sticks h...

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  • All men are bastards ~ yeah yeah, I know this is your personal religion, the mantra that keeps you going through all those no-hopers, but let me break it to you gently – the person opposite, your date for the evening, is in fact a bloke. He’ll take it personally, honest. And he might not even be a git; there has to be one good ‘un for every ninety-nine wankers you date. Doesn’t there?
  • I want a baby ~ utter this shocking sentiment and it’ll be like learning to read all over again: See Tom Run Home to Mummy. However much your biological clock is chiming, however much you admire this guy’s jeans genes, however horny you are, DON’T ever mention the ‘baby’ word on a first date. Even if you are only talking carrots on the menu.
  • Sorry, what was your name again? I know there’s been a few – Tom and Andy and Mitch and a couple of Davids, three Dicks and a William, but do try to focus, love. How would you feel if he called you Amanda? (If your name wasn’t actually Amanda, I mean. ‘Cos if you were called Amanda, I’m sure you’d be thrilled that he got your name right and didn’t confuse you with Deirdre or Ethel.) If you’re really useless with names or you suffer from amnesia, then surreptitiously jot down his moniker on a Post-It and stick it to your wine glass. Problem sorted.
  • Shall I tell you about the book I’ve written? No, no, no, no, no! Unless you’re Stephen King, just NO! Nobody wants to hear a word-for-word account of the novel you’ve written, especially if your bland e-mails show you can’t actually string two interesting sentences together, and you have all the personality and charm of a dead flea! (It’s okay. Any second now I’ll stop hyperventilating. Breathe in! one, two, three. Out! one, two, three…)
  • What’s your star sign? Now I know you’re thinking compatibility and how long before you’re forced to shell out for a birthday pressie, but he’s thinking ‘weirdo’. Men hate anything that smells remotely New Age (except for his festering socks, of course…) It may seem like a perfectly innocent, innocuous question to you, but to him, it’s witchcraft. Unless he’s wearing a hand-knitted rainbow-coloured jumper that smells of patchouli oil, then he’s an honourary girlie, so ask away!      😉    
Hippie dude

Hey, dude! I'm a Virgo...

  • I love you! See Tom Run. Again. Yes, you may like or lust after your date, but never mention the other ‘L’ word, even in jest. Or as reference to the food or the ambience of the restaurant. In fact, to be on the safe side, avoid all words beginning with ‘L’. Unless your date’s name’s Leo. Or Lionel. Or Luigi.
  • Just a glass of water and a breadstick for me. I’m on a diet ~ despite everything the media tells you, your date wants a woman not a bloody stick-insect. Ever heard that well-known, deeply philosophical phrase – ‘More cushion for the pushin”? Honestly, be normal. If you show a healthy appetite for grub, you’re showing  you’ve got an insatiable appetite for er…other things…
  • So, how big’s your doodah?  Have I taught you nothing? Don’t go there! Before you know it, you’ll have seventy-five pictures of his pecker in your inbox. He’ll have drawn a smiley face on one, added a beret to another and gone Brazilian for the third. If you’re desperate to know, ‘accidentally’ drop a beermat and take a discreet peek at his goods under the table. I said, discreet! That means no poking!
  • I see dead people ~ you may well be attuned to the inner vibes of the late Princess Diana and Michael Jackson, but for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, don’t let on! Seriously, you’ll freak him out! He’s a bloke. His idea  of spirituality probably means getting laid in a churchyard during full moon. Have a quiet word with his dead granny instead. Tell her she’s looking great for her age, and with any luck she’ll haunt him into asking you out for a second date.    😉
  • Technically I’m still a man… On second thoughts, say it anyway just to see the look on his face!   🙂

Why is there never a snow plough around when you need one?

Portrait of an articulated skeleton on a bentw...

Image by Powerhouse Museum Collection via Flickr

Just shoot me, now. Really. Save me from a slow and painful, grisly end – Death by Dating.

Now I live on the south coast. Stuart lives on the north. Only about 25 miles away. Half an hour’s travelling anywhere else in the country, but in Cornwall, it takes at least an hour. You see, we have no decent roads down here, just wide footpaths. And they’re usually clogged up with tractors. Or cows. Or coaches full of squealing, clotted-cream-snatching tourists.

But I digress. 

When Stuart invited me for a meal in his local, I knew the travelling was going to be a hassle, but what the heck! Who could resist visiting a pub on the beach. In December. In sub-zero temperatures. With icy  sleet er… sleeting against the windows.

And he might’ve been my knight in stonewashed denim. Unlikely, I know, but still within the realm of possibility.

Yeah, right.

Stuart is actually a schoolboy trapped inside the body of a man. And boy! was I cross that he didn’t mention that in his profile. We made it through the door okay, and then he just stopped, and stood there, head down, shoulders hunched, pigeon-toed and mumbled, ‘Umm…What should we do, then?’
I replied, ‘It’s a pub. How about we buy a drink?’

I kid you not – I had to lead him to the bar. I had to catch the barmaid’s attention. I had to order the drinks, and then pay for the bloody things. I had to ask where we ordered food. I had to lead him to a flaming table so we could sit down to eat! And this was his local, remember, not mine. I was a pub-on-the-beach virgin.

Stuart just stood there, like he’d died , eyes downcast, shuffling his feet a bit and blushing. What a man!

Once he’d downed a pint, he started to chat. Oh lucky, lucky me! Why do I always attract men who believe conversation is a monologue? On and on he droned. We’d been there less than an hour and I was already suicidal. I ran to the loo and hid, secretly formulating a getaway plan – a family emergency? Could the dog have swallowed another sock? Could I fake food poisoning? Difficult as the meal hadn’t even been delivered, let alone digested.

‘Umm…are you okay?’
Startled, I looked up. A woman was smiling, hesitantly. I suppose I must’ve looked strange, crouched in the corner of the ladies, deep in contemplation.
‘God, yes! Thanks…I’m fine. Really… I just need an escape plan. I’m on the Date from Hell.’
‘Don’t try the bathroom window; it’s smaller than it looks. I got stuck there last year. Really embarrassing….’

Our food arrived as I returned to the table. Excellent, I thought. Eat, make my excuses and disappear. And he could hardly keep chatting through mouthfuls of home-cooked pizza now, could he?

Oh yes, he could! The toilet woman and I exchanged looks. I mimed cutting my throat with a knife. She spluttered beer across her table.

I tried, really I did, but I was bored. Stuart was boring.

I stuck it out through coffee and then, tried to leave.

God obviously hates me. Or karma paid me back for thinking unkind thoughts. The sleet had morphed into a snow blizzard. I couldn’t leave. Seriously, an inch of the white stuff in Cornwall and the whole county shuts down. I was stuck. With the most boring man in England.

I couldn’t get home ’til the following afternoon. And boy! did I suffer. Turned out Stuart had written a book. He spent the night telling me all about it – ‘She says blah…and then, he says, blah…and the room was furnished in such a blah way…and then a man says blah, and he was dressed in blah…’

All night. A total of eighteen-fucking-hours of blah.

Seriously, I don’t think I can do this any more…

Whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

Wham Careless Whisper

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The year was 1986: George Michael had big hair and was singing with Wham! Kids all over the country were nervously sitting the new GCSE exams. Margaret Thatcher was busy fucking up the country, but took a day off to open the new M25 motorway – the biggest car park in the world. And I fell in love.

I was 19 and in the second year of my teacher training degree. Although we were affiliated to Hatfield Poly, our campus was in Watford, so us girls would bus over there on a weekend, or they’d come to us and crash on our floors. Not that any of us ever slept – we were too busy with parties and live music, end-of-term balls, country pubs and finding lurve. Who am I trying to kid? We were students. All we wanted was beer and sex.

Oh, they were halcyon days…

And smack bang in the middle of this was Perry Bacon. My First Love. Aged 18, studying chemistry and The Finer Points of Theakston’s Ale. I don’t remember how we met. Oh yes, I do. I was dating his mate, David. He was a bit of a knob, too.

Perry had ADHD, but in those days we just called it annoying. He was funny and loveable and smart. Always laughing, generally causing mayhem, and usually chucking beer. Oh yes, whenever I saw him, we’d end up in an infantile, enthusiastic beer fight. What can I say? We were kids. It was foreplay.

And each night apart we’d feed our food money into cramped campus phone booths and smile our way into the early hours, whispering our fears and breathing our dreams along the phone line.

And the funny thing was, we never once spoke about being in love. Never once said the words out loud, or acknowledged it, even. We were friends. Good friends who just couldn’t stop snogging. I bought him a huge floppy teddy bear and that’s how we communicated: ‘Come for the weekend? Theodore really misses you!’ or ‘Tell Theo I need a Bear Hug!’  

Teddy bear

Bear Hugs!

And one day, two years later, it was over. I don’t remember the details, but we were on a train travelling through London. I was crying and then he was gone. Or maybe he left, and then I cried. But there were certainly tears. And he definitely got off the train. And I’m pretty sure it was London.

I bloody loved that bloke, and I often wonder: whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

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