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Quasimodo WLTM a complete wuss who likes groping in public…

Alexander Ostuzhev as Quasimodo, 1925.

Image via Wikipedia

Okay, here’s my dating profile according to Tiny’s Online Translation Guide.

Feel free to mail me for a date, but for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, don’t send me pictures of your pecker!

I’m not hideous enough to make you vomit, but let’s play it safe by dating somewhere with subdued lighting. On no. Silly me! I just looked in the mirror and I actually resemble Quasimodo having a big, bad hair day.

I have a spankable butternut-squash-shaped bottom and am still waiting for my boobs to grow. In fact every time I get a pimple, I become over-excited, hoping that I’m finally about to enter puberty.

I only ever laugh at other people’s misfortune and whenever someone says the word ‘willy’. Or ‘knob’. And especially the number ’69’.

I’m loud and annoying, and I laugh like a constipated donkey. When people let me out in public, they always tell others I’m on day release from the local Care in the Community programme. I do have major control issues – you can keep your front-door key, Mister. I have a shiny silver one of my own. I do take Prozac – the anti-depressant of the stars.

I’m looking for a man who won’t admit to his true age. A complete wuss who enjoys groping in public places, and will titter alongside me whenever someone says the word ‘willy’. Or ‘knob’. And especially when we hear the number ’69’.

I expect you to pay for dinner. And dessert. And coffee. And an after-dinner liqueur. At the end of the evening, you will thank me for being such good company and then walk me to my car.

Horny is acceptable, but no mummy’s boys, please; I would frequently make you cry. Would be particulary delighted to hear from anyone with flatulence problems in the bedroom.  😉


Even more ridiculous ways to find lurve…

  • Attend a stripping party: Tell a friend her house looks shabby, and then suggest she holds a decorating party, inviting everyone (single) she knows. Zoom in on a potential mate and offer to hold his (scraping) tool. If he starts flicking gluey strips of jaded wallpaper in your hair, you know you’ve pulled.
  • Through a friend: The perfect way to find love because your mate can pre-screen for undesirable qualities and deep-rooted psychological neuroses. She can pre-screen, but it doesn’t mean she will, though… A mutual mate once set me up with a moody, miserable bastard who hated women.  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was a moody, miserable bastard who hated women? I moaned, a week later. ‘Well,’ she said, with a shrug, ‘You’re funny and lighthearted. We thought you might bring out his happy side. And it gave us a break for a couple of nights…’
  • Through a hobby: Is there an activity you enjoy doing at home? Could you turn it into a club for others to join? 
Burlesque Funk by Geishaboy500

Oops! Maybe not...

  • Venture into a Man’s World: Try DIY stores, golf ranges, garages, football matches – any place where men congregate! But, unless you’ve been chugging tequila slammers all night, probably best to avoid changing rooms or the gents’ toilets… Dress fluffy and do the whole ‘I’m a girl’ *flutter eyelashes* I need a big, strong man to check my oil/explain the offside rule/advise on the best screw fittings.’  If you’re not immediately surrounded by a flock of flashy peacocks, fall back on Plan B – cry.
  • Join a Health Club: Every day, across the country, millions of fit, attractive, gays are pumping iron…Whoops! I meant guys, of course…  😉
  • Throw a party: Invite everyone you know. Ask your friends to bring other friends, and their friends to – Just open-house to everyone! But, be prepared for vomit on the lawn, up your stairs and in the dishwasher. And don’t, for the love of Mars bars and other things holy, advertise your Singles Will Mingle event on Facebook, unless you’re prepared for: Confirmed Guest Attendance – 7, 631 …
  • Advertise for lurve:  Pop a notice in your local Spar, pub or post office. Make it stand out from all the usual Mature female WTLM male for companionship and walks by the sea. Go for something bold, eye-catching and unique. Old Banger, free to a good home. One former negligent owner. Bodywork’s a bit knackered and dented in places. Engine’s sluggish, but she just needs turning on and given a bloody good revving! 😉                                
Scrapped car

Old but still beautiful!

Short, shorter. Tiny, absolutely bloody minute!

Tiny Tim and

Image by Krista76 via Flickr

And another Hot Date on the Tiny Temper front. Lunch this time with Pete from Portreath. Now Pete and I have been chatting online for the last week, and it’s been fun – lots of flirting,  and witty retorts. The repartee was sparkling, dahling, and the thought of us meeting had me fizzing like a well-sucked sherbet lemon. 

I knew Pete possessed the three qualities I rate  in a man – intelligence, sense of humour and a pulse, but I didn’t know what he looked like as he’d posted no photo. Mind you, if I were a sixth form teacher, I wouldn’t wanna be identified as a sadsack on an online dating site, either.  God, you might as well parade around school in a pair of pink frilly knickers, with your hands cuffed behind your back, and wearing a peephole bra as ear-muffs. Far less embarrassing.

So anyway, Pete obviously had the advantage because he’d seen my photo; he could’ve  taken one look at me in the flesh (so to speak), leapt off the end of the pier and I would have been none the wiser.  Abandoned under the clocktower in Porthleven, yellow carnation clamped between my teeth, and feeling a tit, but none the wiser. No change there, then.

Pretty darned trusting of me, really, I think. And stoopid.

Now, I’m not called Tiny for nothing, you know. On a big hair day I’m just about 5 feet tall. So imagine the expression on my face when Pete tugged at my sleeve and introduced himself. I looked down and he was even shorter than me! 😮 Nobody’s shorter than me. Except nine-year-old kids. And by the time they’ve hit double figures, the little sods have morphed into ant-stamping giants, with me as the bleedin’ ant. It wasn’t funny. Really. If we’d been attacked by a gang of rampaging, drug-using, knife-wielding, thugs, I would have had to pop Pete in my handbag for safekeeping and mace ’em with my hairspray.

And it wasn’t just the size thing, he was also…well, a little bit camp. Not in an overly exaggerated ‘Ohmygod! Did you see that skirt she was wearing, dearie? She sooo should have trimmed that muff before leaving the house!’ But he was definitely effeminate when he spoke, or crossed his legs. Crossed his legs! Need I say more?

And stop laughing. It’s not funny.

Lunch was fine once the waitress had settled him on a bolster cushion. But face-to-face we had nothing to talk about.  Our date was like a crunched-up sherbet lemon; my citric acid was no longer reacting with his bicarbonate of soda. The fizz had all gone.

And I do like a bit of effervescence in a man…

My mate, primate…

Promotion photo from Snow White and the Three ...

Image via Wikipedia

It’s happened! I think I may – at last – have found my Prince Charming! I am rushing around  the house, all overheated and excited, and for the first time in my pitiful excuse for a life, I am squealing. Squealing!  I can’t breathe, my tummy’s a mass of swirling butterflies and I’m having palpitations. I’m really and truly in lurve. Or I’m having a heart attack.

Either way, it’s exciting.

And I’m trying extra hard with this one; a good male friend of mine has suggested that my ‘oddness’ is attracting the Wrong Type. I have to be normal and girly, simper and giggle, flutter my lashes and flash coy smiles. I’m following his advice, so advance apologies if  my simpering gets on your tits.

Okay, so we ‘met’ online *sound of girly giggling* and he’s just soo lovely! He’s intelligent, has a fantastic sense of humour and an impressive grasp of English grammar and punctuation. *swoon* No text speak at all. OMG, he’s gr8!  We’ve swapped photos, and I’m smitten. He has the most smouldering, wise eyes, the exact colour of  a Cadbury’s Whisper bar. With broad shoulders and a hairy chest,  he’s perfect. Women like wide shoulders on their men;  it’s an indication of  the protection he can offer. *coy smile* He makes me feel so safe!  And  I can feel my fingertips running across his chest, gently tangled in dark, coarse hair. I tug. He growls, deep in his throat, throws back his head and moans. *lots of blushing*

He also rather likes my large and wobbly bottom *more titters*

But, alas! Alack! Alliteration! The course of true love never did run smooth… *Back of my hand is resting dramatically across my frowning brow*  Lady Luck is a meany mare; she has shown me a glimpse of true love, and, with an evil laugh, has torn it away.  *Sound of high-pitched evil cackle* My life is over (again). My Prince Charming? My One True Love?  He is a gorilla…

Gorilla 2

Image by nailbender via Flickr

I don’t know how I’m gonna break it to my mother…

Hot date? It wasn’t even tepid…

Wacky emoticon

Image by wstera2 via Flickr

Okay, had my first Hot Date on Friday night.

I didn’t really want to go, to be honest. After a knackering day at work I was more in the mood for a hot bath and pyjamas than making small-talk with a stranger, but I dutifully showered, de-frizzed my hair with half a pot of gel and trowelled on a smiley face.

Heigh ho!

On the site I use, you can choose a specific phrase to describe your body shape – thin, athletic, muscular etc. Well Mike really should’ve picked the ‘carrying a few extra pounds’ box. I’m not sizist. Neither am I much of an oil painting myself; in fact if I were a work of art I’d be hanging in the storeroom, but I’d just like people to be honest. I mean, what else was he denying? A wife? A criminal record? Female genitalia?

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Mike. Well, he did all the right things – greeted me with a kiss on the cheek, complimented me on my choice of vibrantly turquoise skirt and made eye-contact while we he chatted. And chatted. And talked. And stated. And commented. And declared. And revealed. And said…You get the picture, right? I heard all the grisly details of his marriage, the break-up, the moving out of the family home, the divorce, the custody battle….I know about his parents. And his brothers. And their wives. And their children. And Barney the hamster who accidentally got flushed down the loo in 1997. And Scooby the dog , run over by a bus. Now munching Bonios in the Great Big Dog Kennel in the Sky.

Image via Flickr

Mike took  a breath at half-past nine, so I rushed to the ladies’ and set the alarm on my phone.

He was halfway through the scintillating story of workmate Derrick’s ongoing problems with Irritable Bowel Syndrome when my alarm went off.

Sorry,’ I said, battling to keep the joy from my expression. ‘I must get this text. It could be the kids.’

Oh, you have kids?’

I read the display menu on my mobile.

‘Yep, minor emergency at home. The dog’s just sicked-up a sock. Sorry, but I’m gonna have to go…’

I had just reached the car park when the phone beeped an incoming text.

‘Tiny, I think you’re absolutely lovely. Really enjoyed tonight. You’re so great to talk to! Hope to see you soon xx’

Quite frankly I’d rather catch a large and scabby dose of herpes.

Do add a photo. Don’t go commando…

Rhino Rump

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:


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.

Looking for Mr Right? I’ve found Mr-Not-Right-In-The-Head…

Good news! It’s not just me! All my friends have strange men lurking in their closets, too. Metaphorically speaking, of course… Somewhere around the fourth bottle of ASDA plonk last night, the horror stories started to emerge. It was like something out of a Twilight movie.

Between us we have dated:  

  • Mr-I-Miss-My-Mommy
  • Mr-I-Need-A-Hug
  • Mr-I’m-Only-Interested-In-Flat-Chested-Stick-Insects-With-No-Pubic-Hair-No!-Of-Course-I’m-not-gay!
  • Mr-Eek!-A-Spider-I’m-Weally-Weally-Fwightened
  • Mr-I-Love-You-With-All-My-Heart-Where-Shall-We-Go-On-Our-Second-Date?
  • Mr-I-Can’t-Keep-It-Up-Without-Steel-Pins-And-Superglue.

Oh yes, we’ve all been out with  him. Several times.

I mean, honestly. I know we’re in our forties.  Nobody’s expecting Mr-All-Night-Piston-Penis, but please! Is it too much to ask for Mr-Slightly-More-Tarzan-Than-Jane?

Now, had it just been me, I could’ve understood it; I’m not maturing like a fine wine, for example. No, I’m aging more like that avocado, forgotten in the back of your fridge – squishy, wrinkled and bruised. But my mates are gorgeous, vivacious, intelligent women. They have personality, boobs and everything!

It can’t be them.

No, there’s definitely something weird  going on with middle-aged men; they’re lost and lonely, weedy and needy. For the love of Mars Bars and other things holy, where have all the bastards real men gone?

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