Ho ho bloody ho!

Image by ashley rose, via Flickr

I received three new e-mails today. People are obviously starting to panic about spending the festive season alone, and are frantically clicking through Plenty of Fish photos in the desperate hope of finding Ms December. After all, anyone’s preferable to being alone at Christmas, right?

Wrong!

There was 19-year-old Robin (na-na-na-nineteen!) who says, ‘I’m ugly, and it feels great to be able to say it aloud! I like strange music and strange films, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s subtle innuendo and attacking snowmen in the dark… Oh, and I haven’t had a girlfriend since I was five…’

I politely declined. Apart from the fact he’s a freak, I’d quite like to date someone significantly older than my eldest son, someone who might remember Donny Osmond. The first time around.

Then there was Rodney aged 63 (sixty-friggin’-three!) who wants to be in my stockings this Christmas. Firstly, there’s no room for two of us and secondly, the sight of my muffin-topped thighs would most likely give the poor old bloke a heart attack. Probably best if he asks Santa for a cigar and a nice woolly jumper, instead.

(And yes, I know I wanted older, but not that old. I specifically asked for someone with memories of Donny Osmond, not the Crimean bloody War.)

The final e-mail came from a bloke called Bev. I’m sorry, but Bev is such a girl’s name. Anyway the message read, ‘You’re hot!’

Now, how are you supposed to reply to that? ‘Gee, thanks *simper, simper*‘? Or, ‘We could make beautiful babies – if only you weren’t so fugly’? Or simply, ‘Piss off, knobhead!’

But being the polite, mature woman I am, I settled for, ‘Thank-you for your message.’ And believe me, no reply is as cutting as this one; it says, ‘I have been brought up with manners, so I am forced to reply because it is polite, but quite honestly, love, I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s wobbly bits.’

I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of that particular retort, and it stings.

But did Bev get the message? Oh no, of course not. Bev is obviously blessed with a rhino-arse, a hide so thick and protective, that nothing unpleasant can ever penetrate.

‘Is that all you have to say? Lol! If you asked me over, I could spend the night shagging your brains out.’

This is the point where I snapped. Big time. I was breathing fire and screaming obscenities at the computer screen as my fingers flew across the keyboard and hit the ‘send’ button:

Grow up! I’m not a teenager performing fellatio behind the bike-shed. I’m a mature woman looking for a meaningful relationship with a grown-up. You are obviously not that person! How dare you approach me in that offensive manner? If you are merely seeking sordid sex, try a brothel. Or your dog. Do not contact me again!’

Grrr! Bah humbug! Ho ho bleedin’ ho!

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

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?’
‘Well,’ 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…

Men are so contrary…

It seems the more I ask for the todger pictures to stop, the more I bloody well receive!

A couple of days ago it was this fearsome purple-headed monster…

A purple-headed monster

And then today, I got an e-mail saying, ‘As requested in your blog, a photo of my tackle while I eat a Mars Bar. Seems a peculiar request, but..’ and up popped this not-so-little beauty…

What a beautifully proportioned Mars bar...

Thanks, Dan and Alya. You both had me ROFL-ing  🙂   🙂  🙂

Over to you, Mr Bananas. Can you resist the challenge? 😉

Do add a photo. Don’t go commando…

Image by TheBusyBrain via Flickr

Seeing as I’m having such a fab time internet dating, I thought you might fancy dipping your toes in the online dating pool. I’ve listed a few tips to get you started:

Don’t.

Nah, only kidding. I’m having a great time. Really.

Do add a profile. Seems obvious, right? But so many drongos just write blah, blah or copy and paste one scintillating phrase to fill the space. Usually it’s something really witty like I am the man with the golden tongue. Yeah, you need to see that seventeen times before breakfast. Your profile should be an introduction, giving the reader an idea who you are, what you’re personality’s like and what kind of partner you’re looking for. Oh, and don’t moan about your ex; grudge-carriers are so unattractive, dahling.

Do add a recent photo. Yes, I know there’s one of you vaguely resembling Bruce Willis during his Die Hard phase, but it’s twenty-years-old. Make it real. You’ll only get caught out in the end. And please make sure you’re wearing clothes. Save the nudity for actual dates. When the lights are off.

Do develop a  rhinoceros-hide layer of skin. But don’t, for the love of God, post the photo! Some of your messages will be ignored. It goes with the territory. Take a breath and move on. Their loss, not yours. Unless you’re a penis-cleaving, bunny-boiling psychopath, of course…

Do stay safe. Keep all personal details private until you are sure you can trust someone. This includes surname, home phone number and address. Don’t become Facebook friends. Stick with the messaging services provided by your site and then move onto mobile numbers. Remember: Mr Sweet Talker may suddenly morph into Mr Backstreet Stalker. Not good.

Do talk on the phone before meeting. If you find yourself losing the will to live during a phone  conversation, you’re never going to click in real life. Take it from one who knows…

Finally, do take this whole online dating fiasco experience with a cellar’s worth of salt. Some people do find true lurve online, but for most of us, it’s like trying to find an undigested piece of carrot in a steaming great pile of Great Dane dog  doop.

While you were sleeping…

Image via Wikipedia

I opened my inbox this morning to find six messages from the  same guy. Six messages. One bloke. All while I was sleeping.

And from his username I really should’ve known what was coming…

Desperado: You look nice. Hope you will look at my photos, they were taken Xmas in Scotland. I do have some hair now. Hope you will get back to me and be honest with me? I don’t have a car. Will tell you about that if we ever meet up. But don’t think you’ll give me that chance. I don’t think you like me. Why, I am not sure…

 Well, do you like my profile? Do you want to meet? I will meet if you wish.

You don’t smoke. Is that why you don’t like me? Well, be like that. I would give up for the right person. It’s not hard but it’s up to you  to take my word for it.

You don’t believe me do you? My word’s my bond. I don’t say it if I don’t mean it, but you won’t give me the chance, will you?

No answer. So I take it that’s a NO then. A BIG NO. Fine

I knew it. I knew you didn’t like me. Why don’t you women give me a chance?  Your all the same. What’s wrong with me? Why do I bother when you won’t answer me anyway. Well, fine!

Typical. Sandra Bullock got the wickedly cute Bill Pullman while she was sleeping. Me? I got Desperate Dan.