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.

1 comment:

@GregCross82 said...

Ha, great stuff!