In some ways, this story may reveal to you exactly why I am now a bitter, twisted person, determined to unite all bitter exes to hex their former partners.
Being left out of the next MATs amateur production, a farce called Noises Off (which actually drives you mental after a bit, what with all the busty blondes running scantily clad through different doors, being chased by lecherous old men in blazers), I was approached to put on a pantomime for the children of Muscat as many of the expat children had never seen a traditional English panto before.
This was quite a challenge for me as I had only ever worked backstage once, when I was at college and fancied the Drama teacher. I was put off him dramatically (do you like that pun, eh?) during one rehearsal as I was perched in the gallery, absent-mindedly waving the spotlight everywhere and idly picking my nose. He leched up to me and broke the most foul-smelling fart I have ever smelt in my life and I promptly vomited on his shoes. I left the college shortly after that and got a job with Barclays Bank plc…
So, to go backstage again, this time as a director, was quite a tough thing for me…Although not as tough as getting somebody to play The Dame.
I enlisted the help of all my most trusted friends to help me with the set, props, costumes etc, including my (then) husband, and my (then) best friend who had a degree in Fine Art and reckoned she could paint all the backdrops and set for me.
We worked as a fine team, all of us; my producer, Amanda, being a total rock right the way through, even when I resorted to Diazepam to help me sleep at night what with the nerves, trying to get sponsors and some of the chorus threatening to walk out on me if I made them dance with mops and brushes.
Our performances of Camelot Capers won the admiration of the British Embassy and the school principal – particularly as he got his mitts on around £10,000 from our fund-raising efforts. It was quickly established that we would put on another production ASAP, and so, bowing to inordinate pressure, we did.
We decided to perform Dick Whittington. It’s a very dull story, really, but it was the only panto script I could get my hands on for nothing. Also, I couldn’t find a part in it for myself, so I knew the pressure would be off marginally, as I had acted in and directed the first.
Same backstage team, different cast (very different, blimey – I had more Prima Donnas in this cast than Maria Carey makes stupid demands whilst on tour). But, again, the backstagers gelled magnificently.
Somewhat too magnificently…
My (then) husband took to working all the hours Allah sent (we lived in a Muslim country at the time) alongside my (so-called) best friend – the one with the Art degree. At midnight one night, I called them at the school and asked what on earth they were doing at that time…Were they having a romp on the canvas or summat?
Well, yes, they were. And I was the last to hear about it. And I was the warped lunatic who gave it my blessing, initially. Only to come to my senses about five days later, when I was stuck in, baby-sitting the kids once again while they went to the pub quiz and got jiggy.
I didn’t stay in that country for much longer – the (then) husband saw to it that I was removed from his sight after two months and dispatched to the UK as a gibbering wreck.
Now you may understand why Matt & I set up HexMyEx!
Showing posts with label HexMyEx Rule OK. Show all posts
Showing posts with label HexMyEx Rule OK. Show all posts
Monday, 13 August 2007
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Flex My Pex
I guess, if I was into Blog name abuse, I could refer to this post as Flex My Pex. Actually, that’s not a bad title, abuse or not, so in it goes…
Once upon a time, before I saw the light and decided that I couldn’t care less about having arms like Madonna, legs like Catherine Zeta Jones and a backside like Jennifer Lopez, I used to attend the gym on a very regular basis.
By regular, I mean every day, even when on holiday – the hotel’s facilities must include a gym, I used to bleat to the (then) husband. He didn’t care. As long as he could sit by the pool watching the top totty slathering sun cream on themselves (A Hex On Thee!).
One particular morning, having dropped the wee babes at school, I tootled off to the gym to commence my thigh-jittering work-out. It was a jolly good one, I can tell you and I went ‘for the burn’ as they say…Although, I must confess, it never burned me, it just reduced me to tears on the odd occasion and made me shout curses which should never be repeated in a public place or whilst sober.
As I staggered out of the gym and hauled myself into my Jeep, I flopped like a lump of lard on the seat and lit up a cigarette as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow…yes, yes, I know that defeated the whole object, but I do enjoy my smokes!
Without due care or consideration, I swung the Jeep from the parking bay and heard an almighty can opener ripping into its side. Concomitantly, the Jeep’s bonnet went upwards, as did my eyebrows and I took my foot off the accelerator, pretty damned quick!
Being a bit of a muppet where cars are concerned, I decided that the best thing to do would be to reverse and attempt to rectify the initial manoeuvre. The can-opening sound intensified, but at least the car came back to level ground.
I hauled myself out, and stared at the side of the car. The Municipality, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to leave a concrete lamp-post base, sans lamp, in the middle of the parking area, and my car had decided to have a fight with it…Indeed, I was not the first, judging by the veritable rainbow of stripes across this lump of sadistic tendencies. The poor Jeep looked like it had gone in for open heart surgery and the surgeon had nipped off for a coffee and a fag…
As I stood there, askance, wearing clothes which were illegal in a Middle Eastern country, a local chap pulled up and asked if I wanted some help. He kindly called the police for me…called them again…then again…and finally, an officer pitched up, rattled something off to me and told me to get out of the way. The young chap told me his name was A.D…or at least, that is what I thought he said, but he was actually saying Eddie. As he looked like Eddie Murphy…ahem…Well, if that’s the case, then I look like Nicole Kidman, despite being less than stick-thin, dark and definitely under 6 feet tall…He did invite me for dinner at his mother’s, though, as they were slaughtering a goat for National Day…I politely declined.
I got very little help from the insurers. Their main concern was if the concrete base was OK, which left my mouth somewhat slack in gob-smackedness.
I did get my lovely car repaired…eventually…and then the (then) husband decided we should sell it and get a new one…
Well, I did – I bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was just bloody marvellous, even though it was automatic, which I don’t particularly like, and even though the (then) husband used to commandeer it whenever possible, even causing a veritable bash on the bonce one day as I leaned into the rear seats to sort out the ensuing WW3 between the children and he took off when the lights went green so I was flung at the windscreen much to the other drivers’ amusements.
I sold the Grand just before I left Oman to return to a life of strife, corruption, world famous psychiatry and crime in the UK. I still miss it to this day.
I now drive a Toyota Yaris…It has only one wheel trim; the bumper hangs off it; every single cup holder has crap in it: from coins to earrings, to fag-packet wrappers…But it goes…and it will do…
But at least, whilst getting rid of the Grand, I also got rid of the husband! HexMyEx!
Once upon a time, before I saw the light and decided that I couldn’t care less about having arms like Madonna, legs like Catherine Zeta Jones and a backside like Jennifer Lopez, I used to attend the gym on a very regular basis.
By regular, I mean every day, even when on holiday – the hotel’s facilities must include a gym, I used to bleat to the (then) husband. He didn’t care. As long as he could sit by the pool watching the top totty slathering sun cream on themselves (A Hex On Thee!).
One particular morning, having dropped the wee babes at school, I tootled off to the gym to commence my thigh-jittering work-out. It was a jolly good one, I can tell you and I went ‘for the burn’ as they say…Although, I must confess, it never burned me, it just reduced me to tears on the odd occasion and made me shout curses which should never be repeated in a public place or whilst sober.
As I staggered out of the gym and hauled myself into my Jeep, I flopped like a lump of lard on the seat and lit up a cigarette as quickly as my shaking fingers would allow…yes, yes, I know that defeated the whole object, but I do enjoy my smokes!
Without due care or consideration, I swung the Jeep from the parking bay and heard an almighty can opener ripping into its side. Concomitantly, the Jeep’s bonnet went upwards, as did my eyebrows and I took my foot off the accelerator, pretty damned quick!
Being a bit of a muppet where cars are concerned, I decided that the best thing to do would be to reverse and attempt to rectify the initial manoeuvre. The can-opening sound intensified, but at least the car came back to level ground.
I hauled myself out, and stared at the side of the car. The Municipality, in all its infinite wisdom, had decided to leave a concrete lamp-post base, sans lamp, in the middle of the parking area, and my car had decided to have a fight with it…Indeed, I was not the first, judging by the veritable rainbow of stripes across this lump of sadistic tendencies. The poor Jeep looked like it had gone in for open heart surgery and the surgeon had nipped off for a coffee and a fag…
As I stood there, askance, wearing clothes which were illegal in a Middle Eastern country, a local chap pulled up and asked if I wanted some help. He kindly called the police for me…called them again…then again…and finally, an officer pitched up, rattled something off to me and told me to get out of the way. The young chap told me his name was A.D…or at least, that is what I thought he said, but he was actually saying Eddie. As he looked like Eddie Murphy…ahem…Well, if that’s the case, then I look like Nicole Kidman, despite being less than stick-thin, dark and definitely under 6 feet tall…He did invite me for dinner at his mother’s, though, as they were slaughtering a goat for National Day…I politely declined.
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I got very little help from the insurers. Their main concern was if the concrete base was OK, which left my mouth somewhat slack in gob-smackedness.
I did get my lovely car repaired…eventually…and then the (then) husband decided we should sell it and get a new one…
Well, I did – I bought a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which was just bloody marvellous, even though it was automatic, which I don’t particularly like, and even though the (then) husband used to commandeer it whenever possible, even causing a veritable bash on the bonce one day as I leaned into the rear seats to sort out the ensuing WW3 between the children and he took off when the lights went green so I was flung at the windscreen much to the other drivers’ amusements.
I sold the Grand just before I left Oman to return to a life of strife, corruption, world famous psychiatry and crime in the UK. I still miss it to this day.
I now drive a Toyota Yaris…It has only one wheel trim; the bumper hangs off it; every single cup holder has crap in it: from coins to earrings, to fag-packet wrappers…But it goes…and it will do…
But at least, whilst getting rid of the Grand, I also got rid of the husband! HexMyEx!
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Names and their meanings to HexMyEx...
Here at the HexMyEx office, your invaluable service to sort out your (once) loved ones, we have been analysing irrational fears, mainly based around ex’s names.
I, Agnes Mildew, have a morbid fear of the name Hazel, although I do like Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut still, and I adore Topic bars, which are teaming with these nuts. However, as a primary school child, a tough girl called Hazel used to hang around the local shops, coshing any youngster who looked at her in the wrong way. The fashion, at the time, was to wear a ‘flick’ in the hair (think Farah Fawcett Majors) and Hazel would stand at the bus stop with a curling brush tucked into her fringe on a permanent basis. Added to this, her mouth moved in perpetual motion, chewing an ever-hardening lump of Wrigley’s, which added to our opinion that she was a total cow. She would frequent the off license at night, purchasing single cigarettes. As pseudo Scousers, we would call these ‘Loosies’. If we had an extra 2p, we would also purchase a single match…hence the expression, ‘A loosie and a match, please’. None of us were surprised when she fell pregnant at age 16 and her first daughter was called Lucy. Her second, following a year later was called Anna. We expected the third child to be called ‘Match’.
I also intensely dislike the name Heather, as it reminds me of a ginger-haired girl from secondary school who appeared to have an incontinence problem. However, she had two really hard older sisters called, of all things, Zilla and Zelda (we called Zilla, Godzilla, when she was out of earshot.). Zilla and Zelda were both very dark girls and thus rarely got singled out for any skitting. But as Heather was a red-head, she got lots of carrot-top name calling. I generally kept out of it, being an ardent pacifist and a champion cross-country runner, and so I tended not to get beaten up by Zilla & Zelda, but Heather was a smelly snitch and when I innocently commented about the pong in the library one day, she had me pulverised. I will not purchase lucky Heather from any gypsies, so please do not call at my door.
Ken is a very unfortunate name, too, in my book, although I do not have a morbid fear of it. I once had the misfortune of dating a Ken whose pathetically plaintive declarations of love left me cold. He was considerably older than me and as a nubile 30-something, he probably pinched himself every morning, despite me being on the hefty, brutish side at the time. Even in my raddled state every morning, feeling like death warmed up, I would look about 18 next to him.
Many moons ago, I was visiting a Health Clinic (as a world famous psychotherapist) and happened upon a 16 year old shouting for her daughter. As my hearing is not too great, I thought the young girl was shouting, Abby, Abby…As my ears attuned to the West Country accent, and the nurse came out to call the child’s name (no, not the mother, despite her youth), I realised it was Ebby, short for Ebony. The child was portly, blonde, rosie-cheeked and blue-eyed. The complete antithesis of an Ebony. Why do people do this to their children?
India, Sienna, Paris, Brittany, Preston, Dale, Devon etc…place names that rarely reflect the child’s very unexotic upbringing in a council estate in Runcorn. If you’re going to call a child after a place name, why not consider Blubberhouses if it is chubby; Lampeter if it looks a bit belligerent or Mouldsworth if it soils its nappy more than three times an hour. Farquhar was almost called Mouldsworth, but Oswald and I realised that saddling a child with the name Mouldsworth Mildew was grossly unfair. At least Farquhar has some dignity…
So, if you are really stuck, what about John for a girl and Susan for a boy?
I, Agnes Mildew, have a morbid fear of the name Hazel, although I do like Cadbury’s Fruit & Nut still, and I adore Topic bars, which are teaming with these nuts. However, as a primary school child, a tough girl called Hazel used to hang around the local shops, coshing any youngster who looked at her in the wrong way. The fashion, at the time, was to wear a ‘flick’ in the hair (think Farah Fawcett Majors) and Hazel would stand at the bus stop with a curling brush tucked into her fringe on a permanent basis. Added to this, her mouth moved in perpetual motion, chewing an ever-hardening lump of Wrigley’s, which added to our opinion that she was a total cow. She would frequent the off license at night, purchasing single cigarettes. As pseudo Scousers, we would call these ‘Loosies’. If we had an extra 2p, we would also purchase a single match…hence the expression, ‘A loosie and a match, please’. None of us were surprised when she fell pregnant at age 16 and her first daughter was called Lucy. Her second, following a year later was called Anna. We expected the third child to be called ‘Match’.
I also intensely dislike the name Heather, as it reminds me of a ginger-haired girl from secondary school who appeared to have an incontinence problem. However, she had two really hard older sisters called, of all things, Zilla and Zelda (we called Zilla, Godzilla, when she was out of earshot.). Zilla and Zelda were both very dark girls and thus rarely got singled out for any skitting. But as Heather was a red-head, she got lots of carrot-top name calling. I generally kept out of it, being an ardent pacifist and a champion cross-country runner, and so I tended not to get beaten up by Zilla & Zelda, but Heather was a smelly snitch and when I innocently commented about the pong in the library one day, she had me pulverised. I will not purchase lucky Heather from any gypsies, so please do not call at my door.
Ken is a very unfortunate name, too, in my book, although I do not have a morbid fear of it. I once had the misfortune of dating a Ken whose pathetically plaintive declarations of love left me cold. He was considerably older than me and as a nubile 30-something, he probably pinched himself every morning, despite me being on the hefty, brutish side at the time. Even in my raddled state every morning, feeling like death warmed up, I would look about 18 next to him.
Many moons ago, I was visiting a Health Clinic (as a world famous psychotherapist) and happened upon a 16 year old shouting for her daughter. As my hearing is not too great, I thought the young girl was shouting, Abby, Abby…As my ears attuned to the West Country accent, and the nurse came out to call the child’s name (no, not the mother, despite her youth), I realised it was Ebby, short for Ebony. The child was portly, blonde, rosie-cheeked and blue-eyed. The complete antithesis of an Ebony. Why do people do this to their children?
India, Sienna, Paris, Brittany, Preston, Dale, Devon etc…place names that rarely reflect the child’s very unexotic upbringing in a council estate in Runcorn. If you’re going to call a child after a place name, why not consider Blubberhouses if it is chubby; Lampeter if it looks a bit belligerent or Mouldsworth if it soils its nappy more than three times an hour. Farquhar was almost called Mouldsworth, but Oswald and I realised that saddling a child with the name Mouldsworth Mildew was grossly unfair. At least Farquhar has some dignity…
So, if you are really stuck, what about John for a girl and Susan for a boy?
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Disastrous Dating #2...
The Mummy's Boy
It was Albert who first 'winked' at me and showed interest. I was not giving this particular dating website my full attention at the time as I hadn't quite worked out how I might flirt successfully without paying over the astronomical subscription fees and had thus lost a bit of interest.
When I saw Albert's photo, I thought he had quite a sweet looking face and his profile denoted an intelligent man - there weren't any typos for me to get irate about, no LOLs, LMAOs or GSOHs - anyone who writes these things to me must think I am a bit of an idiot, I reckon. Yes, I know that words can often be misconstrued without the associated intonation, but do I really need someone to tell me when to find something funny, like the 'Cue Laughter' blokes stood in a live audience? Most of the orders when to laugh from male daters are associated with blatant sexual innuendo, too: "I bet you look great in a slinky black and red basque with stockings and your hair up...LOL!!!!!!" What's funny about that? The chap’s feeling lucky, wants you to know, and then deep down knows you're going to think he's a creep, so attempts to vindicate himself by tagging LOL onto the end. Hit the 'Delete' key...fast...
So, back to Albert. His title caption stated that his Mother thought he was a good catch. It's a long time since I have been out with a Mummy's boy and my memory plays tricks, what with my age and having to sort out my five retarded children, Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, whom you may have read about in previous blogs.
We had very little online chat - just a few mails back and forth, and it transpired that he was into clay pigeon shooting at the weekends. Well, it was the middle of winter, and I quite fancied the idea of becoming a huntin', shootin', fishin' gel, striding around the pages of Cheshire Life with my Harris Tweed flat cap on, hob-nobbing with execs and footballers, providing the latter group knew which end of the gun from the other. I asked Albert if he would take me shooting to his gun club and he readily agreed, but suggested that we met in the pub one night to finalise arrangements.
He was insistent that we met half-way between us. I think he may have even got a piece of string out, measured the distance between our towns and halved it for the exact spot. We arranged to meet in The Smoker, a pub I had heard of, and which had been recommended in the past, but never been to. A chance to get dressed up in my latest crimplene and nylon! That's always fun in my book. I do like to look good when given the opportunity. But the next email asked me to alter my plans and meet him at the Golden Pheasant, as this was slightly closer to him. Hmmm. OK, I thought, maybe he has some strange 'blushing bowel' syndrome, gets taken short, and has to dash home to his own loo as he cannot 'perform' on public lavs. That was an incorrect assumption. I think he just needed to be nearer his Mum (read on).
I worked out my route, and was told the dress code (no dressing up; just jeans and top would suffice...boo, hiss). I made an effort to balance out the informality of casual wear, with some very elegant make-up and my hair shone and hung like a blanket of silk (well, I'd slopped on some hair straightener and it was now so oily you could have fried a pan of chips on it, but we'll stick with the romantic notions instead). Yes, I got lost, as per usual, and ended up down a back lane in the middle of nowhere. There was nobody to ask directions from, either. When in doubt, I always double back on myself, so back towards The Smoker I went, in the hope that there was a Golden Pheasant lurking on the road. It was there: on the left - I'd just been singing along to the Daniel O'Donnell and Cliff with such 'gay' abandon that I'd missed it.
Albert was sat in the car park waiting for me in a gleaming silver BMW. Ooh! I thought. Nice car! I felt a bit cheap in my Morris Minor, which hadn't had a wash for nearly 18 months by this stage. He got out to greet me, and I immediately noticed that the sweet smile on his photograph was hiding a mouthful of tombstone-like teeth, in dire need of orthodonty; a new buzz cut which made his head look like one of those gimcrack hedgehog boot cleaners old ladies such as myself have on their back door step for the gardener to wipe the muck off his soles, and he was not 'tall'.
Why do men insist on calling themselves 'tall' when they are 'average'? Is this the age-old case of men not knowing how to measure six inches? Six inches to me is half a foot. It cannot be applied to anything measuring five, four, or even, on one very memorable night, two inches. So, once again, I was towering over my date - I suffer with giantism, I'm afraid and am currently standing at 7'9".
We made our rather formal hellos and entered the pub. He didn't hold the door open for me, and I recoiled from the back-swing of the fire door as it bounced back onto my arm. To say I was underwhelmed by the pub is to put it mildly. There was little likelihood of me mingling with the Cheshire Set here. Maybe old-time dancing with the Cheshire Vets, though, going by the average age of the punters - that was a possibility. Albert got the drinks in. A beer for him and a port & lemon for me. We sat in the 'snug': some pew-like seats upholstered in mock Black Watch tartan, clashing with the Royal Stewart on the floor, and some Monarch of the Glen-type nasty posters hastily plonked into Ikea clip frames. I started to break the ice, asking him about himself, what he did, what the shooting entailed etc.
He had a lovely, well-modulated voice, and spoke intelligently. The subject matter (IT) wasn't of great interest to me, and nor did he punctuate his conversation with any humour (I didn't require LOLs to be metered out, as there simply weren't any to be had). We talked about his choice of pub, and he explained that The Pheasant was pleasant (unintentional rhyme for you there) but if he really wanted to impress somebody, he took a lady to The Smoker.
Hahaha! So you weren't fussed about impressing me tonight, then, Albert, or you don't think I am a lady! I laughed.
Ermm, well, I wasn't sure what you were like, so I thought we'd dress down...
OK, that's one black mark now, I mentally catalogued.
After a bit, he asked me about my work. I had recently moved jobs and was rather enjoying my role as a world famous psychologist, having been a fish-gutter at Tesco since I was ten and was thus ready to expound at length. As I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted and offered to get the drinks in. Ah, yes, I seem to be a bit empty, I replied. Another port & lemon for me.
Off he trotted to the bar, and I started to scour the pub for potential single men. I was in luck. There were loads: average age 75, past-times include dominoes, pub darts, nurturing hernias and cleaning their false teeth in public...bit young for me, really...
When he returned with the drinks, I jumped straight in and asked the question I am always dying to know the answer to: How has your experience of internet dating been so far?
Albert took a deep breath and proceeded to tell me about all the strange women frequenting the sites. I have heard this from a number of men. The women are either after a jolly good night between the sheets, or a counsellor. A counsellor who is good in bed is the ultimate prize, obviously. None of the women he told me about seemed to be out of the ordinary - they all came across as normal human beings to me - jolly nice girls, in fact. He complained that on his dates he hadn't been able to get a word in edgeways, that the women were peculiar and that he had 'a theory' on why women in their late 30s, early 40s were single. Now this was exciting! Perhaps I was about to discover the real reason why Internet dating is always so disastrous for nice young gels and mature ladies such as myself...Tell me more, I encouraged.
Albert took a deep breath, leaned in closer to me over the table, and said: They are all mentally ill.
What? I exclaimed. What do you mean, 'mentally ill'?
They are unstable, he replied. They have obviously been dumped by some nice bloke, never forgiven him, gone down the bitter ex route and it festers inside of them. They store it up for the next bloke to come their way and after some time of social niceties, all the weird, psycho-type behaviour comes out.
At this point, my right eyebrow was raised so high (always a bad sign that somebody is getting on my nerves) it was meeting my hairline.
So, from your experience of...ooh, how many dates did you say? Two? You are generalising that all single women have some form of mental health problem, thus why we are single.
Yes, that's what I believe, came the firm response.
And how long is it since you last had a girlfriend?
About ten years.
But your Mum reckons you are a 'good catch', doesn't she?
Hahaha! Yes, dear old Mum. I might be moving back in with her, actually. I'm selling my house and fancy going back to the home comforts. She has this gorgeous farmhouse in the middle of the country and makes all her own breads and jams. She's a whiz with the self-raising. I often go there at night for my tea and drop in my washing on the way. Mum keeps ducks you know. I often go over to help her feed them. They are such adorab.....WAKE UP, READER!
'Nuff said.
I went to the bar to get myself a coffee, chatted up the barman, and also had the craic with the bar manager who told me about trying to get Most Haunted to come and do a show there as she was convinced they had a resident poltergeist. It was a fascinating conversation and I was loathe to return to Albert, sat by the fire, hunched over a glass of water in his anorak, checked shirt, frayed jeans and enormous trainers. He hadn't even glanced up to see why I was taking so long. Probably planning his next trip to see Mummy.
I'd ended up drinking a coffee as I chatted to the manager, so as I returned to Albert, I asked if he'd like to make tracks. He jumped up out of his seat, asked if I still wanted to shoot on Saturday and explained he would pick me up if I emailed him directions to my house. We duly parted and I kept my head well away in the event of any of that 'air-kissing' nonsense.
I sat in the car on my own for a few minutes after he had left - primarily to get my bearings, but also shaking my head in disbelief that a man who obviously adored his mother and she, too, had a mutual appreciation society on the go for him, could find all single women mentally ill. My bi-polar disorder was under control at the time, so I found his remark quite insulting (if I used it, I would insert LOL here, then you'd know I had cracked a joke if you can't quite read yet and are under the age of eight).
Next day, I told my workmate about the date.
He advertises himself with testimonials from his mother, stating he's a good catch? expostulated Frederick Ibsen. Mhm, I replied: Last Mammy's boy I had got his mother to ring me up and dumped me on his behalf. I was only 15. He was 21. Don't think I want any of that again.
Agnes, said Ibsen. Stay away from that!
Yes, I know, I pondered. I think, just for his safety, I had better blob on the shooting. I am highly likely to turn the gun on him out of indignation, whilst screaming manically, MENTALLY ILL, ARE WE? EAT MY LEAD, YOU GIT!! At least it would make him think twice about making any more sweeping statements if he encountered me on a bad day...If I still suffered with those nasty monthlies, he'd have been even more scared...
I emailed Albert and declined to shoot with him, pleading commitment (not to a lunatic asylum!) to a funeral which I had overlooked. He wrote back and said he would rearrange for another time, but to 'keep in touch'. No thanks, I thought. No more Mammy's boys for me, and proceeded to surf the website for blokes who looked like my Dad.
It was Albert who first 'winked' at me and showed interest. I was not giving this particular dating website my full attention at the time as I hadn't quite worked out how I might flirt successfully without paying over the astronomical subscription fees and had thus lost a bit of interest.
When I saw Albert's photo, I thought he had quite a sweet looking face and his profile denoted an intelligent man - there weren't any typos for me to get irate about, no LOLs, LMAOs or GSOHs - anyone who writes these things to me must think I am a bit of an idiot, I reckon. Yes, I know that words can often be misconstrued without the associated intonation, but do I really need someone to tell me when to find something funny, like the 'Cue Laughter' blokes stood in a live audience? Most of the orders when to laugh from male daters are associated with blatant sexual innuendo, too: "I bet you look great in a slinky black and red basque with stockings and your hair up...LOL!!!!!!" What's funny about that? The chap’s feeling lucky, wants you to know, and then deep down knows you're going to think he's a creep, so attempts to vindicate himself by tagging LOL onto the end. Hit the 'Delete' key...fast...
So, back to Albert. His title caption stated that his Mother thought he was a good catch. It's a long time since I have been out with a Mummy's boy and my memory plays tricks, what with my age and having to sort out my five retarded children, Greebo, Rastus, Flo, Britney and Farquhar, whom you may have read about in previous blogs.
We had very little online chat - just a few mails back and forth, and it transpired that he was into clay pigeon shooting at the weekends. Well, it was the middle of winter, and I quite fancied the idea of becoming a huntin', shootin', fishin' gel, striding around the pages of Cheshire Life with my Harris Tweed flat cap on, hob-nobbing with execs and footballers, providing the latter group knew which end of the gun from the other. I asked Albert if he would take me shooting to his gun club and he readily agreed, but suggested that we met in the pub one night to finalise arrangements.
He was insistent that we met half-way between us. I think he may have even got a piece of string out, measured the distance between our towns and halved it for the exact spot. We arranged to meet in The Smoker, a pub I had heard of, and which had been recommended in the past, but never been to. A chance to get dressed up in my latest crimplene and nylon! That's always fun in my book. I do like to look good when given the opportunity. But the next email asked me to alter my plans and meet him at the Golden Pheasant, as this was slightly closer to him. Hmmm. OK, I thought, maybe he has some strange 'blushing bowel' syndrome, gets taken short, and has to dash home to his own loo as he cannot 'perform' on public lavs. That was an incorrect assumption. I think he just needed to be nearer his Mum (read on).
I worked out my route, and was told the dress code (no dressing up; just jeans and top would suffice...boo, hiss). I made an effort to balance out the informality of casual wear, with some very elegant make-up and my hair shone and hung like a blanket of silk (well, I'd slopped on some hair straightener and it was now so oily you could have fried a pan of chips on it, but we'll stick with the romantic notions instead). Yes, I got lost, as per usual, and ended up down a back lane in the middle of nowhere. There was nobody to ask directions from, either. When in doubt, I always double back on myself, so back towards The Smoker I went, in the hope that there was a Golden Pheasant lurking on the road. It was there: on the left - I'd just been singing along to the Daniel O'Donnell and Cliff with such 'gay' abandon that I'd missed it.
Albert was sat in the car park waiting for me in a gleaming silver BMW. Ooh! I thought. Nice car! I felt a bit cheap in my Morris Minor, which hadn't had a wash for nearly 18 months by this stage. He got out to greet me, and I immediately noticed that the sweet smile on his photograph was hiding a mouthful of tombstone-like teeth, in dire need of orthodonty; a new buzz cut which made his head look like one of those gimcrack hedgehog boot cleaners old ladies such as myself have on their back door step for the gardener to wipe the muck off his soles, and he was not 'tall'.
Why do men insist on calling themselves 'tall' when they are 'average'? Is this the age-old case of men not knowing how to measure six inches? Six inches to me is half a foot. It cannot be applied to anything measuring five, four, or even, on one very memorable night, two inches. So, once again, I was towering over my date - I suffer with giantism, I'm afraid and am currently standing at 7'9".
We made our rather formal hellos and entered the pub. He didn't hold the door open for me, and I recoiled from the back-swing of the fire door as it bounced back onto my arm. To say I was underwhelmed by the pub is to put it mildly. There was little likelihood of me mingling with the Cheshire Set here. Maybe old-time dancing with the Cheshire Vets, though, going by the average age of the punters - that was a possibility. Albert got the drinks in. A beer for him and a port & lemon for me. We sat in the 'snug': some pew-like seats upholstered in mock Black Watch tartan, clashing with the Royal Stewart on the floor, and some Monarch of the Glen-type nasty posters hastily plonked into Ikea clip frames. I started to break the ice, asking him about himself, what he did, what the shooting entailed etc.
He had a lovely, well-modulated voice, and spoke intelligently. The subject matter (IT) wasn't of great interest to me, and nor did he punctuate his conversation with any humour (I didn't require LOLs to be metered out, as there simply weren't any to be had). We talked about his choice of pub, and he explained that The Pheasant was pleasant (unintentional rhyme for you there) but if he really wanted to impress somebody, he took a lady to The Smoker.
Hahaha! So you weren't fussed about impressing me tonight, then, Albert, or you don't think I am a lady! I laughed.
Ermm, well, I wasn't sure what you were like, so I thought we'd dress down...
OK, that's one black mark now, I mentally catalogued.
After a bit, he asked me about my work. I had recently moved jobs and was rather enjoying my role as a world famous psychologist, having been a fish-gutter at Tesco since I was ten and was thus ready to expound at length. As I opened my mouth to speak, he interrupted and offered to get the drinks in. Ah, yes, I seem to be a bit empty, I replied. Another port & lemon for me.
Off he trotted to the bar, and I started to scour the pub for potential single men. I was in luck. There were loads: average age 75, past-times include dominoes, pub darts, nurturing hernias and cleaning their false teeth in public...bit young for me, really...
When he returned with the drinks, I jumped straight in and asked the question I am always dying to know the answer to: How has your experience of internet dating been so far?
Albert took a deep breath and proceeded to tell me about all the strange women frequenting the sites. I have heard this from a number of men. The women are either after a jolly good night between the sheets, or a counsellor. A counsellor who is good in bed is the ultimate prize, obviously. None of the women he told me about seemed to be out of the ordinary - they all came across as normal human beings to me - jolly nice girls, in fact. He complained that on his dates he hadn't been able to get a word in edgeways, that the women were peculiar and that he had 'a theory' on why women in their late 30s, early 40s were single. Now this was exciting! Perhaps I was about to discover the real reason why Internet dating is always so disastrous for nice young gels and mature ladies such as myself...Tell me more, I encouraged.
Albert took a deep breath, leaned in closer to me over the table, and said: They are all mentally ill.
What? I exclaimed. What do you mean, 'mentally ill'?
They are unstable, he replied. They have obviously been dumped by some nice bloke, never forgiven him, gone down the bitter ex route and it festers inside of them. They store it up for the next bloke to come their way and after some time of social niceties, all the weird, psycho-type behaviour comes out.
At this point, my right eyebrow was raised so high (always a bad sign that somebody is getting on my nerves) it was meeting my hairline.
So, from your experience of...ooh, how many dates did you say? Two? You are generalising that all single women have some form of mental health problem, thus why we are single.
Yes, that's what I believe, came the firm response.
And how long is it since you last had a girlfriend?
About ten years.
But your Mum reckons you are a 'good catch', doesn't she?
Hahaha! Yes, dear old Mum. I might be moving back in with her, actually. I'm selling my house and fancy going back to the home comforts. She has this gorgeous farmhouse in the middle of the country and makes all her own breads and jams. She's a whiz with the self-raising. I often go there at night for my tea and drop in my washing on the way. Mum keeps ducks you know. I often go over to help her feed them. They are such adorab.....WAKE UP, READER!
'Nuff said.
I went to the bar to get myself a coffee, chatted up the barman, and also had the craic with the bar manager who told me about trying to get Most Haunted to come and do a show there as she was convinced they had a resident poltergeist. It was a fascinating conversation and I was loathe to return to Albert, sat by the fire, hunched over a glass of water in his anorak, checked shirt, frayed jeans and enormous trainers. He hadn't even glanced up to see why I was taking so long. Probably planning his next trip to see Mummy.
I'd ended up drinking a coffee as I chatted to the manager, so as I returned to Albert, I asked if he'd like to make tracks. He jumped up out of his seat, asked if I still wanted to shoot on Saturday and explained he would pick me up if I emailed him directions to my house. We duly parted and I kept my head well away in the event of any of that 'air-kissing' nonsense.
I sat in the car on my own for a few minutes after he had left - primarily to get my bearings, but also shaking my head in disbelief that a man who obviously adored his mother and she, too, had a mutual appreciation society on the go for him, could find all single women mentally ill. My bi-polar disorder was under control at the time, so I found his remark quite insulting (if I used it, I would insert LOL here, then you'd know I had cracked a joke if you can't quite read yet and are under the age of eight).
Next day, I told my workmate about the date.
He advertises himself with testimonials from his mother, stating he's a good catch? expostulated Frederick Ibsen. Mhm, I replied: Last Mammy's boy I had got his mother to ring me up and dumped me on his behalf. I was only 15. He was 21. Don't think I want any of that again.
Agnes, said Ibsen. Stay away from that!
Yes, I know, I pondered. I think, just for his safety, I had better blob on the shooting. I am highly likely to turn the gun on him out of indignation, whilst screaming manically, MENTALLY ILL, ARE WE? EAT MY LEAD, YOU GIT!! At least it would make him think twice about making any more sweeping statements if he encountered me on a bad day...If I still suffered with those nasty monthlies, he'd have been even more scared...
I emailed Albert and declined to shoot with him, pleading commitment (not to a lunatic asylum!) to a funeral which I had overlooked. He wrote back and said he would rearrange for another time, but to 'keep in touch'. No thanks, I thought. No more Mammy's boys for me, and proceeded to surf the website for blokes who looked like my Dad.
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