My brother – that’s an odd introduction to a dating blog I hear you say, bear with me, there is a point. My brother, dearest frère, spent the Bank Holiday ridiculing me for the sheer magnitude of my blogs. “Oh here’s a picture of my supper, let’s whack it on the blog,” “Oh I woke up today and had a shower, let’s blog about it.” Obviously he was exaggerating, but after browsing through the past month’s blogs, I did find some of them to be rather wanting…
“Why don’t you just wait until you actually have something interesting to say? Wait until you have a blog that is worth reading,” he advised. I took it on board, and as you can see haven’t been my usual religious blogging self this week. Instead, I decided to harbour the fascinating details of my daily life and wait until I had something really interesting to report. Well my friends, as of last night, I now have something worth writing about: my second online date – and my worst ever date of all time.
Even thinking about it now makes me wince. The finance worker, who was based in IT, was, without doubt the most intolerable human being that I have ever had the displeasure of dining with. Where to begin?
Let’s go chronologically, let’s start with the beginning, which the arrogant twerp was late for. We had arranged to meet at 7.30pm. At 7.28pm I received the following text: “Traffic a little slow, should be there in 10. I am wearing a check suit and will be holding a brolly.”
At this point, I was (ever timely) already on my way, so had to stop and make a few phone calls to avoid rocking up as keen-bean-early as I had with the Doctor. Oh the Doctor, the nice, nice Doctor. Anyhow, despite being put out by this tardiness, my impression of Finance Worker was still unprejudiced. In fact, at 7.28pm I was still quite looking forward to meeting the man. His POF messages had been entertaining, forthright and confident, just the type of man I think I need. Sadly, I would find out over the next two hours, that what he was in print didn’t translate into personality. Didn’t translate at all.
At 7.40pm I spotted a check-suited man wielding a brolly. However, this check-suited man, was not, as his profile led me to believe, 6ft. He was 5ft 10 at a push. Nor was he athletically built. He was podgy. I’ve got nothing against a bit of podge, but don’t masquerade as a 6-pack Adonis online, when in reality you’ve got a belly worthy of liposuction.
So I may have been aesthetically let down, but I didn’t walk past, I didn’t turn and run, I was still keen to get to know this, what I thought to be, personable charmer. Intro was fine, ‘sorry I’m late,’ ‘good to meet you,’ ‘shall we go inside’ kind of thing. I wasn’t nervous. Indeed, I’ll divert quickly, for I have recently decided that nerves and feeling nervous is a luxury of being well rested. You have to have energy to get nervous. If you are exhausted, there is no physical energy left to waste on nerves. So there you have it, if you want to avoid the sweaty butterflies on first dates, just rock up knackered (with a good layer of make-up to cover the bags.)
Back to the Finance fiend. We entered the restaurant and commandeered a nice little table outside. The waitress came over and he ordered (first, without asking what I would like) a mojito, I chose an elderflower martini. He jumped in and delivered a well-prepared monologue on his life, his achievements, his work and his recent shoulder surgery (the result of his “professional” ski-ing days) which had prevented him from doing any exercise recently (the belly figures). He talked of his recent selection to a small group of individuals who are supposedly going to change the world. I mean honestly, there’s confidence and there’s just plain, unadulterated arrogance.
The drinks arrived, and he proceeded to tell me all about his previous dates, many of whom he proudly told me, he had normally managed to ‘convert’ with, by the second date. It was during this speech that I noticed how short his arms were, and how short, plump and stumpy his fingers were – which he was incessantly tapping together. By the third conquest, I started to get that increase in saliva feeling common just before you puke. I swallowed.
Maybe this was [his] nerves, I appeased. A rocky start, yes, but let’s not give up yet, I thought. I talked about some of the messages I’d received on POF, and mentioned the one (posted on here earlier – what a proposition) where a young man had suggested that I was the perfect specimen (with good bone structure) to carry and deliver his spawn, and that if I didn’t meet his requirements and provide him with a son and heir, then he would chop of my head. Quite, I think you’ll agree, a weird and freaky story.
What did Finance fiend have to say? “So, you think that you’ve got really good bone structure?” But he didn’t say it in a jokey way, a flirty way, his tone was nonchalant, short and actually quite aggressive.
“Well no, I mean it isn’t bad bone structure, I haven’t really thought about it.”
“You don’t think it’s bad?”
“No, I wouldn’t say it was bad, I wouldn’t, I mean I rarely talk about my bone structure.”
“So you don’t think it’s bad?”
I have to say, I was quite confused by this persistent and increasingly heated exchange. What was he doing? The answer came with his next shot. It was all a game. More specifically it was The Game – that dreadful and absurd dating guide for men, which in essence tells men that to get laid, they should be vile to women. What he was doing was the ‘neg’ – when you put a girl down enough, that their confidence is destroyed – and from these ruins you can pick them up as easy prey. This didn’t click until he had played (as mentioned) his next shot, which was…drum roll please…
A psychoanalysis of me, through the medium of ‘the cube’. Again, it comes from The Game. He told me that he would help understand me. Understand why I was online dating, why I was so hard on the outside, explain to me the barriers that I was putting up because I was so desperately insecure. I know – I’d known the guy for just over an hour. I indulged him though, “go on then.” And so we played. I’d actually played his ‘novel’ game before, so I knew, or at least I thought I knew what they represented: the cube – self-image, the flowers- your children, the horse – your potential spouse and the ladder – your life ambition.
So my cube was white, my flowers – a wild meadow, the horse – a huge, powerful stallion and the ladder – reached all the way up to the heavens.
His understanding of the first three were the same, but the ladder…oh dear lord, his interpretation of the ladder. He said that was representative of how well I wanted to get to know him.
Fuelled by what was now verging on loathing, and a few glasses of white wine, I couldn’t help myself: “Ah, well that obviously doesn’t work then, does it.”
Who did this egit think he was? Freud.
By this stage, every word that left his mouth was a clanger. Realising that things were going badly, he got progressively more vile. “Are those leggings, they are tight aren’t they?” “I would have thought that you’d have been texting about me while I was in the loo, but it seems you’ve just been eating.”
I’d had enough, I threw in the towel.
“Let’s get the bill.” It came, out of politeness – which he didn’t deserve – I offered to pay half. He accepted. I had to pay for this torment. We paid and I went to leave, he cleared his throat:
“Yeah, bit of advice for you. On the next date you go on, chill out a bit yeah.”
I kid you not.
After this horror, I need a bit of time to recover. I think I’ll have a week off. But, I shall not give up, the quest for true love continues…but dear God, please, please don’t subject me to another human being as shocking as this one.