Saturday, 12 April 2014

(Not) Love in Westminster




I haven’t written a blog in a long time.  I sold my soul to a temporary data entry job (with no internet access-arghhhh)!  For an extra pound an hour, I have been working in a former prison, with a quarter inch view of sky, a temperamental scanning machine and a coven of sugarless, menopausal women.  Great, if you enjoy working in an air conditioned office all frickin’ winter:

“Oh Janice, I’m having another flush, crack the whirry thing up to 10".  

Morose if you’re still alert to life, believing it to be a thing of beauty rather than something you squander 9 til 5, en route to a retirement in an SW14 postage stamp garden.

But mainly I stopped posting because I’d become a victim of my own caricature.  My rich sex starved narrative, whilst a collective source of amusement was slowing strangling my lady garden and informing my love life.  So I embarked on a social experiment:

Quit the blog.  See if the men flock…

And they kind of did!  Believe me, no one was more surprised than the Lollster.  The mini skirts were back and the crimper on permanent standby.

Perhaps, working in the ancient institute of parliament has assisted me on my quest.  I'm not sure they've seen women who wear mascara or own a fully supportive bra since the pre suffragette movement. HOWEVER, I waded through the mire and talked (sometimes seductively) on levels with contractors, police, committee analysts, MPS…and whilst I cannot talk about a lot of my findings, here are a few of my learnings over the past three months:
  • Never boost the ego of a divorced man over 45.  They are ravenous, deluded, blood suckers.  Whilst they may kiss elegantly and be knowledgeable on the finer intricacies of a woman, they will inevitably be social vampires, on the prowl for energy kidnap and have a cavalier flair for the improper and flamboyant use of emoticons.


No, you can not even get the tube 'there'.  Ever.  All buses on permanent diversion, fruit loop.

  • Never snog a random on a night dedicated to the theatre.  When normal people watch a play, it may involve a G and T and a convo about the ethics of Jacobean staging.  But no, the Lollster watches a play, sinks three bottles of Prosecco with Pip Swallow, accidentally gets her feet tickled by a dirty contractor and snogs said (dodgy, weathered but VERY handsome) contractor enthusiastically in the Notting Hill drizzle.
  • Never be the other woman.  Special only in the afternoons, keeping the perfume and glitter on the downlow so as not to infect his life.  Becoming a poison.  A secret carrier amongst an unpolluted and morally courageous public.
  • Do snog men with pierced tongues.  Don’t make jokes about them being stuck in the nineties.
  • Try to stop moaning about the lack of investable characters on You Porn.  It is not their fault they can’t act.  Not everyone trained at the Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama.
  • Rum is not the answer to heart ache.
  • Rum is not the answer to a soulless job.
  • Rum is the answer to most other things.
  • Don’t get a fringe if you have a small forehead.   It is time consuming at 6am and ultimately unneccesary.


#hotasshitthough

  • If someone won’t let you love them, do not love them.  Even if they are brilliant, capable of supreme brilliance, reek of brilliance to the point of intoxication and are caked in aceness.  When there is an invisible flight path connecting the two of you in a starless sky, between Bermuda currents and exploding, flinty meteorites…take the beautiful, perfect dick heads advice. 
  • Do poke old friends on Facebook.  It’s unexpectedly funny like a triumphant trump in the workplace.
  • Don’t talk to security guards outside of work hours.  They will start planning a collective future on the assumption that you’re into them when you’re just killing time between jobs and can’t yet be arsed to walk to Trafalgar for a Pret, avocado sandwich.
  • Always offer to do the coffee run.  Your loyalty card; a personal totem of success in an unrewarding universe.
But above all else:
  • When life gives you unripe limes, put them in your rum anyway.

I suppose if I’ve learnt anything since I last spoke to y’all, it is to avoid being someone who is dead inside.  I constantly meet people whose eyes have clouded over, who cannot freefall, who cannot put themselves freely and fleetingly in someone else’s possession, who have forgotten how to smile and who think it is acceptable to make an already cooling, *frosty office, colder.   

*Not a metaphor.  But also totally a metaphor.

I am nearly at the end of this temp post.  I am ready to pack up my bags once more like Supernanny and move on to my next destination, my flight path, as yet unprogrammed.  I am ready for the warmth of summer outside of my prison cell, to feel the sun on my face. 

I am thinking it is time to stop kissing people in the street, after dark, with abandon.  After all, it was but an experiment.  I have learned that love is cold, uncompromising and always governed by someone else.  We are all but lowly temps in an office, knowing that we are capable of something greater but unable to move for the giant, menopausal thumb on our head and flattening down our (possibly misjudged) fringe. 

I may still be at the bottom of every rung but I am free and I have (if only fleetingly) allowed myself to feel.  A wide awake fuck up, edging through a sleeping, prickly hedgehog nest.  And if I find myself in a black suit once more, on a reception desk, hungover, no love in my life, at least I will have space between phone calls to once again note down my musings. 

The blog is about to be back people!!  The blog is about to be back.

You very lucky, very sexy bastards.

Wednesday, 15 January 2014

Pale Imitations


I tend not to like other people that much.  The only time I break the code and talk to strangers is:

  • when traveling North of Newark

  • at the bar.  (Might get a free drink and or/phone number.  Aiiiii)

  • in the event of a cardiac arrest.  (Someone has to call the ambulance, it might as well be muggins)

And of course:

  • in a mosh pit

Sometimes I don’t trust others (or myself) but I have been known to blindly smoke anything put into my mouth in a mosh pit.  It’s something about the intimacy, the sweat, the united love of the band.  Nostalgia, as per.  *Isn’t most of our lives afforded to yearning something?

*Wait, hang on, put the crack pipe down Loll.  And step away…

I met a hottie at The Smyths gig.  The Smyths being the no.1 Smiths tribute band.  (Nothing like a fake Morrissey to get your loins pumping).  


MOSH PIT GROUND ZERO.  NORTHERN BITCHES TAKE A STAND.

After pulling his eager tongue out of my mouth, the mosher introduced himself.  (Better late than never).  Unfortunately, he had the same name as my ex-boyfriend.  Not a flying start.  My ex is lovely and all but he did fragment my heart in such a way that I could never again love anyone with goolies.

ANYWAY, my mind was working overtime, I was suddenly faced with the imminent danger that I may be called upon to ‘put out’.  I haven’t shaved my legs since 1992 but this guy was tasty and I owed my foo foo some fun.  I’d kept her lonesome for long enough.  I sometimes think of her as Moira Stewart in the tax return advert: grim faced and caged under the stairs. 

Mental thoughts started invading my brain:

  • ‘What if he wants to follow this up with a food date’?  (I have an exposed gum on my fangy canines so stray herbs can blight my smile.  No one wants to be rendered unshaggable between the starter and the Main).
  • ‘What will he make of my tofu encrusted bedsit?  Will he judge the ironic cat cushions’? 
  • ‘Will he overstay his welcome and not fuck off the next morning’?  I’m a writer dude, I want to lay in pools of my own thought juice, eat sweetcorn out of the tin and catch up on Big Brother…

I tried to push away such psychotic meanderings as we danced to Shoplifters of the World Unite…and then it hit me.  He wasn’t even a proper Smiths fan.  Was he shouting along to the vast intricacies of Sheila Take a Bow?  WAS HE BALLS?!  A hummer, we had ourselves a hummer.

“What’s your favourite song”?  I whispered in his ear, all sexy like Pfeiffer’s cat woman.

If it’s Charming Man, you’re a fake, if it’s Charming Man, you have no imagination, if it’s…

“Charming Man.  Such a tune”.

And on cue, fake Morrissey launched:

‘Punctured bicycle on a hill side desolate…’

Lover boy didn’t even know the words.  I kissed him just to quench his silence.

“What did I do to deserve that”? he asked.

That was it, right there.  My worries diminished.  I knew in that second that I was heading home to Jack Bauer and a reheated stew.  Don’t ask me such questions.  Grab me.  Tell me what you’re going to do to me.  Be the man.  BE THE MAN!

Nothing but a phoney in a room full of phoneys.

I spent the rest of the evening spontaneously tonguing him and walking off on adventures like a feral cat with commitment issues.  I broke into the club next door, (which was turd so I returned), I repeatedly told a student that he looked like Darius Danesh until he alerted security…at one point, me and my friend Emma pretended to lez off on two pouffets.  A clever ruse to get the old man bassist to notice us.  He did, moving our drinks out the way like a helpful dad.  (The best thing about that moment is that it wasn’t awkward).

All in all, the evening was odd.  Nothing like a tribute band to enforce the ideal that you are playing at being an adult.  I sometimes feel I’m living in the glitch in the matrix, the unhelpful space between two pouffets as your arse sinks downwards. 


Yes fake Morrissey, you have a smashing quiff and you sing pretty good but you’re probably called Melvin and work in IT.

And yes, kisser boy with the same first name as my ex-boyfriend, you may look the part of a sexy mosh pit pull but you never broke into a palace with a ‘spoon and a rusty hammer’ and you’re far too approachable and easy to read.  The Michael Mcintyre of leading men basically.

So next time, I will go to a ‘real’ gig and find myself a genuine riff-tastic shamen.  (Maybe I’ll even shave my legs in anticipation).  

And I will of course fill in that tax return, Moira.   I think we’re all due a big, fat rebate.  Aren't we love?



Wednesday, 18 December 2013

Time to Grow Up? (Parties and Open Houses)


As we all know, the only good thing about Christmas is:

  • A bearded man emptying his sack in your room

and
  • going to ‘Open Houses’.

Mulled wine: get in my face.

I’ll even pretend to like Christmas, anything to reach the buffet and the secret stash of Moet and Chandon.  (Lolly don’t like the cheap shit). 

My first Open House of the year was at a Uni friend’s gaff.  (Remember Uni everyone?  The £6 out of your pay packet each month; a happy reminder of those jager bombs you sank 12 years ago). 

The only problem was that the party meant…urghhh…eeesh…crossing the river.  The Shard screaming a shrill warning from its Barbican river bank:

“Do not cross over, oh great one.  Stay away from the chicken bone pavements, cavalier spittle and (shudder) Ethel Austin fashion boutiques”.

But I shut my eyes, pumped up Kate Bush on my Beats and sped forth to the middle class playground of Herne Hill.  Inclusive of petting zoo.  Casual.


2013 AND THE REINDEER RECESSION

(I can happily report that I did not encounter one chicken bone upon my journey, only a vast array of printed canvas bags in the pop up market.  South London, don’t you DARE take on Crouch End in yummy mummy-ness.  You’ll be selling carrots with the leaves on and queuing at your bus stops before we know it.  Where are the chavs?  Chavs?  Anyone)?

Now, the ‘do’ was frickin’ lovely.  Snackets, champagne on entry and my hot friend greeting me; all freckly and ginge.  As I went to throw my coat down, we hesitated at the closed bedroom door. 

“Shit, are people getting down to it already?” I asked, my excitable eye twitch working overtime.

“No. Someone might be feeding a baby”.

Babies?  What?  At a party?  But I’ve brought poppers.

I hung my matted ‘faux fur’ on the balustrade and headed downstairs to a mix of toddlers and married couples.

‘To be fair, we probably all have lots in common (as well as our age)’ I perused, setting out to locate a Retty girls three party essentials:

  1. Bubbly.  (Champagne or Cava, preferably both.  In the same glass.  Exotic.  A taste of the continent).
  2. Singletons.  (Any out there in Las Wilderness?)
  3. Smokers. (Generally the most interesting and quieter of the species: less talk, more listen.  Plus, anyone who chooses to isolate themselves from society, has my vote).

I troffed my body weight in nachos and met a dancer (gay AND taken), charity fundraiser (married), a director I worked with five years ago who failed to remember me (married and a parent), a teacher (engaged) and a divorce lawyer (single).   JACKPOT!  He had floppy hair and was obvs posh but I enjoyed the way he worked the room, courting business from even the most amorous of couples.  A knowing look here, a business card there…he also swore at the most inappropriate moments, generally in front of parents or open eared toddlers. My head was saying ‘run’, my heart was saying ‘soulmate’.

Chatting outside under a corner of Brixton sky, I meandered in for a snog when he dropped a clanger:

“I thought I was IN with the hot chick by the fondants but she kissed the tall guy in the pudding jumper”.

Great.  It was probably my bindi.  No one wants to kiss a blonde westerner with a bindi, do they? 

As night fell, I downed my Cava/Champagne mix, thanked my adorable mate, his husband, his parents, the dancer, the fundraiser, the director (who was now squinting a vague recognition that I perhaps sold him a beverage once, instead of playing lead wench in his play), the teacher and a baby, because, well, he was the only one blowing me kisses.


I WOULD HAVE PHOTO SHOPPED THE DOUBLE CHIN BUT HEY! THIS BLOG IS A 95% REPRESENTATION OF THE TRUTH

The next night, I attended the party of my voiceover agent where most people were about thirty years my senior (boom!) and tiddly from the free bar (double boom)!  I was referred to as ‘youthful’ all evening and the velvety toned oldies were bumming the bindi (*triple boom)!  

*Too much boom?  Is there such a thing?

I spent an hour talking to a silver haired wonderment because he was wearing a tie of hot air balloons.  Between tales of his bezzer mate Terry Wogan (AKA Trouser Snake), he’d drop in famous voiceovers he’d done throughout the years.  It’s hard not to wee in excitement when you’re on 7.5% cider and you realise you’ve just been talking to the **guy who introduced the 1 o’clock news for 20 years. 

**I’m a cheap date.

I got the tube some of the way home with an ace Geordie from the party.  At this point I was shit faced to within an inch of my life and full of festive hum-buggary.

“I just want a man who can come round and put a shelf up, you know”?

“Wye eye pet”.

Oh, wow.  I was THAT girl on the tube.  I should have just fallen to all fours and barfed on someone’s Reeboks.  (But I was north of the river and we don’t wear Reeboks, darling). 

I am trying to like Christmas, I really am.  And I’m enjoying the free bars, the Open Houses, the buffets, the bubbles.  I will trick myself into being a little more glass-half-full, which is…well, ironic. Because no one should wake up the morning after a Christmas party thinking:

‘Shit, did I really spend 10 minutes on the Victoria Line complaining that “guys don’t like girls with boobs anymore” to THE voice of Big Brother?

…your left eye now glued shut with a rusty bindi and your left hand still clutching an unopened bottle of poppers, child lock intact.


ME WITH THE ACENESS BB SENSATION THAT IS MARCUS BENTLEY AND SOME RANDOM GUY I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION OF MEETING.

Tuesday, 19 November 2013

Being Shallow in the Modern Age


It’s not you.  It’s me. 

I had a date.  So naturally I stalked the internet for him to seek out a deal breaker and cancel. I’m not sure why I do this.  I get scared.  Mainly of awkward silences but also the thought that I might like him and have to surrender my cod-for-one in a parcel, tickety-boo existence.

You Tube proved fruitful. A few watches later and I was copy and pasting the link to my nearest and dearest…

‘Guys, watch the following clip.  I have a date with the guy who appears 43 seconds in.  Quick question.  Does his mouth move weird’?

“No.  You have issues,” came the first reply.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked another.   (And that was just my mother).

I don’t know.  I’m a ball bag?  If men did this to me, I'd get the hump fo sho: 

‘GREAT rack but serious wrinklage around the lower neck area and definite early signs of bingo wings.  Would probs cheat at the first whiff of adventure.  Twat.’

Eventually, after the clip had circulated, a trusted friend commented that his tongue might be a little too big for his mouth.  We both concluded that that might NOT be a bad thing (wink wink).

But then he made a big Boo Boo: he left me a voicemail.   Not cool dude.  (For a sometimes receptionist, I don’t half hate taking phone calls).

I waded through my answer machine, Babs leaving miniature love notes:

“Hiya love, it’s mum.  Just calling to see if you’d seen Sam Bailey’s performance.  She’s got a right voice on her.   You’re not answering so you must be out…again”. 

“Hiya love, it’s mum.  Can you write your Christmas list for Aunty Brenda?  She’s going into Norwich at the weekend.  You must be out…again”.

A few from PPI and then…

“Hello Lolly.  It’s Frederick.  It’s Wednesday at a quarter to eight in the evening.  Just calling to see if you’re well…

You lost me at ‘press 1 to listen…’

I pressed 3 for delete and lamented on why I’m such a shallow chump.  Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.  And now I’m ignoring his texts like all those boys have done to me.  I am scum. 

I decided to recover from my misdemeanours by dating someone else.  He was big, with a beard and there was no trace of him on the t’internet.  I courted him in my usual affectionate way: 


(All names have been carefully and seamlessly changed in this event of public slaying).

We met for a pint in Golders Green.  Here were the main issues:
  • He’d suggested Golders Green.  (We all know, the ONLY good thing about Golders Green is the chance of a Richard Madeley spot  in Waitrose).
  • He was sporting a half beard.  (Shave it or grow it.  But most of all; just grow it).
  • He looked like page three of the River Island catalogue.  (Leave the gel in 1997, babe).
  • His hands appeared callous free.  Get OUT.  (They hadn’t so much as seen a flat pack in their limited, sausage sized life).
I coped with all this by largely talking about myself and live-tweeting the whole event.

A date is like a drawn out salsa.  And I know all the moves.  Plus, I’ve been at it so long, I make Brucie look like a teen Belieber.  

Let them buy the first drink so they feel like a man, and step and slide.  Look around the room occasionally so they can do a quick body scan, and shuffle step…BLAHHHHHHHH.


"Ah, me bloody back.  When do we fake her death and phase in Winkleman"?

Yes, I’m shallow.  And it jars with my general state of being primed, (often misguidedly), for battle.  Is it too much to ask for a man of middle age to come over, assemble a book case, allow me to cook him dinner and play a symphony with his pork pipe?  Who says feminism is dead?!  Eh?  EH??!?! 

If I don’t ‘get a piece’ soon, my Tim Roth obsession will keep flaring up like ecszma.  God knows how many gash episodes of Lie to Me I’ll have to sit through, just to feed this steamy, rough and ready impulse.  It’s more debilitating than scrawling through You Porn’s back catalogue of Frisky Firemen.

Fundamentally, it makes me no cooler than ‘cat lady’ in Flat 2 of my building, (you can set a clock to the post-Emmerdale ping of her microwave).

Maybe I should text the first guy back.  (I mean, if you were kissing the mouth, you wouldn’t see it). 

Oh actually, hang on people...this is fate because I think…I THINK, I have another voicemail from him:

“Hi Lolly, it’s Frederick.  Don’t take this the wrong way but I’d like to withdraw my offer of a date.  It’s not you, it’s me.  My ex has been in touch and the feelings are still a little raw.  Also, I Google Imaged you and what the FUCK is wrong with your double chin dude?  Harold Bishop should be worried…”

I press 3 to delete and fire up Lie to Me.


Friday, 8 November 2013

Planes, Gays and Automobiles


I recognised (but couldn’t place) the stewardess. 

I do this a lot; my memory is terrible.  I’m unsure if I know the person or recognise them from T.V.  I once said hello to Chico in a greasy spoon, thinking I’d met him at a party or tongued him in Soho.  On another occasion I skirted around a familiar guy in Wetherspoons, not knowing if he was in a DFS ad or part of my close family.  Then bam! It hit me: he’d opened my Natwest current account.

I was flying to my mate’s wedding in Tenerife.  Lovely.  A cheeky bit of sun and sangria.  (The legend goes that I was conceived in Tenerife at the onset of a hedonistic, 1980s stupor.  I was journeying back to de homeland.  It was almost biblical).

Initially, things on the plane had seemed fine.  Seatbelt checks were done, life vests blown into…until the pilot announced himself in fits of laughter…

“This has never happened before but er…one of the engines won’t start”.

I shot a quick glance to the familiar looking air stewardess…

Had I lived with her? 

Bought food from her?

No. 

No. 

Did she look afraid that we might die on the big jet plane? 

Possibly. 

And most importantly:

Could we purchase Gin and Tonics whilst still on the ground?

Three hours and various doubles later, (after the old couple next to me had offered to set me up with their elderly, overweight neighbour Del), we were ready to rumble.

“Don’t read into this but I will not be flying with you as I have an early morning commitment”.  The pilot goes.  “Cabin crew prepare for take-off.”

Early morning commitment?  Yeah, I’ve seen Flight with Denzil Washington.  Early morning pick-up more like. 

As I wondered who would be flying our plane, it clicked!  How I knew the stewardess!!   She was from my frickin’ burlesque class!

“Hey”!  I shouted down the plane.  “It’s me”!

She looked, she registered, fiddled with her seatbelt and faced a crying baby.

“Yoohoo”!  I screeched, momentarily stunning the toddler kicking the back of my seat.

“Damn bitch doesn’t recognise me with my clothes on” I moaned to the couple next to me.  The guy looking ‘oh-so-not-casually’ at my boobs.  (How did he get to the age of 77 without realising that girls clock that shit)?  He muttered something about the Munich air disaster, the rusty engine spluttered it's way to ignition and we were on our way.

A drunken bus ride and some conked out sleep later…I located my friends at the breakfast buffet.  Taking full advantage of their all-inclusive status, I ate and drank for free.  ALL weekend!  And the best bit was that I never had to go to the bar (as I didn’t have the special wristband).  Boom.


“I WOULD LIKE THE CAVIAR TO START, 
FOLLOWED BY THE GREY GOOSE BLOODY MARY”.

Needless to say I had necked an entire bottle of Cava before the ceremony.  A running trend of the Lollster.  


BEFORE P.O.V SHOT


AFTER P.O.V SHOT

I was seated in my usual position-the furthest table away from the happy couple, surrounded by loud drunks and reprobates.  Perfect.  Keep the wine flowing please waiter.

The wedding was of course, beautiful and scenic and hopelessly romantic and full of aged and crusty cheese plates.  Yes please!


THE HOTTY COUPLE: JULIE AND GARY

I had been promised two single guys by my fixer Gary.  Both of whom were not single now.  (Not if their Skyping sessions to blonde Brighton-ites were to be taken at face value).  A shame.  As one of their surnames was Horniman.  That would have made for a great anecdote.  But as is so often the case, the Horniman was not readily available.

There were some singletons on the island; gay, of course.  One who (word had it), had had to delay his flight home owing to a bout of chlamydia in his lower groinal area.  Lucky bastard.

I skulked back to my single, ocean view room, tucked up with my Morrissey autobiography and the most well-travelled condom of all time.

A couple of days later, when back on foggy Soho soil, I glanced across the burlesque studio at the familiar stewardess, taking off a black stocking with her teeth.

“Terrible flight delay, wasn’t it”?  I mentioned, whilst trying to swing my tassles anti-clockwise and perpendicular.

“What?  I’m sorry, I think you must have confused me with someone else”.

“No.  No, you were my stewardess to the Islas Canarias”.

She flinged the stocking, dropped the feather fan and fixed me with a glare.

“Afraid not.  I work as a General Health Nurse.  I cauterized your piles, a week last Saturday”.

Ah.  So, you did bird, so you did.

I walked out into the Guy Fawkes evening, a feather tail hanging apologetically between my legs.  I skulked back to my Domino Pizza bin-alley facing room, tucked up with my book and the most well-travelled condom of all time and did the only thing left to do: I made myself a brew and snap chatted Del.


Wednesday, 16 October 2013

Grindr for Girls



It started like an urban legend; whisperings in pubs, the tail end of a night bus anecdote: Tinder.  The new way to date.

For taken people, gay folk or those whose finger is located somewhere other than the collective pulse, allow me to fill you in.  A downloadable, FREE app (ker-ching) that shows your last 5 Facebook photos, Tinder links you to people within a selected radius.  That can be within 25 miles of (can I get away with jizzing?!) er...spitting distance of your good self.  It shows an endless stream of profile pictures that you press ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to.  It’s like Grindr but with less willy photos and a more prolonged courting ritual.  If you ‘like’ someone that ‘likes’ you, you are able to chat, at text length.

Initially, I was like no, no, NO.  This year I have enjoyed abstaining from below the waist activity with all of the following:
  • Attached men.
  • Any callers after 10pm.
  • Girls.  (Undoubtedly owing to my beard fetish, I have never fancied girls - excusing Stevie Nicks and Lorraine Kelly - but a distinct few of late have turned their attention to the Lollster.  Perhaps my A-sexualness took a replacement bus service via the bi-sexual masses on my way out of town).   

Plus, I don’t really know what I’m looking for.  I have spent the last year thinking I want a boyfriend but now that I have managed to afford living on my own, I realised that I just wanted someone to share the rent.  

HOWEVER, I hate to miss out on things.  Tinder seemed like the new, sexy equivalent of the Tamogotchi.  So I pressed ‘download’.  

And shit, things got off to an interesting start.  I was ‘matching’ all over the shop.  There was a particularly frantic day when I was chatting to both a Steve and a Steven.  One who was HAWT and one who was a bit Meh.  My heart rose and fell like a light up yo-yo.  

One evening, during the boring, historical bit of the Great British Bake Off, I was so crippled by ‘Tinder Finger’ that I had to **nurse it back to life in some pound shop Earl Grey tea.  

**The old Tinder wives adage.

Even ‘though it reduces us to our shallow primal state, at least gets to the nitty gritty.  Initially, does anyone really care about a ‘suitor’s’ career or how many marathons they’ve ran?   Surely it’s the features that appeal (personally, I would only ever seek out hunks with hair follicles on necks and fingers).  

I would love to say that intelligence and high brow documentary preference were more of an issue (as they would be in real life) but Tinder brings shit back to cave man basics.

And because the photos haven’t been carefully selected to promote a skewed portrait of self, we are able to sort the wheat from the chaff. 


IS SUGGS SINGLE AGAIN?  THAT'S MADNESS.

In my profile picture, I am so tanned that I look like a half digested prune.  I am also smacked to the eyeballs in glitter (better get used to that now bitch) and I share the frame with my mate Disco Dave, who is also known in some circles as ‘Cunty’.    God bless that bastard.

 

So when looking at prospective gentleman lovers, I am able to establish my deal breakers in a quicker transaction than usual.  These are the most obvious that jump out at me:
  • Computer selfies (get some friends).
  • ‘Playing’ a guitar (stop chasing a dream that will never surface.  You work in Human Resources.  And you’re a MAN).
  • Wearing wife beater tops.  (Who are you?  Peter Andre).
  • Wearing fancy dress.  (We get it.  You have no personality.  You feel the need to express yourself with hired nylon and a gorilla mask.  Attractive).
  • Being in any way sporty.  (The 6 pack exists merely to point and laugh at my very soft but very squishy, northern belly).


THE ONE ON THE LEFT WILL DO.


GOVINDA JAYA JAYA.  A PARTICULAR FAVOURITE.

It can certainly light up a cold, dank Vauxhall morning, whilst temping at a reception desk.  

“ What are you celebrating ”? Asks Ginesh, 35 in reference to a photo of my good self, shit faced in front of the palace.

“Nothing.  It was a Wednesday”.

Silence.  

“What’s your favourite *position?” asks Darius (unfortunately not Danesh), 25.

Er...block.

*Missionary.

I take a look at my list of matches.  There is so much facial hair it is beginning to look like a graduating year from an Al Qaeda training camp.  And just like in a pub, no one is making the first move.  What a frickin’ waste of time.

So as it turns out, Tinder IS like all the other sites.  I leave it wilting like Taste the Difference spinach on the third page of my I-phone.   Akin to the slow death of my 90s Tamagotchi (which, I believe met it’s end in a bowl of Take That branded Corn Pops, drowning in full fat milk).

The problem is, I did it half arsed.  I'm not that interested in meeting with anyone at the moment.  I love being single, (with fibre optic broadband, Netflix and an above average alcohol dependency to support, who wouldn’t)? 

And most of them are probably nutters anyway.  It was probably a whole load of lucky escapes.  That Darius sounded Crazy.  I mean, you should have seen the state of his Living Room.