The Death of Romance

December 2, 2010

I imagine what follows is a complete violation of all the terms and conditions set by, violations of copyright law under every state in the land and an abuse of trust and all those things my Mum told me never to do because I am a, ’nice girl.’  But frankly, this one is too good not to share and in some respects a riposte to everything I wrote earlier.  Except it isn’t obviously.  It’s a profile I have stolen from a man who clearly thinks all women are money grabbing men haters.  And I would suggest that the answer to his final question is a large, resounding NO.  Not now.  Not ever. Give it up and buy a dog.

*names and details changed in a pretend attempt to hide identities.

“How am I ever going to spend £5.4 million from my recent Lotto win??”

Oh I don’t know, prostitutes?  Drugs?  Custard creams?

Hello out there!! O.K. Honesty is always a better idea than subterfuge!

Usually yes, yes it is.  Except possibly when you follow it with:

My birth certificate it says ’23rd July,1955’…but I find that so hard to accept.I don’t feel 55,I don’t think I look 55,& I certainly don’t act 55! I can count on the fingers of one finger the number of people who have guessed my age from the way I look & behave!!!

This might be hard for you to understand but take a seat; you do look 55.  You look entirely 55.  Everything about your face screams, ‘I am 55…and may have murdered my wife and stored the remains in a suitcase under the bed.’

I can see how many women out there are ageist,materialistic & incredibly optimistic! So,if you’re looking for expensive nights out in the West End with a toy-boy…..then look elsewhere. I have the financial clout of a wet sponge,the sophistication of bangers-and-mash,& the inability to see in straight lines,or accept that a man has to impress women with anything other than charm,wit,intelligence,sensitivity…& an appreciation of shoes!
An elegant suffiency; ‘effortless superiority’; constant flippancy!!

Agreed about the wet sponge, not entirely sure how to respond to the rest of it.  For once, I am speechless.  Until:

Where did it all go wrong?  When did London become ‘Cougar Town’!!!!????

When did London become ‘Loser Town’!!!!????

Come off it,girls,please….,most younger men I know aren’t that much into older women (not with so many young ones to choose from). It’s a metropolitan,media myth! And those that are…well,…”Mrs Robinson… are you trying to seduce me?!” Benjamin really wanted her daughter!!

Then maybe I too should give it up.  Buy a budgie.  Kill myself.  All viable options before the day that hell freezes over and I start dating in the gene pool responsible for producing words of wisdom like the above.  And while we’re at it, here’s the below:

And some of the photos on these here profiles are a little perplexing too.Are you trying to frighten us men away?! My personal photos are the genuine article;every blemish,every line,every wrinkle! And,yes,I do wear specs,as I am short-sighted. But I can see where I’m going….Honest! And that,apparently,is nowhere fast!

Fair point.  My photos have been air brushed and chosen from a set where I’m wearing my best face.  Not the one I normally wear at weekends.  The one that has been pickled prodigiously in a vat of red wine, bounced a few times off walls that I swear come out of nowhere and then stuffed full of MacDonalds chips at 1am.  But that’s the point yes?  It’s a DATING site.  It’s all about the hard sell.  It’s like Ebay or being a second hand car salesman.  I’ve only been used once and am in pretty good condition with minimal wear and tear but admittedly take about 10 minutes to get going in the morning.  And my gear stick is a bit stiff but the less said about that the better.

Is there anyone out there for me?

Yes.  Because there is definitely someone for everyone.  Probably.  I mean almost everyone.  And if not, like I said get a dog, they are after all, mans best friend.

Img credit: diyana kamaruza

October 14, 2010


So this was it.  THE year.  Young, free and single and oh the possibilities.  And I’m sure there were many possibilities.  Certainly, if you were gay, had a girlfriend or were just plain not interested – I probably spent the vast majority of 2010 really fancying you.  All of you.  Because not only do I have awful taste in men, I’m also apparently very fickle.

So I decided to wave goodbye to unrequited love and I took my fickle self and threw her into the online dating gene pool.  And I’m sure, in fact I KNOW, that there are lots of normal, lovely people on there.  Some of my best friends met and got into very happy relationships through internet dating.  But let’s just plumb the depths shall we?  Just for a little while and explore the murky waters where hopefully a few of these people might just stay (names changed to protect identities):

First of all we have John, who should know that emails like:


you look great

love ya pix

I am John..I work with teenagers in se London xx

Just moved near you!..may need you as my sexy tour guide!”

Do not work and also make him sound like a child molester.

And Bob, I’m sorry Bob if this is a genuine disability but my name is not spelt ‘cliaree’ and the email:

‘whrere did live norh bob.’

seems to be lacking some vital words.

And no Dan I do not:

‘fancy sum fun.’

Maths never really was my strong point.

Then there are the men who send you generic emails that you don’t respond to.  Then forget they’ve already sent you a generic email and send you exactly the same one a few weeks later.  That does get a response, but only to tell the man in question that there was a restraining order in operation and to please never contact me again.

And the ones who should be strongly advised against writing their own profiles:

‘I don’t know why I’m single.’

I would personally suggest that it’s because you write things like this.

‘I am the dogs bollocks.’

Doubtful and I bet the dog probably has a more endearing personality that you do.

‘I do like a bit off sarcasim, but don’t go over the top with it.’

We will NEVER get on then clearly (although he does spell as well as I do).

Not being content with having a face, and now I can roast a duck, time is ripe to find a girly to help lick the platter clean. So my mum deemed instead of my traipsing the watering hovels for a girly, she’d fund me a few more century’s to trickle about this dastardly website.

Well yes, obviously, I’m sure I’d agree if only the hell I knew what you were talking about.  But you DO have a face.  Well done.

And not forgetting the incredibly witty and revealing usernames (names not changed and no identity protected on this one, sorry) step on up (or God PLEASE don’t):



Clitlicker__a_839 (who incidentally is looking for a woman of maximum age 74 and I wish him luck with this).

I’m really not going to mention all the men who have ‘winked’ at me that are old enough to be my Dad.  Not that I’m ageist or anything but no, over 60’s don’t really do it for me.

And finally, FINALLY when you pluck up the courage to get to the dating part, there are those men that on a first date try and stick their tongue in your mouth in front of a pub beer garden.  Certainly one you want to take home to meet your Mum.

Life at the moment is far from boring.

Img credit: SeaScapes12


If you’re going to watch comedy then there can be few better places to see it than inside a large, plastic, purple, inverted cow on the banks of the Thames.  Udderbelly has arrived on the South Bank.  Replete with a Magners field, giant Connect 4 and deck chairs (knotted hankies not supplied).  From now until 18th July, it will be playing host to the best and not-so-best of the Edinburgh Fringe festival previews.

Danny Bhoy took to the belly of the cow on Friday night.  A man who is, “half Indian and half Scottish, which means that unlike most Scottish people I don’t get sunburnt watching fireworks.” I’ve been a fan of Danny Bhoy for, “one…or even two world cups”.  For a man who rarely uses bad language and does a great line in self-depreciation, he’s still managed to piss off Letterman, swear at the Queen, upset God and, more importantly, Matt Damon.  His observations on life and people are accurate, funny and poignant – recently bemoaning TFL for shutting tube stations because of defective escalators, “surely a defective escalator just turns into a set of stairs?”.  He tells beautifully crafted stories that become well honed tangents with the occasional sideline in the visual subtleties of line dancing, sick cats and blow drying geckos.

However, as the fan with a You Tube addiction who is in full time employment, I could have recited half the gig from memory.  Which meant my very patient companion had to sit through some of the best punchlines that I’d already ruined earlier over copious amounts of lager in the field.

Despite this, if there is one comedian I could recommend this year it would be him.  And as long as you never take me to see gigs with you, I can guarantee that you’ll have a marvelous time.

Tea and Adventures

February 7, 2010

Italia chillies

If there’s one thing I learnt yesterday, it’s not to confuse the international sign language for coconuts with that for breasts.  It’s an important distinction.  I’d attempt to show you but fear the meaning would get lost somewhere in the text.

Yesterday myself and Holly had afternoon tea with the Adventurists.  At the Royal Geographic Society.  Which I understand doesn’t normally let people of the Northern persuasion (or least people from Accrington) through its doors.  We were most privileged.  It’s an extremely impressive building.  Started in 1830 as an institution to further the advancement of geographical science, it boasts famous names such as Livingstone, Scott and Hillary.  An awe-inspiring place to spend a chilly Saturday afternoon in February.  Not only was the talk by Lois Pryce incredibly inspirational, sparking off dreams of international travel in a floating rickshaw*, but the cake was bloody lovely.

It got me to thinking about risks.  And adventure.  I’ve always tried to live by the adage that it’s better to regret the things you do than the things you don’t do.  But sometimes the fear kicks in.  And it shouldn’t, because as the very beautiful Helena asked today, ‘What’s your biggest fear?  Fancy facing it? Go on – it’s only fear.”  She has a point.  And as Lois pointed out, if we did risk assessments for everything, we’d never leave the house.  Last year saw me taking the biggest risk and jump into the unexpected that I’d made for a very long time.  Yet it paid off for all concerned.  And taught me many a lesson in what it truly means to be happy.  And it was an adventure.  It didn’t involve new countries or impenetrable languages where signing is your only option (see above).  But it was certainly life altering.  My plans for the future are ever-changing.  Perhaps I spent too much of my childhood reading The Famous Five, dreaming of having adventures and ginger beer, but whatever happens in twenty ten facing fears and having adventures is certainly top of my list of priorities.

*Note for my Mum: At no point would I consider this.  Ever.  I mean, absolutely, definitely, probably not.

Image credit: @_linco

Blank Page

I probably forgot to mention that the only blogging I’ll be doing is when I have many other extremely important things to do.  Procrastination being as it is, the top skill on my CV.  And now seems like as good a time as any seeing as I have a 4,000 word case study to write, a 4,000 word research proposition to hash together, some supervision sessions to falsify, a business plan to prepare and an appointment with the bank manager to make.  And I should probably wash some socks at some point too.  Life is just one endless stream of difficult tasks.

Except January so far, has been quite tame.  If not a little bit nippy.  I mean yes, it’s involved polar bears and lime eating and half a tiger and being chased round Sainsbury’s by security men and plans for future adventure and new jobs and exciting news (that I can’t tell you) and scandalous gossip (that I definitely can’t tell you).  So it looks like I’ll have to spend the day being productive.  And there’s nothing I hate more than productivity.  Damn.

Image credit: tomswift46

Twenty Ten

January 1, 2010

Jeremy Clarkson

2009 was all different kinds of unexpected.  So it’s fitting really that 2010 was seen in mostly with conversations in and around (thank God not literally) Jeremy Clarkson’s testicles.  And was eased in (yes, this is Carry On Blogging) by Myleen Klass.  After a Christmas spent largely not drinking (please ignore all earlier blogs about alcohol)  I apparently managed to drink a whole bottle of wine.  And I know this because I can barely hear the screaming of police sirens outside (I live far too near Lewisham) over the sounds of my grumbling tummy.

Last night was, minus the testicles, all about the describing of words for nothing more than the pride and glory of the win.  It went something like this (please note these are serious answers):

Chris: Right, there are lots of them in Amsterdam and boats go down them.

Andrew: Prostitutes?

Claire and Holly: It’s an object, it’s green, like an onion but longer and the Welsh eat lots of them.

Nat: Garlic bread?

So anyway, what I’m trying to say, in a roundabout/mentally disturbing images kind of way is: Happy New Year.  And just so you know, it’s going to be fabulous.

Image credit: meivocis

Father Christmas

Was woken by a combination of brain shattering sunshine penetrating through the curtains and my caffeine angel Jen far too early.  It was 11am and we had an appointment with Father Christmas.  At Harrods.  But not before I experienced how showers feel when there is absolutely no hot water left.  The perfect thing for a hangover.

Myself and Jen (still, by all accounts leaking alcohol out of our eyeballs, skin and breath) skated to the train station with her brother Chris and his girlfriend Mayyah.  Chris is a Christmas elf at Harrods.  He was carrying a bag containing nothing but wigs.

On route I ate a mint Aero in an attempt to firstly soak up some alcohol and second disguise my Vodka breath.   I didn’t want Father Christmas thinking I was a bad girl.  My Dad always told me I’d get a stocking full of ashes if I was naughty (and I remember one year considering being naughty just to find out what that was).

We arrive at Harrods and they let me in despite carrying last nights clothes in a Primark bag.  Being VIP’s we went straight in to see Father Christmas who showed us his invisible robin. We requested variously a My Little Pony Castle, some Sylvanian Families and seven puppies. He asked us if we’d like a photo.  The result is the above.  Not pictured are the brilliant badges and chocolate coins we also received.

Continued to wander round Harrods complaining about sore feet, dehydrated heads, people who can afford to pay £4,000 for a puppy and trying hard not to kill tourists.  Before wandering in a dazed stupor around Victoria bus station trying to remember where the hell the bus went from.  The drying out process begins here.  Merry Christmas.

Absolut Vodka

Saturday is something of a blur being that what happened was half a litre of Vodka and the latest night out since I was 19 (not including the two nights earlier this year when I just didn’t come home).

It was the night of the Choi Kwang Do Christmas party set in the dizzying heights of Morden (dizzying thanks to the strong smell of urine that hits you in the face as soon as you step off the tube).

Things that I am certain happened: I ate most of the buffet, I found out unrepeatable gossip, I danced to Kung Fu fighting rather hard, Jen played Little Boots far too much, Jen attempted to drag a black belt onto the dance floor and was tipped unceremoniously onto her bottom, amorous advances were laughed at and declined (and his girlfriend will be happy to hear that), people danced in a circle like they were st a school disco, people were dragged onto the dance floor by me and made to dance to Queen (I really am the coolest person you’ll ever meet), I fell asleep under a pile of coats waiting for Jen to stop chatting and dancing, I was hugged many times by my instructors, told I was thought a lot of and eventually fell into bed at 4am with a rather large headache.

Image credit: Mercedes Dayanara


Friday, dear God Friday.  The alarm went off and I peeled myself unhappily from the mattress, stuffed myself onto public transport next to a man who was clearly still drunk and headed to my university clinic.  To provide cheap and affordable healthcare to the masses.  With a hangover.  And five hours sleep.  And only six colleagues.  For eight patients.  All of which needed two students in consultation.  And the clinic supervisors were snowed in.  The lunatics were well and truly running the asylum.

But as one colleague was far more hungover than me (who was floating lack of sleep on an experimental sea of caffeine) I felt much better about the whole situation.  And only fell asleep on the floor once (and not during a consultation).

All patients were eventually sent off happy and medicated (as the supervisors finally skied in to join us).  Starbucks turnover was doubled and all tourists escaped a scalping during my journey home just for getting in my way.  Or breathing too loudly.  Mark that one up for a success I think.

Len Price 3

So Thursday began with fervent wishes  that Timmy Mallet had never been born and resolutions to never again buy cheap Prosecco.

This was followed by the once yearly viewing of Love Actually and acceptance of my ridiculous girly romantic side.

After which I put on all my clothes (literally ALL my clothes it’s indescribably cold out there kids) and headed into a frozen London.  To a toilet. Albeit a converted one (cottaging not being a lifestyle choice I wanted to make).  To see the Len Price 3 for the first time in over a year.  For they rock like, ‘Like a Romanian Orphanage in the 90s,’ (copyright @rufous).  Ironic really, I’ve seen them in some real dives over the year but a toilet is easily the coolest venue they’ve ever played.  It was all about the candles and Quadrophenia on loop on the big screen.  And our awful 40 minutes of over enthusiastic dancing to their energetic brand of hard and fast garage pop.  I have no idea who Len Price is, he wasn’t there that night.  But there definitely are three of them.  Their songs are catchy and upbeat with some quite beautiful bouts of harmonising.  And hey, if you don’t like one song, the fact that they are all only two to three minutes in length guarantees they’ll be another one along quickly that might just blow you away.  Needless to say, as always, they were the best band that I’d heard all night.  In fact any band who says:

“There was supposed to be a harmonica in that bit, but we just sang babababababaaa instead.”

…needs to be seen.

They were on much later than advertised.  As a result @rufous saw his birthday in on a number 94 bus and I stumbled through the snow arriving home like a slightly inebriated Frosty the Snowman.  Safe in the knowledge that I would be massively pleased with myself the following morning when my alarm went off at 7am (and I was).