Dating Disasters #...I don't know, having lost count...

Now one of our two dear readers may consider it rather imprudent for me to continue to describe my dating disasters now that I am ensconced in affianced bliss to Mr Parsnip, but as he also gets a kick out of reading how bloody awful my single life was, I don't have too many qualms.

Peter was my very first date after Mr P and I initially split up. Always one to get back on the horse after falling off, I went out with him within days of our break-up, utterly determined not to waste any more time in mourning.

Peter had chatted to me some time previously, during my initial foray into internet dating, but we never seemed to pin each other down to actually organise a date. He was a very, very handsome chap judging by his photographs, and also held down a very good job as an accountant. He told me all about his property development ventures: his six houses and the seventh he was purchasing; and his little Mercedes SLK sports car. Being of quite a mercenary mind at the time, this all screamed money to me and as I quite fancied being treated by somebody loaded down with pots of gold, as soon as he offered to meet me for a drink, I jumped at the chance.

As some of you may recall, I am a bit of an anal retard when it comes to short men. I discovered to my delight (and surprise) this weekend that I am actually 5'8 1/2", not the 5'7" I thought I was and so, sometimes, it can be very, very difficult to find a date over whom I do not tower, particularly as I like to wear 4" heels most of the time. Trouble is, I don't like to be with a man upon whom I look down. I do that in my head with most blokes, but I don't actually want to do it physically, so when Peter confessed to me that he was 5'7 1/2" and in my ignorant state that I was only 5'7", I thought, Blast! Another short-arse, but at least he has that upper 1/2" over me...Flats tonight, eh?

Well, I did consider wearing my flip-flops, but as it was December, bitterly cold and I would have looked somewhat daft in them, I thought, Sod it! Heels it is.

For some strange reason, despite Peter having an enormously lengthy jouney to meet with me, he whittered on about aftershaves, designer labels, what perfumes he liked ladies to wear and his SLK on MSN long after I wanted to jump in the shower and get myself sorted out. Weighing up the merits of John Paul Gaultier versus Versace did nothing for me as I am most definitely Woman at Oxfam or a George at Asda girl and would find it fairly difficult to know my Farhi from my Farah.

Eventually, I encouraged him to stop talking about what he was going to wear, and just wear it.

An hour and a half later, I arrived at the meeting place and there was his sports car and he was sat in it. I climbed out of my beaten up Yaris, as gracefully as is possible from a heap of junk, and shimmied over, attempting to ooze as much sexual magnetism as possible. I seemed to make an impact, as his eyes lit up and he emerged from his car...all 5'5" and Cuban Heels. I don't think my face fell quite as much as my heart did, but I pulled myself together and shook his hand whilst delivering him my most beaming smile.

As was expected of me, considering he had banged on about it enough, I Ooohed and Aaahed over his little motor, which was, I have to confess, sex on wheels and I wouldn't have minded leaving him at the Leigh Arms for the night while I went off out on the pull in his car. But, ever the lady, I accompanied him inside where I got the drinks.

Yes, I bought the rounds all night! Considering he went on and on and on about how much money he earned and his six (soon-to-be-seven) rental properties, and his three foreign holidays a year, I did think he was a bit cheap for not dipping his hand into his pocket and treating me to a lime and soda.

I have to confess that Peter bored me rigid. Apart from Master Chef, I have never encountered a date who could talk a glass eye to sleep like Peter could.

Despite having already given his car a massive ego boost, I then had to sit in the pub and look at photos of it on his (new) mobile phone. The photos were taken at different angles, all on his ex's driveway (with whom he was still in touch, and which is always a no-no in my book if children aren't involved) and all showed...a car...

Yes, it was a lovely car. I had stroked his ego about it for the first ten minutes of our meeting, but I didn't fancy having an orgasm over a car that night.

I think he could tell he was losing me, so he then showed me his new watch. It was some posh make, but I cannot remember what now. All I know is that I had to watch the hands spin round while he set it to different time zones and the hands played catch-up to France, Japan, Brisbane and back to the UK. It was stultifyingly dull, and even when he confessed that he had procured it by his Nectar points, I didn't bat an eyelid, despite being ever a one for a ruse or bargain.

It was time for the analyses. His first question was: Do I look like my pictures? Well, to be perfectly frank, I am pretty sure he buys miniature furniture with which to decorate his homes because he looked enormous in these photos. And in real life, he was a perfect specimen of a midget. I was also considering using the Trades Descriptions Act, as I am blowed if he was only two years older than me. Either that, or he'd had a bloody hard paper round as the lines on his face could have directed me to London if I'd given them closer inspection.

It seems I did look like my pictures, if a little thinner in real life (hardly surprising, since I had shed about two stone since they had been taken) and he informed me that he was pleased with his choice.

Now, I don't like it when blokes come over all proprietorial like that on a first date. I am not his choice - I see it as a contract: he has invited me out on a date, and I have accepted. Offer and acceptance. That's it. I don't belong to him. This raised my hackles, somewhat, and I started to wonder about an escape route.

My trustworthy pal, Tracy, was out on a date herself that night and was therefore unable to imitate the sound of a dying child, in distress, down my mobile to me and I was thus stuck. Guilt overcame me at the distance he had travelled to meet with me, so I suggested that we went back to my house for a coffee. He readily agreed, much to my chagrin, as I really quite fancied an early night by this stage, now feeling as though the life blood was draining from me.

He followed me home and I let him in to my Mott and Bailey where I offered him a coffee and a bite to eat. He was singularly impressed by this, for some reason, and launched into a speech laden with pathos, about how much he yearned for a woman who would care for him, make his meals for him, and who would allow him to shower her with endless gifts in gratitude. Hmmm...I thought, I could do the latter...but what about sex? I'd have to be stoned every night...I metaphorically shook myself and continued with the coffee making while he annihilated his past girlfriends (with whom he kept in touch - yeah, right!) and told me how much he liked tall, dark women who could cook.

I nodded at all the appropriate points, smiled graciously, and kept him well at arm's length, going insofar as to sit at the opposite side of the living room from him, just in case he decided to propose to me.

At some point, he got onto the subject of his job, and, dear reader, it is at this point that I can tell you no more as, apart from him being some type of accountant (and not a 'normal' one, if you will excuse the oxymoron), it was like white noise. My last memory is of him catching me totally unawares and asking if he was boring me. Unfortunately, as my guard had slipped right down by this point, I bluntly replied, Yes.

Much to his utter horror...

I apologised profusely, and stuttered that I basically didn't understand what he was talking about, that I was tired, that the goldfish had kept me up half the night crying with earache, and that I wasn't quite myself.

He got the message and left in a hurry...

I decided that I wasn't going to pursue this date in any way shape or form, so he was promptly deleted from MSN and my mobile phone. Unfortunately, he didn't delete me and thus bombarded me with text messages for many months, sometimes being suggestive, sometimes being pathetic, but always being irritating. In the end, I told him I had found the man of my dreams (it was a new kitten in the household) and that my new chap wasn't happy with this contacting me.

That was the last I heard of Peter, thankfully. I am sure he now has an eighth property to brag about, and no doubt he has exchanged his SLK for a Mitsubishi Starion, but the fact of the matter is, I am 3 1/2" taller than him and that will just never do.

Dog-gone Lucky Escape...

As days go, it's not been too bad on the Mildew-madometer. Traffic was monstrous coming back from a town 13 miles from where I live and what should have taken 25 minutes took 1 1/4 hours, having negotiated 19 sets of traffic lights, all of which were on red. Desperate for the loo when I got in, I ran to my bathroom to do the necessary and, whilst in mid flow and reaching for the loo paper, a whopping spider revealed itself to me, right next to my left thigh. I let out a highly unladylike squawk, fell off the toilet in fright and just about managed to 'contain myself'. Aforesaid spider is now cruising through the Cheshire sewage system on its way to the River Mersey. Divine retribution, I say...

However, sh*t doesn't always happen to me, so sometimes my blogability dries up. I know that none of you want to know about the good things which happen to me, such as finding a tenner in a coat I was just going to throw out, or missing a huge lump of dog poo in my path, so I hold off until things decide to go belly up. But it did come to my attention that I still have a few disastrous dates to tell you about and one that sticks clearly in my memory is a double date with Brian and Wilf.

To clarify, Brian was the official date, and Wilf was his dog. He refused to go anywhere without Wilf, as Wilf was a psycho Rescue Dog and couldn't be left on his own without his personal psychiatrist, for fear of tearing the house apart.

Now, for those of you not in the know, I don't 'do' dogs. I don't like the way they are wet and 'panty'; I don't like their smell; I don't like the way they lick their genitals and then your face; and I certainly don't like the way they try to hump my leg, hip, or my youngest daughter. However, I was feeling in a charitable mood and offered to entertain Wilf as well.

To this end, I chose a pet-friendly pub as our meeting place, and agreed to wait outside in the beer garden for the two males about to make my acquaintance. Brian had informed me that he was 6'3" (Goodo! I can wear my heels again!), 52" chest, 42" waist, and built like a scrum half. This all appealled. I don't like skinny, small blokes, as to me, they just cry out 'Pathetic'. I want a Manly Man: someone to watch over me, attempt to tame me (no chance, really!) and make me feel all gurly-femme...without calling me 'cute' (another post beckons...).

So, I had really gone to town this day. I was super slim at this time: for the Kookai readers amongst you (Linda?) this meant a size 1. I was wearing my new jeans, a rather slinky psychedelic yawn top and a fantastic bright blue suede jacket I had procured for a fiver from our local TK Maxx. I felt good. Indeed, I felt really good, until this tall, fat bloke attached to a dog on a lead rounded the corner of the beer garden and introduced himself to me. At that point, I felt the life blood leaving me.

Ever the optimist, though, I introduced myself gaily, attempted to be nice to the dog, in the manner of a confirmed bachelor who despises kids but can see that the only way into the pants of his latest squeeze is to coo and goo over babies, and offered to get the round in.

He readily accepted.

We commenced our ice breaking. I learned that his limp was due to a near fatal accident when he was a World Famous dragster driver (I am not actually sure he didn't say Drag Queen, to be honest); that he had been madly in love with a gorgeous, successful blonde; that he had built his own mansion with his bare hands; and that the blonde had gone off sh*gging with another bloke and he had left her everything. But he was Not Bitter. No...

I listened attentively, as much as possible, but couldn't help my eyes dropping to the 52" waist, which hadn't defied gravity and had slipped to the belly region. I also couldn't help noticing that 6'3" was a bit on the optimistic side. Wilf was starting to look the better bet...

I was pretty hungry by 6pm and suggested that we had something to eat. For a man as large as he, he demurred, stating that he ate like a bird. Soup, then? I suggested. No, no, nothing for me. I am fine...

Well, I was getting rather bored sitting in the bitter cold beer garden, the only place where I was allowed to smoke, and so I suggested that we adjourned to my house, pre-warning him that I kept a marble rolling pin in the house in the event of any monkey business, which I was certainly not afraid to use, Wilf or no Wilf. He accepted readily and followed me back to my place.

Wilf got out of the car as we arrived and ran straight across my back garden, yelping, yapping and tearing around the rabbits' pen. For once, Lambert (Lambert & Butler, after my brand of fags) had met his match. He generally terrorises Norman and Ollie the cats, whilst his brother, Butler, mildly watches on, but this time, Lambert was petrified himself. So, I took umbrage and booted Wilf. Nobody, and no dog, terrorises my bunnies without a kicking...Luckily, Brian was still getting himself out of his Land Rover and oblivious to the carnage going on.

Upon our entrance in the house, he announced that he was ravenous and could eat a horse. This confused me. Surely, only 15 minutes ago he had said he ate like a bird and didn't want anything from the pub? As I am always a gracious hostess, I dragged out all sorts of vegetables from the fridge and set about making a Pav (pronounced Pow) Bhaji, which is a red hot Hindu vegetarian curry that I learned whilst living in Oman. Brian advised me that he liked his curries as hot as Hades, and as I have a mouth and stomach like asbestos when it comes to spices, I took him at his word, launched in two birds eye chilli peppers, replete with seeds, and an over generous dollop of pav bhaji masala. It was enough to ignite the Olympic Torch.

While we waited for the curry to cook, Brian decided that Wilf needed some exercise (to defacate, really) and set off. Hang on a minute, I thought, this is a poop scoop zone. No dog is going to leave a great big dollop of turds for me to stand in whilst pegging out my washing - Norman does that for me, any time he feels like. So, I banned them from my garden, armed them with a plastic bag, and told them not to rush back. Even though Wilf had only been in the house for ten minutes or so, I could smell dog. I could taste dog...and worst of all, he had shed all over my lovely new carpet. I was not a happy Agnes at all.

When Brian returned, I dished up, we ate up and sweated profusely, and he started to reveal that he was completely skint, hence why he hadn't bought a round nor had he wanted to eat at the pub and was looking for someone to care for him. Alarm bells started going off in my head. No wonder, during our MSN chats, he had been so keen to hear all about my work and what I did, my financial status etc. Here, I had a classic example of a sponger. And I didn't find it endearing. Not One Little Bit.

To be perfectly honest with you, it was when he started bleating that he really missed smoking proper cigarettes rather than roll-ups and asked could he try one of my L&Bs that I took the hump. Too many dates of mine have stated that they want a non-smoker, then approach me for a date - me who trumpets it quite brazenly that I am a smoker and proud of it, and then they scrounge the cigs from me. It's enough to make you want to spit! Fags are now over 20p each in the UK, which is daylight robbery as it is. But I am not having some dole-ite nicking them off me to boot!

I did what all sensible women do in a crisis. I texted a dear friend, asked them to issue a state of emergency by phone and got rid of him and his rotten hound.

The next day, during my daily MSN to Sir Matt Chingduvé, I moaned about the pong of dog in the house and how bloody miserable this rotten internet dating lark was. Sir Matt was as sympathetic as ever, and offered to stick some rotten fruit up Wilf's backside for me, but I refused. I try to avoid cruelty to dumb animals...so that ruled out Brian, too.

Brian was my last ever internet date. It put me off, physically and mentally and I withdrew from every single dating site thereonin. For that, I must thank him profusely. He preserved my sanity...

Gents Want Gems; Women Want Wimps

A new study from the labs of Durham University has revealed that women prefer wimps. Dr Michael Burt’s research has discovered that while hunks are ideal for a fling, a women would rather have a man with an ‘honest and kind’ face when looking to settle down.

Hardly unsurprisingly, men do not give a turquoise toss about personalities if they are out for a one-night stand – being more concerned with feminine looks and their ability to a) suck an orange through a hosepipe and b) wrap their legs around their head twice (I made those last bits up).

However, as men’s thoughts turn to procreation and long-term relationships, they seek a woman with intelligence, a healthy look about her, a pleasant personality AND the ability to suck an orange through a hosepipe.

Women, on the other hand, steer clear of the looks and want intelligence, reliability, protection and loyalty in supposed long-term relationships (where a generous divorce settlement is guaranteed) which must therefore account for why we get the likes of marriages such as Salman Rushdie and Padmi Lakshmi (a 32-year old model);
Rod Stewart and Penny Lancaster (a 6’1” supermodel); Rick Ocasek (voted 50/100 in a list of "The 100 unsexiest men in the world”) and Paulina Porizkova (a former supermodel); Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta Jones (a stunning former B-list British actress, now über A-list since her marriage) and Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall (a Texan supermodel). All these men’s faces are as lived-in as my Cat boots - it is nothing to do with the men’s wealth and fame, really it isn’t...

Many years ago, when I was more nubile than I was able to cope with, I was courted by a millionaire who had a mansion on the Wirral (the posh part of Liverpool); a Ferrari, Lamborghini, Porsche, Bentley and many high-powered bikes; an indoor and outdoor swimming pool; and gold-plated taps in his bathroom. He would wait for me to come out of my offices and ask me to lunch, offer to treat me to any outfit from any store and take me out for cocktails and dinner.

I succumbed and went out with him for a lunch one day and allowed him to buy me a cup of coffee. He boasted about his wealth, his connections, the opportunities I could have if I let him into my knickers and the lifestyle he would accustom me to.

Well, I have to confess that I turned him down. (What a fool I was in retrospect – just think of the alimony I could have now!) He was horrible: a braggart; a dope fiend; and he was so ugly that he looked like he had been set alight and put out with a shovel. He had nothing to commend him apart from his wealth (and his gold-plated taps, which I was very impressed by).

Maybe it was because I wasn’t looking to settle down at that age that I couldn’t see beyond the ugly exterior and interior and find a life of luxury? Maybe I wanted flings with nice-looking blokes, which stopped me falling for the millionaire’s attentions? Or maybe it was just because he had the personality of a whelk…


Surely, the old adage, ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder’ still comes into play for those of us who are genuinely not gold-diggers? If we are asked to rate a person’s attractiveness purely based on pictures, we are bound to go for the person that appeals most? That’s why we are unique and not all fighting for Jonny Depp, or in my personal opinion, Al Pacino.

An oft-included question on Interrodate, the internet dating site I once frequented is, “Do you value personality or looks more?” Generally, these questions come from a member who doesn’t include a photograph. So, he’s either butt ugly or married – I can quite firmly guarantee that, speaking from experience. Well, I’m sorry, I am going to be greedy and say, Both. If the initial attraction isn’t there, there is no way I am going to take hallucinogens every night in order to make the beast with two backs with you. I cannot spend the rest of my days in an altered state of reality believing you are some Sex God. You really have to appeal to me aesthetically and mentally.

Thankfully, my standards are pretty low these days…

Bitter Dates and Better Nights In...

Are you getting bored reading about my dates or do you want to hear more? You DO want to hear more! Well, that’s unanimous. The little voices in my head, which just won’t go away, all sang a chorus of, “Yes, Agnes, pleeaaase tell us more.”

Are you sitting comfortably? Then, I’ll begin.

At one point, Match.com appeared to be a hotbed of activity. This particular ‘point’ was the three day free trial I had subscribed to, and I was going to make the most of it. So I was not quite as discerning as usual, reckoning that if I fired away a generic introduction letter to any bloke who wasn’t holding up an ID number on his photograph might be worth a try.

One such gent who replied was Karl. Karl was a German architect who had lived in many different countries with his teenage daughter and had recently settled in the UK. We arranged to meet at the Leigh Arms, where I had met many of my previous dates (and where the bar staff were starting to wonder if I was now some form of Call Girl, collecting my punters for the night).

I was running a bit late for Karl, and had texted him accordingly, so he had chosen the seats in the pub, which were, thankfully for me, in the (then) smoking** section (A Hex on You, Labour Government, for your public smoking ban!). I walked up to him, with a beaming smile on my face, and held out my hand. I don’t know if it’s because he was Continental or what, but he pulled on my hand, and suddenly, my face was squashed up against his lips, as he performed the ‘mwah, mwah’ kissy rubbish on me. He must have felt me struggling as he let go abruptly and I recoiled, tottering on my heels and bashing against the table.

Karl’s accent, despite his many years in other countries, was still very Germanic and I did struggle at times to understand him. “Vot vud you like to drink?” he asked. When I replied, just water, he, like most other blokes, stared at me in horror. “Vot? No alcohol? Vy? Vy no drink?”
“Oh, OK, then, make it a lime and soda,” I replied.
“But zis is not a proper drink! You must have vine.”
I could continue this volley for you, but you would have done your weekly shop at Asda by the time it had finished, and I can’t be bothered saying the same thing over and over again. Take it from me, I fixed him with my eyes, and said, finally: “A. Lime. And. Soda. That’s. It. Thankyou.”

At last we got down to the business of getting to know each other. Or at least, I got to know things about him. He talked, and talked and talked. And it was only about one thing – How horrific, unnatural and freaky his ex-wife was. He told me at great depth (and in quite personal detail, some of which made me squirm embarrassedly in my seat) about her – from her dogged pursuit of her career (she is a paediatrician) to her rejection of stereotypical stay-at-home Mum lifestyle, to her new bloke, to her almost non-existent relationship with her daughter…It was all quite alarming – particularly when he petitioned me to bitch about her too!

Now, people who know me, often get rather irritated by me when I am asked to judge others whom I don’t know, as, generally, I hate being drawn into a one-sided bitching session and will always attempt to see things from the other’s point of view – just to provide a bit of balance. If I know the person, however, and have witnessed bad behaviour, well, it’s a case of, ‘Get behind me, it’s my turn to tongue-lash’, but not if I haven’t experienced anything firsthand.

(Don’t let this put you off hiring us for Hexing, though, if you give me enough info, I will get suitably retributive on your behalf!)

It was, actually, quite disturbing listening to this man harangue his ex continually. OK, as a mother, myself, I cannot understand why a Mum would willingly give up her children, but it was her choice, her life, and not my business.

As with many of my dates, I sat for the rest of the night, having my ears bashed until they bled, interjecting with an ‘Oh dear’, ‘Mmm, I know’ etc. when it felt as though I ought to say something.


Karl was onto his third glass of red wine and getting a little bit frisky when he touched my knee and fondled it. In horror, I leapt off my stool with a clatter, and inadvertently kicked him in my haste. My rapid movement shocked the pants off him and he, in turn, threw a whole glass of wine down my new frock and splashed my lovely (suede) coat. The look of horror on my face must have been a picture.

“Ach, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wailed, “I vil get napkins from ze bar and vipe you down.” He came to me bearing a wad of tissue, and attempted to paw my breasts, but my reflexes were lightning fast, and I grabbed the tissue out of his hand and informed him that ‘I would take it from here, thank you!’ My coat was ruined. You can’t chuck a glass of wine over a suede coat and expect it to escape unscathed, and I was pretty naffed off, as it was the only coat which was halfway decent for me to go out in.

“I think this is a suitable juncture for me to go home, Karl,” I said. “I am soaked through, and I don’t want to sit, steaming here in my red wine marinade all night.”
“Shall I come back to yours, for coffee?” he asked.
“Err…no,you shan't,” was my response.
“Vel, can I see you again, as you are very, very nice,” he continued.
“Err…let’s see, shall we,” I replied.
“Oh goody! Ven ve meet again, ve shall haf lots of kissinks, ja?”
“Nein, Karl, we will NOT haf lots of kissinks!” I retorted quite clearly.

We parted in the car park, and as he lurched towards me for more of that Continental kissy slush, I backed off faster than Carl Lewis off the blocks, leaving him puckering up rather impotently, to fresh air.

I drove home, closely trailed by the police who were ready to nab me if I went 31mph through the village, hoping that my lights weren’t faulty or anything. Had I been stopped, the pong of wine over me would have meant an instant breathalyser and probably some very awkward questions.

I never did meet up with him again - I would be better off at home, simply navel gazing. He persisted for a while, texting me, leaving messages, which I never returned, until one day, I sent him an email by accident, meant for a close friend, which contained information about a more recent date, in gory, HexMyEx-type detail. At last, he was able to learn something about me, and obviously decided he didn’t like what he had read. If only I had thought of that weeks previously…

**He also proceeded to smoke all my fags, claiming he never bought any, but did enjoy the occasional smoke. I really hate people who do that...

First Dates, Mashed Spud & Unending Boredom.

Dave was my first foray into internet dating. For some time we had been chatting using the site and then our relationship took a step further and we glided seamlessly to MSN Messenger.

He finally showed me a photograph of himself, (warning to ladies and gents thinking of internet dating: if they don't upload a photo, ignore the hokum about them being shy - they're generally married or incredibly unattractive...this I have discovered time and again ever since) and he reminded me immediately of my favourite uncle, Bill, but a younger version - such dark eyes; gentle face, muscular shoulders.

He told me he was a chef, and tantalised my taste buds with suggestions of exotic concoctions which made my mouth water. As I was a very big girl with an equally big appetite at the time, I was more keen than most to meet with this man.

I am still a bit of an old-fashioned 'gel' at heart and so I hoped and hinted that he would ask me out on a date. He told me he found me attractive and liked my personality, and so I waited for what I deemed the inevitable: a date...Nothing. Absolutely bugger all. In the end, I got fed up of waiting and, throwing the traditionalist values away, came out with it: Why don't you ask me out for a date?
I got the oddest answer in response: he didn't ask women out on dates. That was it, full stop. They had to ask him. As I felt pretty desperate at the time, I broke with my principles and asked if he'd meet me at a pub in a few evenings' time. He readily agreed. I danced (or should I say, 'lumbered') round the room with excitement and next day, rushed to the Famous Factory Store and bought some incredibly unflattering (in retrospect) pin striped trousers and a jumper. I looked like a monochrome beach ball.

I was so nervous that day. All my work colleagues quizzed me about the potential man of my dreams. My mother asked lots of questions; demanded every contact number I could give her; where I was going; what brand of condoms I was planning on using (I made that bit up), until she was satisfied that every base was covered for my safety. I felt 14, not 35. My mother seemed quite impressed by my description of Dave. She always thought her brother was a very handsome chappie (especially as there is a strong family resemblance between them) and her approval was metered out hesitantly.

I multi-mapped the pub's directions and proceeded en route, to get hopelessly lost, as is my wont. If I was an inventor, I would devise a box that could be attached to the boot of my car, or the rear windscreen which lit up at the touch of a button, declaring, SORRY, I AM LOST. PLEASE DON'T GET CROSS WITH ME. I think it would be a best-seller, actually. Getting lost added to my nerves, and by now, I had been forced to turn the CD player off so I could concentrate, and was onto my third cigarette, after only 15 minutes. I suddenly realised I would stink of fag smoke and fumbled, with one hand, for my perfume which I sprayed liberally over my head and face, almost choking on the over-powering pong. Not a particularly auspicious start to my first date, really...

I finally pulled into the pub car park at the same time as Dave. As soon as my feet hit the tarmac, in my Nine West wedges, I realised I would now be towering over him by a minimum of five inches. And he didn't have the dark eyes of my uncle - it must have been the lighting (or he wore coloured contact lenses) and his was not a broad-shouldered, muscular build - he was what I might quaintly term, 'petite'.
"Arice der, Agnes!" came the dulcet tones of a very Scouse accent. "Adda recognizzzed youse anyweeeerrr."
"Er herrler, Dave," I replied, unable to keep the poshness from my voice (I always become ever so posh when I am nervous.) "So delightful to meet you. I wouldn't have recognised you, I must admit. You look...er...different to your photograph." We walked together to the pub entrance, and I affected a Quasimodo-type stoop in order to compensate either for my too high heels, or his lack of stature.

It was mineral waters all round. I didn't drink at all, and he didn't drink if he was driving. Weren't we mature adults?

I'll hand it to him: he was very friendly; put me at ease straight away; chatted amicably in order to break the ice, and gave me lots of opportunities to ask questions. So I did. Because I am nosey...and I made the grave mistake of asking about his work as a chef.

Well, his days of being a chef such as we watch on The F-Word or Ready, Steady Cook, were long over. He now held the grand title of Development Chef for a company which made ready meals for big supermarkets. What he didn't know about mashed potato wasn't worth knowing, and I can quite safely say, that I, too, now know everything about pulverised starch. I listened seemingly attentively, not glazing over too obviously, to tales of cubed spuds being intensively heat blasted, rinsed, dramatically cooled through refrigerators, pumped full of E numbers and preservatives (all to strict percentages) and finally mashed and piped into trays for him to taste and work out whether an extra 0.07% of salt ought to be added or removed.

After 45 minutes (I tell no word of a lie), there was silence and I realised it was my turn to say something. "Err, um, do you ever work with chicken?" I asked.

A further thirty minutes later, I had been told everything I needed to know about pre-cooked chicken. However, I have no idea what I needed to know, actually, as my brain went onto screen-saver and I mentally prepared my shopping list, worked out which clothes needed to be ironed for the week ahead, wrote a letter to my solicitor and fretted about losing some weight so I wouldn't have to keep financing the coffers of Match.com.

At the end of the lecture, I generously offered to get in another round of water, only for Dave to decline graciously and inform me that he had to be in bed by 10.30pm as he was a creature of habit, and didn't like to stray from his routines. I was more than happy to leave, too. My next question was going to have to be about boil-in-the-bag cod steaks and I didn't think I could stand the excitement much longer.

NB. I have lost all the weight now. And I still don't have a bloke, so I might as well go back on the Dr Fatkins Diet.

Analyse this...

Clive 'winked' at me through Match.com, one of the larger, but infinitely more expensive dating sites. The photo accompanying his profile showed a jovial-looking, ruddy, bald, chubby chappy wearing a smart bow tie and DJ. There was no attraction for me at all, and thus, he was instantly forgettable.

But, he wrote to me some weeks later, and out of courtesy, and the fact that I had pretty much forgotten who he was, I responded, answering his questions politely and asking him some in return. When he invited me to chat with him on MSN messenger, I agreed, as one of my pet hates is to ‘break the ice’ over the telephone.

I am a bit of a stickler for good punctuation, grammar and spellings and I was rather impressed to discover that he could manage all of these things. I commented accordingly – not in a patronizing manner – and remarked that it made a refreshing change to chat with someone who used correct English and didn’t resort to text-speak in messages and mail.

My comment about his standards of English seemed to rouse him somewhat and he immediately started demanding that he got my phone number to speak with me. As it was about 10.30pm and I was shattered, I refused point blank and said I was hitting the sack. Bizarrely, he continued to press the matter home, until I just wrote, Goodnight, and signed out. For a while after that, I avoided signing in to Messenger whenever I could see he was online.

After about a week, though, my attitude softened and I thought, Ah, what the heck, I’ll have another chat with him. As soon as I signed in, his yellow message popped up: Hello there!

We volleyed back and forth with small talk, until, again, he started to make demands that I gave him my phone number. Now, the more I get pressured to do things, the less likely I am to do them, so again, I refused. Instead, he changed tack and invited me to meet him for a drink. Well, I didn’t have much on ahead of me that week, Jonny Depp being tied up with filming, and so I accepted. I knew he was coming from Manchester, and that he didn’t know my neck of the woods very well, so I arranged to meet with him at a pub I know, literally on the roundabout of J10, M56, called The Stretton Fox. I gave him directions, and we organised to meet on the Wednesday evening.

But, oh dear, oh dear. As chance would have it, I had to cancel my date with him. My mother had, rather selfishly, I thought, managed to contract pericarditis, which had led to fluid surrounding her heart and filling her left lung. She was rushed into Intensive Care, and I had a pile of ironing which she needed to get done for me.

Thankfully, he was online and I was able to message him instantly, explaining the reason for my non-attendance that night. He was understanding and I started to warm to his empathy and thus agreed to divulge my mobile number to him so he could text me. (Note. I have two mobile phones now. My primary number I have only given out to people who mean something to me: friends and family etc. The secondary number is given out to psychopaths, schizophrenics, paranoids, alcoholics, sociopaths and loan companies).

Clive was given the second number.

He texted me instantly to verify it which I thought was a little OTT, so I messaged him to say I had his text and had logged his number. We rescheduled our date for the following Wednesday instead, same time, same place: Stretton Fox, J10, M56. This in itself seemed to cause Clive some concern. Was it really a pub? Was it really on the M56 junction? Would it be full of thugs? Yes, Yes, No. What’s the big deal? It’s only a pub date. Candid Camera isn’t going to be lurking in the gents.

An apologetic text was sent to Clive and I turned the phone off in readiness for visiting hours and in case I met a dishy, single registrar who wouldn’t appreciate our intimate chat about my ailing mother and my availability next week being interrupted by my phone tinkling away at us.

Daughterly hospital duties over with, I returned home and resolved to take the plunge and call Clive to update him on the situation.

I really, really hate talking to someone for the first time on the phone. I am not a reserved person in the slightest and will talk to any tramp, alcoholic, local loony and child who makes eye contact with me...but I hate phones (and especially mobiles) with a passion. So, I was rather formal at first, when I got hold of Clive.

He asked after my mother's health and told me he quite understood my commitments at the moment. Then he revealed that he was rather relieved I had finally spoken to him because he was starting to suspect that I didn't actually live in the UK. That was such an odd statement to make. Why on earth would I be overseas and what on earth made him think that? I asked him. Well, it was the small matter of my comment regarding his standard of written English and how he had noticed that some immigrants to the UK also try extra hard with their command of our glorious language. I roared laughing and asked him if he thought I was some Russian prostitute after a visa. I was perturbed by the long pause. This admission seemed to open the confessional floodgates and he told me he had been analysing my messages for any slip-ups, didn't like the way I skirted over personal subject matter (what? nosey sod!) and my infrequent visits to the MSN chatrooms.

I guess my stunned silence caused him to change tack and he asked me 'what was I looking for'. I guess he meant in men, not the fiver I had put away for my fags and seemed to have misplaced.

I replied genuinely that I was looking for a normal chap: intelligent, witty, solvent (i.e. not about to sponge off me), considerate and, if it wasn’t too much to ask, somebody who I could probably kiss without cringing. (I didn’t really stipulate that last bit, but it was in my head). He replied that he ticked all those boxes, so I thought, OK, we’ll meet for a date and so we did.

The next week, I walked into the pub, as arranged, and there was this bright red, shiny beach ball perched on a corner bench, almost glowing with high blood pressure. (He reckoned that he had put on weight because he only ever sits in front of the PC, working 16 hours per day...he injured his Achilles tendon, so he can no longer work-out...he's vegetarian...what? Is he eating 16lb of cheese each day? And why can't he swim? Walk? Get away from his PCs?)

After the compulsory air kiss (I hate those with a vengeance and try to avoid them as much as possible) we seated ourselves. It was a bitterly cold night and I had omitted to put on my thermals underneath my chiffon dress, which just was not suitable for the time of year (My mother would have made me wear a tank-top, long johns and a balaclava had she seen me walking out the door) so I ordered a frothy coffee, which was simply divine. So I had another, and another. Then I went outside for a cigarette (bloody no-smoking bans!). He came with me, which I wasn’t overly pleased about – I like a contemplative fag on my own – and continued to waffle on about all sorts of psychobabble.

We got back inside and he informed me that it was the oddest date he had ever been on. Why? I asked…Because you order coffee and go outside to smoke. How bizarre, I thought – I’ll order tea and blow smoke all over you if you want…

As I was still rather cold, I had my legs crossed and my arms across my body. Clive then started to analyse my body language, informing me that I had a ‘hostile, protective pose’. My eyebrow started to go up again, and the accent became more and more crystal-cut, which is a very bad sign from me; this means I am getting chippy and am likely to start using unusual words to confuse people greatly.

He criticised me for most of the night thereonin...Well! You can rest assured I did not take that with a smile on my face...at least, not a genuine one...more of a rictus or a snarl...Ooooh yeeees, Cliiiiive? He should have realised instantly not to go any further, but he did...My accent got posher and posher...my vocabulary increased from three syllables to five and he started to look bewildered...I told him he was paranoid; possibly on the autism spectrum disorder; said he talked way too much and I couldn't get a word in edge-ways (unusual for me, that) insinuated that he was a lard-a*se with no life; and pulled him up short on his so-called clever analysis of an old Irish proverb - "May the roof above never fall down; and may our friends below never fall out."

He started trying to educate me about the potato famine in Ireland and how they broke corpses' legs to bury them, but some weren't dead, so they would 'fall out' of the shallow graves...Er, are you on some strange pills, Clive? It's quite simple to me: the roof is the heavens and we are below on the earth. We don't want to lose our friends through arguments. QED? When I explained MY theory to him, he looked vague and muttered, Oh yes, I guess that is one way of looking at it...the subject was changed abruptly.

He then criticised me for my taste in men (yes, I admit they are dubious, but I will criticise my taste, not my first date!) until, in the end, I decided I had had enough and sweetly told him I was on my way. He asked if he could see me again as he had had such a wonderful time. Like a coward, I said, Maybe, zoomed home and deleted him from MSN, blocked him on my phone, locked all the doors and obliterated him from my life…until now that is.

It would be a shame to waste such a night by ignoring it, wouldn’t it?

Liars Anon...Beware Internet Dating!

Now, dear reader, strictly speaking, Paul was not a date. We came very close to dating, but for reasons you will discover, the actual date never happened. Paul advertised himself on interrodate.co.uk with an absolutely stunning photograph - without a doubt the most attractive-looking man online.

I decided to complete his questionnaire and add a pithy comment in the box provided...something along the lines of, "You are drop dead gorgeous, what on earth are you doing amongst the sociopathic misogynists listed here?"...well, perhaps not quite as succinct as that, but you catch my drift...To my delight, he responded accordingly, and thus our virtual dating commenced.

We started chatting via MSN and found we had a great deal in common - the same types of music; similar sense of humour; outlook on life, attitudes to parenting etc., and a mutual, physical attraction, which was very rare for me online. No matter how many times I stated that I was seeking tall men between the ages of 35-45, every stunted grandad would contact me with a lecherous grin, a mouth full of false teeth and nursing an ever-expanding hernia. If I applied the condition "Only 'sorted' men need contact me", meaning, no emotional hang-ups, I would get every depressed, love-sick Romeo getting in touch, telling me I had 'kind eyes', looked a lovely girl, and they needed someone to help them mend a broken heart. "What about pulling yourself together and stop moaning, instead?" I'd think, and hit 'delete'.

Mending somebody's broken heart sounds too much like hard work to me - I've had my fill of my own and am not about to inflict that burden on someone else...seems a bit selfish to me, to be honest...

So, an online romance appeared to be developing. We flirted gently with each other, testing the water, and then more blatantly. He removed his profile from the website and I stopped visiting it quite so much (always keep your options open, my mother says). We arranged to meet one Friday night. Unfortunately, Paul lived on the other side of the country to me, so a quick drink in the pub was not on the cards, but as he did a lot of travelling, we waited for his next trip to the northwest. He hinted that he'd like to sleep over at my house, what with me having 'two spare bedrooms', and tempted though I was, safety prevailed over lust and I refused. He arranged a night in the Manchester Travel Inn instead and sent me through his booking confirmation so that I could verify that he wasn't a 'nutter' - his words, not mine...read on...

I was full of eager anticipation and excitement that Friday. Paul texted me in the morning to tell me he was taking possession of a brand new company car - a Jaguar XJ-something or other (Mr Clarkson, if you ever pick this book up, I am getting educated through Born to be Riled, and really ought to know this spec, but I have forgotten if it had 'breeding', 'torque' and 'welly'...sounds like a chatty farmer to me...) - and I would be the first to be treated to a spin! Whizzo! Things were really looking up! All day, I mentally planned what I would wear, checked and double-checked the route to Manchester Travel Inn, and made sure I had some decent matching underwear to put on, without the brand name 'George' stitched across them...just in case...

I was late getting home from work that night. The weather was appalling: lashing down rain, howling gales, and my heart sank at the thought of my mascara running down my face at 8pm to meet my lipstick and my hair taking on the texture of coconut matting. But, ever the optimist, I resolved to dig out my daughter's manky No. 17 waterproof make-up and wreck my already-ageing skin with it, just for the sake of a fun-filled, flirtatious night.

Having waded through the swamp to my back door, I fell in to the house with relief and saw the answer machine light flashing. The last person I expected to hear was Paul. He'd rung at 5pm, stating that he had gone to the car, ready to set off on his drive, and his brand new Jag had been nicked. Well, I don't know who was more disappointed. Me at the lack of date, or him at having his car stolen. He'd turned his phone off - no doubt down at the police station, I thought as I tried to ring him.

I did what all stood-up dates do - made myself a fried egg sarnie. Unfortunately, whilst stomping around in an ever-growing strop, I let the oil get too hot and upon cracking the eggs into the pan, the oil spat spectacularly, hitting me fair and square between the eyes, and all down the bridge of my nose. The blisters which immediately decided to have a party on my face were a focal point for many days and I still bear the scars, three months on. Shares in Boots' concealer stick have risen sharply since my mishap.

I heard nothing from Paul for two days until he texted me to say that the police had recovered the vehicle. It had been used in an attempted building society ram raid in Newcastle. He didn't say if he was getting a new car or not. Don't think the front grille would have looked too shiny after that, though.

So, more online chat, more texts, the odd phone call and then the request to meet again due to a trip to Manchester. I accepted, offered to cook us dinner for two as it was midweek and set about creating a feast fit for somebody who isn't too fussy about what they eat. Actually, I am doing myself a disservice, here: I'm actually a pretty good cook when I am given something adventurous. So, I made 'seared scallops' on a bed of spinach; marinaded swordfish steaks with julienned freshly steamed vegetables in a bitter orange drizzle; chocolate banana mousse; and macaroons with freshly ground coffee. This can be interpreted as seafood and leaves; fish and greens; sickly chocolate gunk; biccies and a brew. I am from the north, after all.

At 4.30pm on the day of our date, I received a text stating that he was with his friend in hospital. She had been attacked on her way home from a club and he was giving her moral support. I was quite impressed. A man with an empathetic side! But if her parents were with her, as he stated, why did he need to stay? I gave myself a slap across the cheeks for being so self-centred and texted my condolences back.

Two days later, there was another invite to meet. The gloss was starting to dull by this stage, I must admit, so I wasn't that surprised when, an hour before we were supposed to meet, and I hadn't even bothered to get showered, he texted to say aforesaid friend had committed suicide.
Now, I may appear dreadfully cynical and hard with my narration of events, and I apologise for any offence caused. But either he was a dreadful jinx, or a whopping liar. And I suspected the latter. In fact, my radar was going overtime and I seemed to be zoning in on Homo Sapiens Marriedus.

I withdrew from contacting him, but I received a blow-by-blow account of his latest misfortunes via text. I declined to respond to the next invitation to meet. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would contact me at the last moment to tell me he had just found out he was pregnant and was struggling with morning sickness...

One for the girls!

Good evening Hexers,

I was most impressed by Matt’s info-blog on the dating site, interrodate, and have realised that you gurlies out there need to know what to expect. It’s all very well Uncle Matt telling you that all the women are prostitutes and nutters…what about the blokes who lurk on there, too?

Well, Auntie Agnes can now reveal all.

As soon as you upload a name, if it appears even vaguely feminine, the men will besiege you. This is before you have had the chance to devise your questionnaire, work out what the hell you want to ask, and work out whether you actually care. Many men will presume you are hot to trot and will come straight out with, Fancy meeting up for a shag, LOL? (Actually, that is way too literate, they would actually write, Wana shag LOL…and omit the question mark, because they are retards.)

You may like to take a peek at some of their questions, which generally require a ‘yes’/’no’ response. If you are feeling really excited, have a go at answering them with a bit of acerbic badinage. These are my top ten favourites:

10. Do you like golfers?
Answer: Do I care?
9. If I corted you with roses and chocolates, would you think I was romantic (yes) or after something (no).
Answer: I would think you were a retard because you cannot spell.
8. Sunbathe (yes) or skiing (no).
Answer: I only like to sunbathe when it is chucking it down with rain, and skiing is best done in July.
7. What would you prefer, a rich, stupid man (yes) or a poor intelligent man (no).
Answer ‘yes’ every time. Who wouldn’t want a rich thickie at her beck and call? I ask you…This guy is obviously a bit thick, so he might also be rich – chat him up…
6. Would you scrap the ice off my car windscreen in the winter (yes) or would you find an excuse not to do it (no)?
Answer: If you want me to ‘scrap’ the ice off your car windscreen, I can easily find a dirty big brick and lob it through. It’d soon be considered ‘scrap’. Obviously, this bloke wants a skivvy. Avoid.
5. If someone was havin a friendly flirt with me or me with them, would this upset you?
Answer: Would it upset you if I took your best mate into the bogs under your nose and gave him a jolly good seeing to? This guy wants to have his cake and eat it…fool.
4. I have kids. Do you mind?
Answer: Mind your own bloody kids, mate – get a babysitter .
3. Do you like Jade Goody and agree with her actions and conversations and opinions on celeb big brother?
Answer: I didn’t even realise Jade Goody had enough brain cells to be able to form an opinion, actually.
2. Do you think I’m good-looking?
Answer: No. Anybody fat-headed enough to ask that type of question simply deserves to be put down.
1. Now that you have answered all of my questions, does the fact that I am married put you off? Answer: I have contacted HexMyEx and they are currently in negotiations with your soon-to-be ex-wife, loser.

I think, on the whole, there are two men on interrodate who have a modicum of intelligence. One is Uncle Matt. The other is my Dad.

Agnes Mildew is a recognised member of interrodate. Should you wish to chat her up, please ensure that you use good England in yor ansas 2 her utherwiz she is lickly to blow u out.