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.

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.

How to avoid dating disasters...

I am still waiting to meet the man of my dreams from these crappy dating websites, but I think you gents might like to read what really puts women off...every time...

These are the top ten no-nos on your first date:

1. Talking about yourself all the time. Yes, yes, I've heard it all before that you blokes, when you are nervous, you have to talk about yourself. Well, it's dull. Dull as ditchwater. I am much more interesting than you, so let's talk about me.

2. Calling up your Mum to tell her you are going to be out late. This happened to me on the one occasion I deigned to go out with a younger man. I was incredulous...I was even more shocked when he revealed that his Mum wouldn't approve of me because I was divorced...I let him off, but when he got cold feet as I got a bit jiggy and offered him a free lap-dance with my wellies on and he ran home to Mummy, he was crossed off my list.

3. Calling up your wife to tell her you are going to be out late. I know she definitely won't approve of me...

4. Wearing skanky clothes. I always make a point of dressing up for my dates. I could hardly credit it when one chap pitched up wearing flip-flops, cargo poofter-pants, a footie shirt (and it was Man U - bleurgh!) and a baseball cap.

5. Grabbing hold of my thighs, arms, face, bum and anywhere else at every opportunity. One bloke, on our first date, rubbed himself up on me so much I thought I would end up with either splinters or pregnant. He didn't redeem himself by slavering in my ear that 'This is nice'. Might have been for him, but I was wearing a new leather coat and spunk stains are difficult to remove from leather.

6. Forcing your tongue right down my throat when we say goodnight. If you do it again, I'll bite the bloody thing off.

7. Having bad breath. Because when you try to shove your tongue down my throat and I jerk my head away quickly, your smelly slobber will cover my face and I will smell it the whole drive home.

8. Showing off your car/phone/watch/Man at C & A suit...whatever. I, despite what some people say, am not a gold-digger. I am not impressed by your material goods. My stuff is nicer than yours, anyway, and it's not been bought on the never-never, either.

9. Trying to be cleverer than me. You aren't. Get that into your head right now. If we have a relationship, I will always be cleverer than you and don't you forget it. I am a Superior Person and use Superior Words. And I have an O level in Art. Don't ever come to the Stretton Fox with me and try to analyse my body language. I will punch you on the nose and you won't be in any indecision over that gesture.

10. Banging on and on about your ex and how she didn't understand you/hurt you/abused you. Get a life. Get a move on. If you can't, go away, you are boring and stupid. I have no time for pathetic miseries. I don't help people move on. I am not Marjorie Proops. I am Agnes Mildew and I don't take any crappy-crappy nonsense from blokes. They take it from me.

If you think you can come out on a date with me without succumbing to any of the above, I am happy to meet you, bring you back to my house and rampantly seduce you whilst stealing your credit cards from your Man at C & A suit pocket. I shall also sign your mobile phone up to receive my affirmative hourly texts at only £13.50 per text.