This is it, I’m afraid. It’s the end of the road. It’s the last days of Rome. It’s the Final Countdown (do do doooo do, do do doo do dooo).
Yep, in news which will no doubt leave both of my readers crippled under a monumental wave of indifference, I must announce that it is the last in this series of my dating escapades.
And what a journey it has been. I’m currently sitting in my front room, typing next to a pile of old bank statements, but for the sake of this last article let’s just imagine that I’m standing on a beach, looking contemplative as I stare across a stormy sea. It might also help to read this in Morgan Freeman’s voice, but that’s your call.
It’s always nice when things have a happy ending. If Woody and Buzz had ended up shouting for their lives as they were slowly recycled into plastic juice bottles, I’m sure the film wouldn’t have been quite such a box office success.
In the same sense, I’d love to be able to tell you that my venture into the world of London dating has sparked amazing results, and that I’ve managed to meet the love of my life. I’d love to be able to say that she’s sitting here on the sofa beside me, chattering along to every word that I write with her siren-like voice. But she isn’t. Instead I’ve got a Lasagne for one and a copy of ‘Loneliness for Dummies’. Boo bloody hoo.
But that’s fine. As I said way back in my first article, I am a happily single man. I’ll admit that if I did somehow manage to stumble across my ideal woman, it would be hard not to be enthusiastic, but the chances of running into Jennifer Aniston at a speed dating event in Clapham are slim to none, and that’s a fact I need to learn to live with.
From the very beginning, I’ve always had my own rule not to settle for someone who isn’t the ideal match (just to keep the cold night air that one step further away), and I think in some respects that’s been my saving grace.
It’s a well known fact that desperation isn’t an attractive quality, so the modern dating scene is left with an almost paradoxical whiff about it: the more than a man/woman actually wants to find a date, the less likely that he/she is to succeed. I’m not generally one for giving tips, but if you do actually want to get out there and meet someone, embrace your inner thespian and act as if you couldn’t give a damn. “Oh what, you’d like to take me to dinner? Hmm...well I suppoooose I could. How does Friday in three weeks sound?”
Of course this is all insincere, masking any genuine emotion for the sake of progress, but what isn’t nowadays? Go and watch one episode of ‘The Only Way Is Essex’ then try telling me that there’s any sentiment left in the world today: modern society is just a slow descent into a pit of spray-on tan, made-up words (‘reem?’ really?!) and tooth whitener, so it’s probably best just to jump on board now while you’ve got the chance.
My original intention was to pit the different forms of dating against one another to see which was best, but I quickly realised that it’s difficult to just state that one is better than the other. After all, it’s all subjective.
If, for example, you make a terrific first impression but then tend to go wrong after a week or so (when they realise that your ‘eccentric wit’ was in fact just racism in disguise), then speed dating is probably best for you. Here you can meet a partner, impress them over the course of three minutes and then secure another date before they’ve had time to spot your weakness. Obviously, it’ll probably fall apart eventually, but it’s still your best bet.
On the other hand, if you’re like me and can string a sentence or two together on paper/PC, but tend to stumble into furniture and spill drinks on prospective partners in real life, then online dating is probably best. That way you can meet someone, let them get to know your personality first and hopefully they’ll already be invested enough that they’re not repulsed when you throw red wine all over their lap by accident on the first date.
It has been an adventurous couple of weeks for me, a man who is usually content just to sit and talk with friends rather than ‘pushing out the boat’, trying to flirt with random women on a night out. With the exception of one incredibly awkward night at a Tooting drug den and a strangely-enthusiastic evening at a Clapham gay bar, it’s been an enjoyable experience for me, and I’d recommend that others step outside of their comfort zones to give it a go.
I feel as if I’ve covered the basics of the dating world, so be ready to embrace the more surreal side of the London social scene when I return for my second series of singles articles.
Next Week: I’ll be sitting around in my pajamas eating fajitas, watching ‘Glee’ and not writing about it.
Showing posts with label John Jones. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Jones. Show all posts
Friday, 27 May 2011
John Jones: Going Gay
Right. That’s it. I’m done with women. Make-up, straighteners, Grey’s Anatomy, tampons... Bleugh.
Over the last nine weeks I’ve done everything for you ladies: I’ve trawled the moderately-shady parts of the web, dated blind, dated speedily: I was one step away from dating with my arms tied behind my back in the dark just to meet a nice, friendly woman with a love of fajitas. That’s it. That’s all I was after.
But no. After one rejection too many, this week I’ve decided to try a different avenue. After all, variety is the spice of life or whatever it is they say. Long story short, this week I’m going gay.
I’ve had one experience of a gay club before in my life, and I’ll have to admit it wasn’t the nicest evening of my life. It all begun in a small central London club, where a Hungarian friend suggested we move on to another place. “Ve Vant to go to this club in Vauxhall. Free drinks all night” she said. “Do you vant to come?” Stupidly I agreed, without checking the details. Next thing I remember, I was sitting in a car being driven by a drag queen, honking his way through London’s traffic in a sparkling gold bikini and sarong.
The club felt as if it had been built specifically to pander to stereotypes, filled with bald, chunky men clad in leather getting overly sexual to a ‘Mamma Mia’ soundtrack. I spent the evening in the corner of the club, petrified as I quietly sipped from my (free) cranberry and vodkas. What a winner. However, deep down I knew that London’s gay scene was more than just cheesy music and an overly-friendly toilet attendant: there was a heart and soul in there that I hadn’t yet witnessed, so this week I headed into the depths of Clapham to see if a man’s arms would be any less judgemental than a woman’s.
I’ve never been the world’s biggest ‘lad’, downing my own sick in the heart of a testosterone-filled drinking circle, but at the same time I’ve never been the world’s most effeminite man. I have my moments, don’t get me wrong (he says after pausing this week’s ‘Cougar Town’), but I’ve never been able to relate to the femininity that seems to be the free gift that men receive when jumping out of the closet.
Nonetheless, this week I’ve decided to ignore my aversions and confront things head on. Being the coward that I am, I recruited back-up in the form of two of my closest friends (one of whom, a straight man, jumped at the chance to go to a gay bar. I’ve not got a webcam here, but if I did you’d see one of my eyebrows raised to the point where it would be off the screen).
With a bit of searching online, I decided to go to a club called ‘The 2 Brewers’ in Clapham Common, and after several pints of Dutch courage in a pub down the road, we headed in tentatively. Please excuse my surprise here, but the club didn’t look like a Village People convention in the slightest: it was a large, friendly space and couldn’t have been further from the beefy intimidation that I had expected. Now I’m a straight man, straight as a Roman Road, straight as a robot’s ruler (one too many?), but even I could tell that this club was full of attractive men, rather than the men who are forced to work in the Argos stockroom because their face would scare off the customers.
But being able to appreciate attractiveness doesn’t make you gay: it doesn’t take a genius to work out that, say, David Tennant is more attractive than Danny Devito. If I wanted to really see what the gay world had to offer a single man I would need to look further. Luckily, it was karaoke night in the club.
Now I don’t want to brag, but I’ve got vocal chops that would put Orpheus to shame. I once gave a rendition of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ that made Susan Boyle weep for joy. If I was ever going to impress, this would be my moment.
We ordered drinks from the bar, and from the moment that I said the word “Foster’s”, I knew that the game was up. The barman might have been saying “There’s your change, Sir”, but his eyes were screaming “STRAIGHT! STRAIGHT! WE LET ONE GET IN!” I realised immediately that if I were to do this properly, I’d have to be a little less obvious. After much convincing from my giddy friends, I approached a group who were browsing their way through the karaoke songbook. Not only were they friendly, but after two sentences they invited our group over to their table.
Half an hour (and one impressive rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Because Of You’) later, the table was occupied by twelve men (and two women), all talking openly and inclusively to the group.
There was an atmosphere at the table that I definitely wasn’t used to, and I’ve got no shame in saying that it was genuinely refreshing: When was the last time that I had sat in a normal club and been surrounded by 12 single women with no effort? I tried my best to get my flirt on, but knew immediately that I was out of my depth. I had no idea how to flirt with a man. The moment that I met my friend in the pub she had said: “No. No-one will believe you’re gay”, and sitting at this table I certainly felt that I hadn’t got the vibe right.
Several drinks later, my (probably) straight friend took the moment by the horns and managed to somehow ask the group if they believed that we were gay. “You and her, no”, a man from across the table asserted, before pointing to me: “He is though”. I had done it.
It no doubt casts whopping great shadows on me as a straight man, but It was incredible: I had hacked into the Matrix, I had solved the Da Vinci Code.
As the evening grew to an end, our small group headed to the bus stop and one of the men from our table (Tim) reached out and took my hand. There was a minor shudder, but I pushed through and held it back. Forget ducking behind a bush in Afghanistan, hurriedly reporting to the cameraman as a trickle of wee runs down your leg: this was committed journalism. The commitment wavered, however, as he leaned in for a kiss as we waited at the stop.
I’ll tell you one thing for sure: gay men are quick. I jumped back involuntarily, but even as my head hit against the back of the bus shelter I felt a bristly lip brushing against my face. If Tim is reading this (he isn’t), all I can say is that I am genuinely sorry for not being entirely honest. I’m sure he’s not at home, crying his way through an Alanis Morissette album, but all the same it probably wasn’t the fairest of things to have done.
Needless to say, I’ve tasted the water, but am definitely not gay. I’ll keep my ear out for the moment when the women of Britain read this article and rejoice in unison.
Next Week: The last part of this series, where I talk bout wat I’ve dun learned.
Over the last nine weeks I’ve done everything for you ladies: I’ve trawled the moderately-shady parts of the web, dated blind, dated speedily: I was one step away from dating with my arms tied behind my back in the dark just to meet a nice, friendly woman with a love of fajitas. That’s it. That’s all I was after.
But no. After one rejection too many, this week I’ve decided to try a different avenue. After all, variety is the spice of life or whatever it is they say. Long story short, this week I’m going gay.
I’ve had one experience of a gay club before in my life, and I’ll have to admit it wasn’t the nicest evening of my life. It all begun in a small central London club, where a Hungarian friend suggested we move on to another place. “Ve Vant to go to this club in Vauxhall. Free drinks all night” she said. “Do you vant to come?” Stupidly I agreed, without checking the details. Next thing I remember, I was sitting in a car being driven by a drag queen, honking his way through London’s traffic in a sparkling gold bikini and sarong.
The club felt as if it had been built specifically to pander to stereotypes, filled with bald, chunky men clad in leather getting overly sexual to a ‘Mamma Mia’ soundtrack. I spent the evening in the corner of the club, petrified as I quietly sipped from my (free) cranberry and vodkas. What a winner. However, deep down I knew that London’s gay scene was more than just cheesy music and an overly-friendly toilet attendant: there was a heart and soul in there that I hadn’t yet witnessed, so this week I headed into the depths of Clapham to see if a man’s arms would be any less judgemental than a woman’s.
I’ve never been the world’s biggest ‘lad’, downing my own sick in the heart of a testosterone-filled drinking circle, but at the same time I’ve never been the world’s most effeminite man. I have my moments, don’t get me wrong (he says after pausing this week’s ‘Cougar Town’), but I’ve never been able to relate to the femininity that seems to be the free gift that men receive when jumping out of the closet.
Nonetheless, this week I’ve decided to ignore my aversions and confront things head on. Being the coward that I am, I recruited back-up in the form of two of my closest friends (one of whom, a straight man, jumped at the chance to go to a gay bar. I’ve not got a webcam here, but if I did you’d see one of my eyebrows raised to the point where it would be off the screen).
With a bit of searching online, I decided to go to a club called ‘The 2 Brewers’ in Clapham Common, and after several pints of Dutch courage in a pub down the road, we headed in tentatively. Please excuse my surprise here, but the club didn’t look like a Village People convention in the slightest: it was a large, friendly space and couldn’t have been further from the beefy intimidation that I had expected. Now I’m a straight man, straight as a Roman Road, straight as a robot’s ruler (one too many?), but even I could tell that this club was full of attractive men, rather than the men who are forced to work in the Argos stockroom because their face would scare off the customers.
But being able to appreciate attractiveness doesn’t make you gay: it doesn’t take a genius to work out that, say, David Tennant is more attractive than Danny Devito. If I wanted to really see what the gay world had to offer a single man I would need to look further. Luckily, it was karaoke night in the club.
Now I don’t want to brag, but I’ve got vocal chops that would put Orpheus to shame. I once gave a rendition of ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’ that made Susan Boyle weep for joy. If I was ever going to impress, this would be my moment.
We ordered drinks from the bar, and from the moment that I said the word “Foster’s”, I knew that the game was up. The barman might have been saying “There’s your change, Sir”, but his eyes were screaming “STRAIGHT! STRAIGHT! WE LET ONE GET IN!” I realised immediately that if I were to do this properly, I’d have to be a little less obvious. After much convincing from my giddy friends, I approached a group who were browsing their way through the karaoke songbook. Not only were they friendly, but after two sentences they invited our group over to their table.
Half an hour (and one impressive rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s ‘Because Of You’) later, the table was occupied by twelve men (and two women), all talking openly and inclusively to the group.
There was an atmosphere at the table that I definitely wasn’t used to, and I’ve got no shame in saying that it was genuinely refreshing: When was the last time that I had sat in a normal club and been surrounded by 12 single women with no effort? I tried my best to get my flirt on, but knew immediately that I was out of my depth. I had no idea how to flirt with a man. The moment that I met my friend in the pub she had said: “No. No-one will believe you’re gay”, and sitting at this table I certainly felt that I hadn’t got the vibe right.
Several drinks later, my (probably) straight friend took the moment by the horns and managed to somehow ask the group if they believed that we were gay. “You and her, no”, a man from across the table asserted, before pointing to me: “He is though”. I had done it.
It no doubt casts whopping great shadows on me as a straight man, but It was incredible: I had hacked into the Matrix, I had solved the Da Vinci Code.
As the evening grew to an end, our small group headed to the bus stop and one of the men from our table (Tim) reached out and took my hand. There was a minor shudder, but I pushed through and held it back. Forget ducking behind a bush in Afghanistan, hurriedly reporting to the cameraman as a trickle of wee runs down your leg: this was committed journalism. The commitment wavered, however, as he leaned in for a kiss as we waited at the stop.
I’ll tell you one thing for sure: gay men are quick. I jumped back involuntarily, but even as my head hit against the back of the bus shelter I felt a bristly lip brushing against my face. If Tim is reading this (he isn’t), all I can say is that I am genuinely sorry for not being entirely honest. I’m sure he’s not at home, crying his way through an Alanis Morissette album, but all the same it probably wasn’t the fairest of things to have done.
Needless to say, I’ve tasted the water, but am definitely not gay. I’ll keep my ear out for the moment when the women of Britain read this article and rejoice in unison.
Next Week: The last part of this series, where I talk bout wat I’ve dun learned.
John Jones: Speed Dating
Youknowitshardtomakeagoodfirstimpressionwhenyourushthings.
It really is.
I have enough difficulty with first impressions as it is: either I’ll be over-enthusiastic and end up alienating my company with one willy joke too many, or else I’ll try and play the ‘dark and mysterious card’ and end up freaking them out, silently staring with so much intensity it looks like I’m trying to make their face explode with my mind.
So you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, reaching the inevitable conclusion of locking myself up in a padded room and letting the general population go about their business happily.
But no: Like an unstoppable force of awkwardness, this week I have once again ventured out into the world of dating. And let’s be honest about it: I’m hardly brilliant at dating at normal speed, so God knows why I thought dating speedily was ever a good idea.
I hadn’t ever really thought about speed dating before. I had always lumped the idea together with midweek quiz nights at the student union and those awkward ‘get to know each other games’ that you’re made to do during job interviews and committee meetings.
So naturally I had no hesitation when looking for a decent speed dating evening. In the end I went with an event run by originaldating.com, a company recommended by my sister (also single, but infinitely less hopeless).
Signing up was simple enough: I registered my email and phone number, chose my evening and venue (they run 2-3 nights every week in Clapham and central London) and then sent off £20 payment for the night.
At the very moment that I clicked the ‘confirm’ button, however, the reality of the situation hit me.
Yes, speed dating is marketed as something fun, nonchalant and trendy, but in reality you’re being rapidly judged by woman after woman, proving conclusively that when past girlfriends have said “it’s not you, it’s me”, they’ve been blatantly lying to your face.
There were two possible scenarios running through my head, both terrifying: either I’d turn up and face twelve stone-faced women, each judging every word I said as I squirmed awkwardly in my chair, or (far more distressingly) the whole party would get on terrifically and before I knew it I’d be scarred for life, standing in the corner as twenty or so people gradually began descending into a naked frenzy of belly buttons and saliva.
I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I wasn’t brave enough to attend the evening on my lonesome, so I (somehow) managed to convince a friend to come with me (for the sake of this article let’s call him ‘George’).
As we approached the venue (‘Firefly’, a bar opposite Clapham Common), George was surprisingly confident, which was all the more worrying as I was shaking like a leaf.
The bar itself was relatively small, and as we entered we were told to take a seat and we’d be called when the event was about to begin.
George and I tried to pass the next few minutes in conversation, but I couldn’t help but notice other men littered around the venue, staring at one another with suspicion.
It felt like a metrosexual remake of an Old West movie, where half a dozen cowboys sit in anticipation for the first to pull their trigger, and I realised (for the first time) that I’d be in direct competition with the other men attending.
Sure, there’s always competition from other men in clubs, but here I’d be compared directly with the personalities and looks of the men next to me, each striving to get that coveted ‘tick’.
The actual event was fairly surreal. We all moved to a smaller bar upstairs, and there were seven men and seven women in total (a small enough number to prompt the organiser to offer us a free ticket to an event in the future).
My first two dates were definitely past the upper limit on my age range, but while I sat through the first ‘date’ feeling like I was talking to my career’s adviser, the second was clearly a fan of the younger man and asked how many children I wanted within the first two questions.
As the whistle blew to signify the end of that date, I sprinted away towards the next table as fast as my legs would carry me and jumped headfirst into four good dates with genuinely friendly women.
I was surprised by the calibre of girls who attended: all were funny women, capable of interesting conversation. Equally, they were all attractive professionals who appeared sincere in looking for a boyfriend.
The event was organised well, and I’d definitely recommend speed dating for anyone looking for an interesting night out – just make sure you bring back up.
I’ve always been a bit hesitant approaching women on nights out: I just think there’s no way of doing it without coming out looking a little sleazy, but I can definitely vouch for speed dating as a way of building this sort of confidence.
In fact, it may have worked a little too well, as George and I took the evening on to a local pub and decided to talk to anyone willing to listen.
But on to the inevitable judging. The only flaw that I can place on originaldating.com is that there was no massive rush to get the ticks and crosses sorted out, so I must admit that as it stands I’m none the wiser as to how the girls viewed me (though if past impressions are anything to go by I’m sure they’ve abandoned the current ‘Yes/No’ system and created a new column titled ‘Eejit’ just for me).
There was one woman who I did tick ‘Yes’ for, based completely on the fact that she was pretty and a hoot (though it must be completely possible to hide the crazy for a four-minute interval).
Although I’ll be batting for the other team next week, I’ll be sure to let you know how it went.
Next Week: Going Gay.
It really is.
I have enough difficulty with first impressions as it is: either I’ll be over-enthusiastic and end up alienating my company with one willy joke too many, or else I’ll try and play the ‘dark and mysterious card’ and end up freaking them out, silently staring with so much intensity it looks like I’m trying to make their face explode with my mind.
So you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, reaching the inevitable conclusion of locking myself up in a padded room and letting the general population go about their business happily.
But no: Like an unstoppable force of awkwardness, this week I have once again ventured out into the world of dating. And let’s be honest about it: I’m hardly brilliant at dating at normal speed, so God knows why I thought dating speedily was ever a good idea.
I hadn’t ever really thought about speed dating before. I had always lumped the idea together with midweek quiz nights at the student union and those awkward ‘get to know each other games’ that you’re made to do during job interviews and committee meetings.
So naturally I had no hesitation when looking for a decent speed dating evening. In the end I went with an event run by originaldating.com, a company recommended by my sister (also single, but infinitely less hopeless).
Signing up was simple enough: I registered my email and phone number, chose my evening and venue (they run 2-3 nights every week in Clapham and central London) and then sent off £20 payment for the night.
At the very moment that I clicked the ‘confirm’ button, however, the reality of the situation hit me.
Yes, speed dating is marketed as something fun, nonchalant and trendy, but in reality you’re being rapidly judged by woman after woman, proving conclusively that when past girlfriends have said “it’s not you, it’s me”, they’ve been blatantly lying to your face.
There were two possible scenarios running through my head, both terrifying: either I’d turn up and face twelve stone-faced women, each judging every word I said as I squirmed awkwardly in my chair, or (far more distressingly) the whole party would get on terrifically and before I knew it I’d be scarred for life, standing in the corner as twenty or so people gradually began descending into a naked frenzy of belly buttons and saliva.
I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I wasn’t brave enough to attend the evening on my lonesome, so I (somehow) managed to convince a friend to come with me (for the sake of this article let’s call him ‘George’).
As we approached the venue (‘Firefly’, a bar opposite Clapham Common), George was surprisingly confident, which was all the more worrying as I was shaking like a leaf.
The bar itself was relatively small, and as we entered we were told to take a seat and we’d be called when the event was about to begin.
George and I tried to pass the next few minutes in conversation, but I couldn’t help but notice other men littered around the venue, staring at one another with suspicion.
It felt like a metrosexual remake of an Old West movie, where half a dozen cowboys sit in anticipation for the first to pull their trigger, and I realised (for the first time) that I’d be in direct competition with the other men attending.
Sure, there’s always competition from other men in clubs, but here I’d be compared directly with the personalities and looks of the men next to me, each striving to get that coveted ‘tick’.
The actual event was fairly surreal. We all moved to a smaller bar upstairs, and there were seven men and seven women in total (a small enough number to prompt the organiser to offer us a free ticket to an event in the future).
My first two dates were definitely past the upper limit on my age range, but while I sat through the first ‘date’ feeling like I was talking to my career’s adviser, the second was clearly a fan of the younger man and asked how many children I wanted within the first two questions.
As the whistle blew to signify the end of that date, I sprinted away towards the next table as fast as my legs would carry me and jumped headfirst into four good dates with genuinely friendly women.
I was surprised by the calibre of girls who attended: all were funny women, capable of interesting conversation. Equally, they were all attractive professionals who appeared sincere in looking for a boyfriend.
The event was organised well, and I’d definitely recommend speed dating for anyone looking for an interesting night out – just make sure you bring back up.
I’ve always been a bit hesitant approaching women on nights out: I just think there’s no way of doing it without coming out looking a little sleazy, but I can definitely vouch for speed dating as a way of building this sort of confidence.
In fact, it may have worked a little too well, as George and I took the evening on to a local pub and decided to talk to anyone willing to listen.
But on to the inevitable judging. The only flaw that I can place on originaldating.com is that there was no massive rush to get the ticks and crosses sorted out, so I must admit that as it stands I’m none the wiser as to how the girls viewed me (though if past impressions are anything to go by I’m sure they’ve abandoned the current ‘Yes/No’ system and created a new column titled ‘Eejit’ just for me).
There was one woman who I did tick ‘Yes’ for, based completely on the fact that she was pretty and a hoot (though it must be completely possible to hide the crazy for a four-minute interval).
Although I’ll be batting for the other team next week, I’ll be sure to let you know how it went.
Next Week: Going Gay.
John Jones: Online Dating (Part Two)
I’ve been on two dates this week. Two. Now please don’t imagine me lounging about in a satin smoking jacket, smugly boasting about my conquests: the very idea of it still shocks me. You should understand, this is coming from a man whose usual idea of a wild night out is heading down to the fish and chip shop to collect dinner. But this week I’ve had two dates with actual, human women. Two!
The first date is difficult for me to talk about, firstly because she’s an old friend of mine (as in I’ve known her for a long time – I’m not out there hitting on 90-year-olds), but also because I know that she reads this column every week.
For that reason, let’s just say that it was the most amazing, mind-blowing evening of conversation that I’ve ever had (It wasn’t, she was a drunken mess – but a likeable drunken mess all the same).
So on to the second date of the week, and the main basis for this week’s instalment. Both of my regular readers will remember that a few weeks ago I had a crack at the world of online dating, which proved to be a much bigger challenge than I had imagined.
However, lurking in the depths of the plentyoffish.com database, hidden somewhere between the menopausal woman posing as a 22-year-old and the girl who (and I quote) “only dates vampires”, was a nice, attractive, genuine woman. Maybe.
On paper she ticked all the boxes: a music-loving redhead and a fan of Peep Show with a penchant for nights on the town. If it turned out that she had an Irish accent I might have had to propose there and then.
But I didn’t. I was cavalier. I was laid back. I was cooler than an Eskimo rap star, keeping messages short and not overly-frequent, bringing out all the A-grade self-effacing wit I could muster.
As I mentioned last time, I had found that most girls were looking simply for conversation on the web, never to manifest itself into meeting in real life. So you can imagine my surprise then when this girl (let’s call her ‘Kate’) suggested that we meet up.
I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I was nervous when the moment of meeting did eventually arrive. Don’t judge me for this confession, but one of my main fears was a surreal one: I’d turn up and instead of an attractive twenty-year-old woman, there’d be just be a schoolchild sitting there in the pub, staring at me silently.
I’d stand waiting at the place where I’d agreed to meet ‘Kate’, and the child would just be sitting there. I’d wait for a minute, then suddenly, BAM. The doors are kicked down and twenty gun-wielding policemen burst into the pub. There are television cameras, there’s an excited presenter, condemning me to hell and asking me why I had arranged to meet with the child. “I didn’t!” I’d exclaim, in a fit of desperation.”I’ve been set up!”, I’d shout. But it would be too late: I would already be on some sort of sicko register and condemned to a life of being spat on by strangers. A strange one perhaps, but this was one of the many possibilities working their way through the back of my (no doubt therapy-worthy) mind.
Luckily, Kate turned up without any attempt at false imprisonment. Meeting her in real life was a strange experience, at first. It’s like ordering a holiday: you can look at the brochure as much as you want, imagining what it’ll be like, but you can never quite predict the funny smell at the beach or the overly-camp lifeguard. I knew it was the same girl from the photographs I had been talking to, but the odd freckle, awkward mannerism and tendency to say ‘like’ between every third word still took me by surprise.
The evening was eventful, to say the least. We began with a venture into Suburban, a cocktail bar in Wimbledon. The first moments of awkwardness made me feel that some social lubricant was necessary, so we started with two strong cocktails (one of which is a drink called ‘Envy’ – definitely worth a try). However, even with a touch of chemical confidence in my system, it still felt a lot like hard work. After a while I figured out the problem: it was panning out more like an interview than a conversation. In my other life I’m a music journalist, so coming up with questions is normally no problem, but as I asked question after question after question there was a slow frustration boiling up inside: ‘What about my favourite film? Eh?! I suppose you don’t care if I get on with my siblings?!’ She didn’t. It might be petty, but as we continued with our one-way chat I felt myself slowly holding it against her. I wanted to call it a day early, but as she suddenly took my hand and led me into Edwards across the road, I had to wonder: ‘Is this her idea of a good date?’ Several drinks later and it had become a bit of a game for me, seeing how many things I could ask before she eventually returned the favour (for those who are interested, 24 was my record). It wasn’t early by this point, and again I was about to announce my departure when Kate mentioned that her housemates had invited us to join them in Wetherspoons. I’ll admit that things get a bit hazy at this point, but I jumped at the chance to talk to other humans (who might actually understand the concept of conversation), and chatted with one of her housemates until last orders.
Now I can’t be held accountable for this next turn of events: It was drunk John. He’s got a mind of his own: he likes to send love messages to girls that I don’t even find attractive. In short, He’s an eejit. Regret it as I might, for some reason drunk John decided that it was a good idea to accept an invite back to Kate’s student house. The place was like a scene from Trainspotting, only dirtier and with more drugs.
So I sat there for an hour or so, trying to relax in the squalor and definitely not doing anything illegal, until one-by-one her housemates retreated to their rooms. After minimal interaction for the good part of three hours, Kate then said she wanted to show me “something” in her room. She knew there was no something, I knew there was no something: still, we went to see something.
There’s nothing wrong with a cheeky snog: It’s noncommittal and more importantly, it’s fun. I’ll admit I wasn’t Kate’s biggest fan, but a little kiss didn’t feel out of line. After a short while, for the third time that night my flight instinct kicked in. I told her that I would be leaving in a second and headed off to the bathroom for the twentieth time that night. And here’s where things got a bit complicated.
I re-entered the room to find Kate lying under the covers, with her clothes thrown into a pile on the floor beside her. I’m sure at this point all the American frat boys reading this are high fiving their screen, trying to give me ‘props’ for ‘hitting that’, but I’m afraid that’s not quite how things panned out. Don’t get me wrong, I like a naked woman as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is Louis Spence), but jumping into bed with someone that I could barely tolerate didn’t feel like a good plan, no matter how attractive they were. Also, would I really want to be starting a relationship with a woman who goes to bed with someone knowing barely a single thing about them?
To cut a (very) long story short, my first (and only) ever online date ended with me being hurrying out of a Tooting student house/drug den, being screamed at by a naked woman swearing her mouth off and shouting “You led me on!” loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Needless to say, my Profile has been deleted.
Next Time: Speed Dating
The first date is difficult for me to talk about, firstly because she’s an old friend of mine (as in I’ve known her for a long time – I’m not out there hitting on 90-year-olds), but also because I know that she reads this column every week.
For that reason, let’s just say that it was the most amazing, mind-blowing evening of conversation that I’ve ever had (It wasn’t, she was a drunken mess – but a likeable drunken mess all the same).
So on to the second date of the week, and the main basis for this week’s instalment. Both of my regular readers will remember that a few weeks ago I had a crack at the world of online dating, which proved to be a much bigger challenge than I had imagined.
However, lurking in the depths of the plentyoffish.com database, hidden somewhere between the menopausal woman posing as a 22-year-old and the girl who (and I quote) “only dates vampires”, was a nice, attractive, genuine woman. Maybe.
On paper she ticked all the boxes: a music-loving redhead and a fan of Peep Show with a penchant for nights on the town. If it turned out that she had an Irish accent I might have had to propose there and then.
But I didn’t. I was cavalier. I was laid back. I was cooler than an Eskimo rap star, keeping messages short and not overly-frequent, bringing out all the A-grade self-effacing wit I could muster.
As I mentioned last time, I had found that most girls were looking simply for conversation on the web, never to manifest itself into meeting in real life. So you can imagine my surprise then when this girl (let’s call her ‘Kate’) suggested that we meet up.
I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I was nervous when the moment of meeting did eventually arrive. Don’t judge me for this confession, but one of my main fears was a surreal one: I’d turn up and instead of an attractive twenty-year-old woman, there’d be just be a schoolchild sitting there in the pub, staring at me silently.
I’d stand waiting at the place where I’d agreed to meet ‘Kate’, and the child would just be sitting there. I’d wait for a minute, then suddenly, BAM. The doors are kicked down and twenty gun-wielding policemen burst into the pub. There are television cameras, there’s an excited presenter, condemning me to hell and asking me why I had arranged to meet with the child. “I didn’t!” I’d exclaim, in a fit of desperation.”I’ve been set up!”, I’d shout. But it would be too late: I would already be on some sort of sicko register and condemned to a life of being spat on by strangers. A strange one perhaps, but this was one of the many possibilities working their way through the back of my (no doubt therapy-worthy) mind.
Luckily, Kate turned up without any attempt at false imprisonment. Meeting her in real life was a strange experience, at first. It’s like ordering a holiday: you can look at the brochure as much as you want, imagining what it’ll be like, but you can never quite predict the funny smell at the beach or the overly-camp lifeguard. I knew it was the same girl from the photographs I had been talking to, but the odd freckle, awkward mannerism and tendency to say ‘like’ between every third word still took me by surprise.
The evening was eventful, to say the least. We began with a venture into Suburban, a cocktail bar in Wimbledon. The first moments of awkwardness made me feel that some social lubricant was necessary, so we started with two strong cocktails (one of which is a drink called ‘Envy’ – definitely worth a try). However, even with a touch of chemical confidence in my system, it still felt a lot like hard work. After a while I figured out the problem: it was panning out more like an interview than a conversation. In my other life I’m a music journalist, so coming up with questions is normally no problem, but as I asked question after question after question there was a slow frustration boiling up inside: ‘What about my favourite film? Eh?! I suppose you don’t care if I get on with my siblings?!’ She didn’t. It might be petty, but as we continued with our one-way chat I felt myself slowly holding it against her. I wanted to call it a day early, but as she suddenly took my hand and led me into Edwards across the road, I had to wonder: ‘Is this her idea of a good date?’ Several drinks later and it had become a bit of a game for me, seeing how many things I could ask before she eventually returned the favour (for those who are interested, 24 was my record). It wasn’t early by this point, and again I was about to announce my departure when Kate mentioned that her housemates had invited us to join them in Wetherspoons. I’ll admit that things get a bit hazy at this point, but I jumped at the chance to talk to other humans (who might actually understand the concept of conversation), and chatted with one of her housemates until last orders.
Now I can’t be held accountable for this next turn of events: It was drunk John. He’s got a mind of his own: he likes to send love messages to girls that I don’t even find attractive. In short, He’s an eejit. Regret it as I might, for some reason drunk John decided that it was a good idea to accept an invite back to Kate’s student house. The place was like a scene from Trainspotting, only dirtier and with more drugs.
So I sat there for an hour or so, trying to relax in the squalor and definitely not doing anything illegal, until one-by-one her housemates retreated to their rooms. After minimal interaction for the good part of three hours, Kate then said she wanted to show me “something” in her room. She knew there was no something, I knew there was no something: still, we went to see something.
There’s nothing wrong with a cheeky snog: It’s noncommittal and more importantly, it’s fun. I’ll admit I wasn’t Kate’s biggest fan, but a little kiss didn’t feel out of line. After a short while, for the third time that night my flight instinct kicked in. I told her that I would be leaving in a second and headed off to the bathroom for the twentieth time that night. And here’s where things got a bit complicated.
I re-entered the room to find Kate lying under the covers, with her clothes thrown into a pile on the floor beside her. I’m sure at this point all the American frat boys reading this are high fiving their screen, trying to give me ‘props’ for ‘hitting that’, but I’m afraid that’s not quite how things panned out. Don’t get me wrong, I like a naked woman as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is Louis Spence), but jumping into bed with someone that I could barely tolerate didn’t feel like a good plan, no matter how attractive they were. Also, would I really want to be starting a relationship with a woman who goes to bed with someone knowing barely a single thing about them?
To cut a (very) long story short, my first (and only) ever online date ended with me being hurrying out of a Tooting student house/drug den, being screamed at by a naked woman swearing her mouth off and shouting “You led me on!” loud enough for the neighbours to hear. Needless to say, my Profile has been deleted.
Next Time: Speed Dating
John Jones: Ten Facts About Men
Quick fact for you: Did you know that if women live together for long enough they can get their monthly moodswings at the same time? You did? Ah, apologies. Okay, bet you don’t know this one: on average, women live almost five years longer than men. Look, stop yawning, it’s rude.
Now I’ve got to tread carefully here. I’m all for girl power, equality and doing a Greer (stick it to the man, sister!), but women can sometimes be too vocal.
Woah woah, put the nails away, I said sometimes.
Women have countless programmes, forums and publications to vent their emotions, discuss problems, pick up advice and all that business. People need room to express their feelings, I get that, but It’s pretty hard to stomach a sandwich at lunchtime when listening to a 50-something woman talk about her latest sexcapade.
I’m no long-term viewer, but there’s a reason those women are called ‘Loose’, discussing the ins and outs (and ins and outs and ins) of their sex lives on a daily basis.
Men, on the other hand, aren’t encouraged to be so vocal.
This might be a dying notion (and a generalisation at that), but I’ve been brought up to think that men shouldn’t be too open with their emotions.
Sure, it’s good to share the odd sob story on the sofa after a particularly teary episode of ‘Cold Feet’, but otherwise men are meant to be stoic and reserved.
This perception isn’t unsubstantiated either: studies show that on average women speak 13,000 more words than men every single day.
Yet still, here’s me blabbing on week after week about emotions (waaaah) and feelings (waaaaah) like some unstoppable moron.
But the times are a-changing, or so I’m told. While women have always had the opportunity to vent, perhaps it’s time that men become a little more vocal with their emotions and experiences.
This week, I’ll be alienating myself from my male brethren by revealing some of the lesser-known facts about our side of the species.
Men are blind (at least compared to women). Not only are women more receptive to variance in colour, but they also have a wider peripheral vision than men. Seriously, we play down how little we can actually see: men stumble around, struggling to make out which character is which on an IMAX screen while women notice when we graze a barmaid’s hand when collecting change – even if their backs are turned. And their eyes are closed. And they’re in a different bar. Most men are homosocial. Before the less-liberal side of our readership stand up and shout at their screens ”Wot?! I’m no bloody homo!”, being homosocial just means that you prefer to spend time with people of the same sex. It means nothing about sexuality, just that men like chatting to men, and that’s no secret – go to any pub on a Saturday afternoon and you’ll see hoards of them chatting over a beer or six. However, it is during moments like this when the idea of men being incapable of expressing sentiment clearly shines through as a myth. Women have the gift of the gab, no doubt, but give a man a couple of friends and he’ll have no problem sharing his feelings. Sure, those feeling will be littered with sarcasm and comments like “I’m not gay, but...”, but all the same I’ve seen some of the most emotionally evolved and even (dare I say it?) vulnerable comments come out of the mouths of male friends just as soon as the last woman has left the table.
Men are always bitter. OK, this one’s not a secret, but It’s a fact: modern British men aren’t supposed to be happy. From sitcoms all the way down to comic strips, the grumpy husband is a solid stock character that doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. It’s a trait established by decades of convention so there’s no change of it changing now. Stupid convention. I hate conventions. And when it’s too hot...or too cold, for that matter. I especially hate that middle one, when it’s not quite hot or cold. Jumper? No jumper? Who knows anymore? God, I hate jumpers.
Men are deaf (at least compared to women). Not only do women have a better sense of hearing than men, but they are also more naturally inclined to pick up variances in tone and pitch. Try telling a lie to a woman and she’ll hear every change in tone and tweak of your vocal chords, while all you’ll be hearing is the creak of the rusty sofa springs as you shift in your sleep. Not only are we stumbling about, half-deaf and half-blind, but Men also suffer from PMS. Girls have always had PMS as their ultimate defence card – “it’s not my fault, it’s the hormones”. Not only is it unquestionable, but most men are so freaked out by the even the concept of a period that we’ll just leave it be and try to retreat to our happy place. However, psychotherapist Jed Diamond discovered a male alternative, the amazingly-named “Irritable Male Syndrome”. Caused by a fluctuation in Testosterone levels, IMS can leave a man feeling grumpy, frustrated, hypersensitive and anxious. Do we mope around, complaining that life’s not fair? No. We get on with things and keep schtum, because men are amazing like that.
Men have bigger brains than women. In terms of brain mass to body mass, men have bigger brains than women on average. But size doesn’t matter (or so I keep telling myself) – the important thing is that Men are cleverer than women. In news which will no doubt leave men feeling pretty smug with themselves, studies have shown that on average, men are cleverer than women by four IQ points. I’m not claiming that all males are covert Einsteins – I once knew a man who drank a cup of his own sick for a dare – but it’s good to know that we’ve got one up on the female side of our species. Men don’t think about sex every seven seconds. Think about it for a moment: visiting your nan, standing in line at the bank, babysitting your friend’s children. This ‘fact’ just doesn’t make sense. More to the point, it would be SEX impossible to get anything SEX constructive done if every seven SEX seconds your chain of thought SEX was being disturbed by SEX thoughts about SEX. The idea that men can’t escape the thought of sex is a modern myth, in all likelihood started by a group of women who were fed up of their husbands being a bit too handsy in the evenings. Recently experts have suggested that up to 30 per cent of men don’t even think about sex once during the average day.
Being a single man on the dating scene can be complicated at times – I’ve previously talked about how tricky it is meeting genuinely nice women without being accused of being a) only interested in one thing b) shallow and c) a sex pest, but hopefully I’ve managed to put a dent in the rumours that men are sex-obsessed, emotionally-challenged and capable only of following our ape instincts (grunt, laugh, drink, grunt, point at boobs, grunt). For the females who may be reading this article, just remember to speak loudly, point at the things you want him to look at and try not to let his superior intellect get in the way. Also, remember that Men are awesome.
Next Week: The second part in my series about Online Dating, where a picture of a girl on a website suddenly becomes a real-life human being in front of me, with emotions and
Now I’ve got to tread carefully here. I’m all for girl power, equality and doing a Greer (stick it to the man, sister!), but women can sometimes be too vocal.
Woah woah, put the nails away, I said sometimes.
Women have countless programmes, forums and publications to vent their emotions, discuss problems, pick up advice and all that business. People need room to express their feelings, I get that, but It’s pretty hard to stomach a sandwich at lunchtime when listening to a 50-something woman talk about her latest sexcapade.
I’m no long-term viewer, but there’s a reason those women are called ‘Loose’, discussing the ins and outs (and ins and outs and ins) of their sex lives on a daily basis.
Men, on the other hand, aren’t encouraged to be so vocal.
This might be a dying notion (and a generalisation at that), but I’ve been brought up to think that men shouldn’t be too open with their emotions.
Sure, it’s good to share the odd sob story on the sofa after a particularly teary episode of ‘Cold Feet’, but otherwise men are meant to be stoic and reserved.
This perception isn’t unsubstantiated either: studies show that on average women speak 13,000 more words than men every single day.
Yet still, here’s me blabbing on week after week about emotions (waaaah) and feelings (waaaaah) like some unstoppable moron.
But the times are a-changing, or so I’m told. While women have always had the opportunity to vent, perhaps it’s time that men become a little more vocal with their emotions and experiences.
This week, I’ll be alienating myself from my male brethren by revealing some of the lesser-known facts about our side of the species.
Men are blind (at least compared to women). Not only are women more receptive to variance in colour, but they also have a wider peripheral vision than men. Seriously, we play down how little we can actually see: men stumble around, struggling to make out which character is which on an IMAX screen while women notice when we graze a barmaid’s hand when collecting change – even if their backs are turned. And their eyes are closed. And they’re in a different bar. Most men are homosocial. Before the less-liberal side of our readership stand up and shout at their screens ”Wot?! I’m no bloody homo!”, being homosocial just means that you prefer to spend time with people of the same sex. It means nothing about sexuality, just that men like chatting to men, and that’s no secret – go to any pub on a Saturday afternoon and you’ll see hoards of them chatting over a beer or six. However, it is during moments like this when the idea of men being incapable of expressing sentiment clearly shines through as a myth. Women have the gift of the gab, no doubt, but give a man a couple of friends and he’ll have no problem sharing his feelings. Sure, those feeling will be littered with sarcasm and comments like “I’m not gay, but...”, but all the same I’ve seen some of the most emotionally evolved and even (dare I say it?) vulnerable comments come out of the mouths of male friends just as soon as the last woman has left the table.
Men are always bitter. OK, this one’s not a secret, but It’s a fact: modern British men aren’t supposed to be happy. From sitcoms all the way down to comic strips, the grumpy husband is a solid stock character that doesn’t seem to be leaving anytime soon. It’s a trait established by decades of convention so there’s no change of it changing now. Stupid convention. I hate conventions. And when it’s too hot...or too cold, for that matter. I especially hate that middle one, when it’s not quite hot or cold. Jumper? No jumper? Who knows anymore? God, I hate jumpers.
Men are deaf (at least compared to women). Not only do women have a better sense of hearing than men, but they are also more naturally inclined to pick up variances in tone and pitch. Try telling a lie to a woman and she’ll hear every change in tone and tweak of your vocal chords, while all you’ll be hearing is the creak of the rusty sofa springs as you shift in your sleep. Not only are we stumbling about, half-deaf and half-blind, but Men also suffer from PMS. Girls have always had PMS as their ultimate defence card – “it’s not my fault, it’s the hormones”. Not only is it unquestionable, but most men are so freaked out by the even the concept of a period that we’ll just leave it be and try to retreat to our happy place. However, psychotherapist Jed Diamond discovered a male alternative, the amazingly-named “Irritable Male Syndrome”. Caused by a fluctuation in Testosterone levels, IMS can leave a man feeling grumpy, frustrated, hypersensitive and anxious. Do we mope around, complaining that life’s not fair? No. We get on with things and keep schtum, because men are amazing like that.
Men have bigger brains than women. In terms of brain mass to body mass, men have bigger brains than women on average. But size doesn’t matter (or so I keep telling myself) – the important thing is that Men are cleverer than women. In news which will no doubt leave men feeling pretty smug with themselves, studies have shown that on average, men are cleverer than women by four IQ points. I’m not claiming that all males are covert Einsteins – I once knew a man who drank a cup of his own sick for a dare – but it’s good to know that we’ve got one up on the female side of our species. Men don’t think about sex every seven seconds. Think about it for a moment: visiting your nan, standing in line at the bank, babysitting your friend’s children. This ‘fact’ just doesn’t make sense. More to the point, it would be SEX impossible to get anything SEX constructive done if every seven SEX seconds your chain of thought SEX was being disturbed by SEX thoughts about SEX. The idea that men can’t escape the thought of sex is a modern myth, in all likelihood started by a group of women who were fed up of their husbands being a bit too handsy in the evenings. Recently experts have suggested that up to 30 per cent of men don’t even think about sex once during the average day.
Being a single man on the dating scene can be complicated at times – I’ve previously talked about how tricky it is meeting genuinely nice women without being accused of being a) only interested in one thing b) shallow and c) a sex pest, but hopefully I’ve managed to put a dent in the rumours that men are sex-obsessed, emotionally-challenged and capable only of following our ape instincts (grunt, laugh, drink, grunt, point at boobs, grunt). For the females who may be reading this article, just remember to speak loudly, point at the things you want him to look at and try not to let his superior intellect get in the way. Also, remember that Men are awesome.
Next Week: The second part in my series about Online Dating, where a picture of a girl on a website suddenly becomes a real-life human being in front of me, with emotions and
John Jones: Online Dating (Part One)
Apologies in advance for letting the cat out of the bag on this one, but rumour has it that the lovely people at 4chan.org have got a little activity planned for next month.
The idea is brilliantly simple: they plan to create fake profiles for ‘sexy American women’, each beginning an online dialogue with single men.
After weeks of effort, they will each agree to meet their man at the same phonebooth in New York’s Times Square at the same date and time.
Then (and here’s where the fun REALLY starts), the hundreds of participants will log on to an online webcam and watch from the comfort of their own homes as their targets all stand together, collectively waiting for their fictitious love interests.
They’ll probably be holding flowers, maybe even a box of chocolates, gradually welling up until the New York pavement (sorry, sidewalk) is flooded with the tears of a hundred desperate and lonely bachelors.
“Oh look at that one! He’s crying!” the online pranksters will say. “Haha! That one’s heading for a bridge! LOLZ!”
I’ve never fully trusted the internet, and it’s not just because of groups like this. Sure, you’ve got near-infinite amounts of music, videos, books and old school friends to while away your time with, but equally, lurking just behind that screen are hoards of people looking to take your money quicker than you can say “pop-up” and enough porn to shake a stick* at (*I’m informed that this is a family publication, so you’ll have to make do with ‘stick’ there, I’m afraid).
Needless to say, the prospect of signing up for online dating was a daunting one. With all the deceit and lies lurking on the web, it takes a brave person to put themselves out there to be clicked on and judged by anyone who fancies a look. Being on a journalist’s salary, I chose plentyoffish.com: a site recommended by friends as both easy to work and (more importantly) free to use.
My first line of defence was a road well-trodden: “6ft 6” blonde Adonis-type seeks woman with an interest in expensive meals, trips to Harrod’s and prolonged sexual experiences”. It was a flawless plan, until I realised that pictures were mandatory and the body-shot of Brad Pitt that I had just cropped probably wouldn’t make the cut. After much deliberation, I decided to go Cromwell on this badboy, opening my metaphorical trench coat, bringing out the honesty and letting the world see me in all my glory.
One self-effacing profile later I was in, and pleasantly surprised by what the site had to offer. Say “online dater” and most people will picture a sweaty ape-like 39-year-old, stewing in the neon glow of his mother’s loft amid mint-condition ‘Dr. Who’ memorabilia. To my surprise, I was faced with a page full of attractive 18 to 28-year-olds. These didn’t seem to be deadbeats either: the site was filled with one confident graduate after another, settled in to their impressive jobs and bursting with funny things to say.
So where was the crazy? It had to be hiding there somewhere: I’m pretty sure that I’ve mentioned this before, but girls are mental. Yep, all of them. I sent out a couple of messages to the girls that had especially caught my eye, but already I was feeling moral pangs about the ‘meat market’ feel of it all. Attraction is always going to be a major part of any relationship, but this felt far closer to turning up and clicking your fingers at the 10 prettiest girls in the bordello than the usual nerves and apprehensions I’d relate with approaching women. Equally, there’s nothing stopping you from messaging as many women as you like, and (I’m well aware this a step too far) as I sent the second, third and fourth messages there was something that didn’t quite feel right. It wasn’t cheating, not by a long shot, but something felt just a bit too easy.
Boy was I wrong. There’s a steep learning curve when it comes to internet dating, and those of you who are considering it would save a lot of time by following these simple rules: 1) It’s your first week on the site. It’s ALWAYS your first week on the site. Internet dating isn’t an especially sexy pastime, but there’s nothing less sexy than a woman declaring that she’s been online for 342 weeks, desperately messaging profile after profile in the hope that one man won’t be repulsed by a her photo. Without exception, every girl I spoke to had ‘just joined’. This way they’re hot property, and you had better get in there quickly, because it’ll only be a matter of minutes before someone swoops in and proposes.
2) Your friends signed you up. I’m not sure what motivates these ‘friends’, but from the dozen or so conversations I’ve had on the site not one single person signed themselves up. Of course not: no one actually needs to find love. This way it’s all a big laugh, and the group of girls can laugh about it as they drink body shots off of toned Italians in bars that exist only in the minds of ‘Sex and the City’ writers. The amazing thing is, however, that these girls manage to take their tongues out of Pablo’s belly button long enough to check their profiles seven times a day, or so it says. Strange that...
3) Never put yourself in the “Will respond” category. You might as well have the word ‘Desperate’ branded on your forehead for the world to see. Girls (especially) can smell desperation, and they’ll be set off by this quicker than a sniffer dog at a Libertines concert. There’s no need to be cavalier to the point of rudeness, but a bit of mystery will definitely go a long way.
4) Not all girls are looking for dates. This was my biggest misconception about internet dating: the majority of the people on the site were looking simply for conversation, not necessarily with the sole intent of meeting up. In this sense I’d recommend online dating for people who have just come out of a long relationship: it’s a no-pressure way to rehabilitate yourself to the ways of talking to single women.
I’d always had my reservations about internet dating. To me it was always the last-dash attempt at love for people who couldn’t think for the deafening ticking of their own body clocks. It hasn’t been the easiest scene to adjust to, but after a week or so of trying there is someone who I feel that I’ve hit it off with. I won’t say too much, knowing full-well that I’ll somehow manage to put my foot in it. However, as things stand we’ll be meeting up soon, but that’s another story for another time I’m afraid.
Next week: Ten things you (probably) didn’t know about men.
The idea is brilliantly simple: they plan to create fake profiles for ‘sexy American women’, each beginning an online dialogue with single men.
After weeks of effort, they will each agree to meet their man at the same phonebooth in New York’s Times Square at the same date and time.
Then (and here’s where the fun REALLY starts), the hundreds of participants will log on to an online webcam and watch from the comfort of their own homes as their targets all stand together, collectively waiting for their fictitious love interests.
They’ll probably be holding flowers, maybe even a box of chocolates, gradually welling up until the New York pavement (sorry, sidewalk) is flooded with the tears of a hundred desperate and lonely bachelors.
“Oh look at that one! He’s crying!” the online pranksters will say. “Haha! That one’s heading for a bridge! LOLZ!”
I’ve never fully trusted the internet, and it’s not just because of groups like this. Sure, you’ve got near-infinite amounts of music, videos, books and old school friends to while away your time with, but equally, lurking just behind that screen are hoards of people looking to take your money quicker than you can say “pop-up” and enough porn to shake a stick* at (*I’m informed that this is a family publication, so you’ll have to make do with ‘stick’ there, I’m afraid).
Needless to say, the prospect of signing up for online dating was a daunting one. With all the deceit and lies lurking on the web, it takes a brave person to put themselves out there to be clicked on and judged by anyone who fancies a look. Being on a journalist’s salary, I chose plentyoffish.com: a site recommended by friends as both easy to work and (more importantly) free to use.
My first line of defence was a road well-trodden: “6ft 6” blonde Adonis-type seeks woman with an interest in expensive meals, trips to Harrod’s and prolonged sexual experiences”. It was a flawless plan, until I realised that pictures were mandatory and the body-shot of Brad Pitt that I had just cropped probably wouldn’t make the cut. After much deliberation, I decided to go Cromwell on this badboy, opening my metaphorical trench coat, bringing out the honesty and letting the world see me in all my glory.
One self-effacing profile later I was in, and pleasantly surprised by what the site had to offer. Say “online dater” and most people will picture a sweaty ape-like 39-year-old, stewing in the neon glow of his mother’s loft amid mint-condition ‘Dr. Who’ memorabilia. To my surprise, I was faced with a page full of attractive 18 to 28-year-olds. These didn’t seem to be deadbeats either: the site was filled with one confident graduate after another, settled in to their impressive jobs and bursting with funny things to say.
So where was the crazy? It had to be hiding there somewhere: I’m pretty sure that I’ve mentioned this before, but girls are mental. Yep, all of them. I sent out a couple of messages to the girls that had especially caught my eye, but already I was feeling moral pangs about the ‘meat market’ feel of it all. Attraction is always going to be a major part of any relationship, but this felt far closer to turning up and clicking your fingers at the 10 prettiest girls in the bordello than the usual nerves and apprehensions I’d relate with approaching women. Equally, there’s nothing stopping you from messaging as many women as you like, and (I’m well aware this a step too far) as I sent the second, third and fourth messages there was something that didn’t quite feel right. It wasn’t cheating, not by a long shot, but something felt just a bit too easy.
Boy was I wrong. There’s a steep learning curve when it comes to internet dating, and those of you who are considering it would save a lot of time by following these simple rules: 1) It’s your first week on the site. It’s ALWAYS your first week on the site. Internet dating isn’t an especially sexy pastime, but there’s nothing less sexy than a woman declaring that she’s been online for 342 weeks, desperately messaging profile after profile in the hope that one man won’t be repulsed by a her photo. Without exception, every girl I spoke to had ‘just joined’. This way they’re hot property, and you had better get in there quickly, because it’ll only be a matter of minutes before someone swoops in and proposes.
2) Your friends signed you up. I’m not sure what motivates these ‘friends’, but from the dozen or so conversations I’ve had on the site not one single person signed themselves up. Of course not: no one actually needs to find love. This way it’s all a big laugh, and the group of girls can laugh about it as they drink body shots off of toned Italians in bars that exist only in the minds of ‘Sex and the City’ writers. The amazing thing is, however, that these girls manage to take their tongues out of Pablo’s belly button long enough to check their profiles seven times a day, or so it says. Strange that...
3) Never put yourself in the “Will respond” category. You might as well have the word ‘Desperate’ branded on your forehead for the world to see. Girls (especially) can smell desperation, and they’ll be set off by this quicker than a sniffer dog at a Libertines concert. There’s no need to be cavalier to the point of rudeness, but a bit of mystery will definitely go a long way.
4) Not all girls are looking for dates. This was my biggest misconception about internet dating: the majority of the people on the site were looking simply for conversation, not necessarily with the sole intent of meeting up. In this sense I’d recommend online dating for people who have just come out of a long relationship: it’s a no-pressure way to rehabilitate yourself to the ways of talking to single women.
I’d always had my reservations about internet dating. To me it was always the last-dash attempt at love for people who couldn’t think for the deafening ticking of their own body clocks. It hasn’t been the easiest scene to adjust to, but after a week or so of trying there is someone who I feel that I’ve hit it off with. I won’t say too much, knowing full-well that I’ll somehow manage to put my foot in it. However, as things stand we’ll be meeting up soon, but that’s another story for another time I’m afraid.
Next week: Ten things you (probably) didn’t know about men.
John Jones: Blind Dating
Let me begin this week’s venture into the world of dating by laying a bit of cold, hard truth on you: girls are the scariest things in the world. They’re kind of like Gremlins - luring you in with their small hands and big eyes. They look and smell lovely, keeping you hooked with all their niceties until suddenly you break a rule and kablamo: you’re up against a snarling beast, roaring unprintable words as she aims plates at your face.
The main problem, however, is that there’s no Chinese man around to explain the rules that need to be followed. Women are allowed to get wet and (as far as I know) are allowed food after midnight. Men all over the world are praying that one day archaeologists will uncover an Aztec tablet which explains how to keep women from entering their scary mode. It’ll cover the basics, like “Never compliment a woman’s friend when lying in bed” and move on to the more complex, like “Westlife ARE a great band” (they’ve been around since Aztec times, right?) or “Of course she doesn’t just want a small glass of wine. Take the hint, you plonker”.
Being the mug that I am, I have chosen to ignore the dangers and continue my exploration into the depths of the dating scene. Truth is, working as tea boy on the Death Star would be less nerve-wracking for me than spending time on a date with an actual woman. Fear aside, this week I’ve taken it a step further and gone on a blind date. The concept is a terrifying one: it means not only dating a woman with real female eyes and ears and toenails and everything, but also dating a complete stranger.
I began the only way I knew how - with a plea to my closest female friends. “Warning – awkwardness ahead.” the message read. “It is with great reluctance that I am now asking you, the most lovely and pretty girls I know (and who said compliments were hard?!) to try and fix me up with a blind date.” The reluctance was for more than one reason. I might have already (briefly) discussed my fear of the opposite sex, but asking for a blind date was more than that. Even in the very request itself what you’re essentially saying is “So far, humans in real life haven’t taken a shine to me, so let’s resort to random selection.” But this was different. It was research, and that makes it fine. Maybe.
The response was a little underwhelming, but saying that’s not to blame my friends: “So, who fancies going to dinner with a man you don’t know?” isn’t the easiest thing in the world to ask. Eventually, however, an offer did come through. I’m not a fan of the whole ‘naming and shaming’ thing, so for the purpose of this article I’ll just call the lucky girl ‘Colin’.
I had seen a picture of Colin before the date, but still as I stood there waiting by the charmingly-titled ‘Two fat ladies’ in Wimbledon I had a torrent of worries running through my head. ‘What if she’s a massive racist?’ I thought. ‘What if the picture is Photoshopped and she’s actually 35 stone? What if I have to just look on and try to hold back tears as this stranger eats away my pay packet?’. Luckily for me, Colin was neither a racist nor the size of a Fiat Punto. She was a pretty, funny and down to earth person.
That’s not to say that things were perfect.
We went for a meal in a Wimbledon Village restaurant, and although there were no real awkward silences to speak of, throughout the date the voice inside my head was shouting: ‘IT’S A STRANGER. YOU’RE TALKING TO A STRANGER. WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING TO A STRANGER?’ Think about it – the hostile silences on tubes, blunt conversations with telemarketers, the unenthusiastic grunting at the supermarket checkout: generally people like to keep conversations with strangers to a minimum. There’s probably a good reason for it too: with no friends in common, shared history or experiences to talk about, conversation can often seem a little contrived and irrelevant. But as we continued with conversation about waiters, food and dating in general (yep, I’ll admit it wasn’t one of my most imaginative evenings) it became clear that there was the potential for something there. Colin even did that amazing slow move towards the bill, pretending that she intends to pay (I’m not even being sarcastic there – it’s a tricky move to make well and it’s a nice change of pace when a date doesn’t just assume that it’s compulsory for the man to foot the bill).
Unfortunately that ‘something there’ wasn’t the start of a relationship, not by a long shot: there were no lingering stares and meaningful touching of hands (or whatever else Bridget Jones’s Diary has taught us constitutes the basis for love), but after a while the talking became more natural and I felt like a friendship with Colin would definitely be possible.
Would I go on another blind date? I hear you not ask. If I’m being honest, I’d have to say no. Not only is there the shame of having to ask a friend to sort it out, putting pressure on them for your sake, but there’s also the risk involved. Yep, you might meet the love of your life and walk away down the moonlit street as the stars shine, fireworks explode and crowds cheer at your phenomenal natural chemistry, but there’s also a chance that you’ll spend an evening filled with regret as a repugnant stranger sits opposite you saying things like “I’m not racist, but don’t you think Chinese people smell funny?”
Next time- The first of a two part series on online dating. It’s not considered uncool any more. Seriously, It’s not. Stop saying that. It’s not.
The main problem, however, is that there’s no Chinese man around to explain the rules that need to be followed. Women are allowed to get wet and (as far as I know) are allowed food after midnight. Men all over the world are praying that one day archaeologists will uncover an Aztec tablet which explains how to keep women from entering their scary mode. It’ll cover the basics, like “Never compliment a woman’s friend when lying in bed” and move on to the more complex, like “Westlife ARE a great band” (they’ve been around since Aztec times, right?) or “Of course she doesn’t just want a small glass of wine. Take the hint, you plonker”.
Being the mug that I am, I have chosen to ignore the dangers and continue my exploration into the depths of the dating scene. Truth is, working as tea boy on the Death Star would be less nerve-wracking for me than spending time on a date with an actual woman. Fear aside, this week I’ve taken it a step further and gone on a blind date. The concept is a terrifying one: it means not only dating a woman with real female eyes and ears and toenails and everything, but also dating a complete stranger.
I began the only way I knew how - with a plea to my closest female friends. “Warning – awkwardness ahead.” the message read. “It is with great reluctance that I am now asking you, the most lovely and pretty girls I know (and who said compliments were hard?!) to try and fix me up with a blind date.” The reluctance was for more than one reason. I might have already (briefly) discussed my fear of the opposite sex, but asking for a blind date was more than that. Even in the very request itself what you’re essentially saying is “So far, humans in real life haven’t taken a shine to me, so let’s resort to random selection.” But this was different. It was research, and that makes it fine. Maybe.
The response was a little underwhelming, but saying that’s not to blame my friends: “So, who fancies going to dinner with a man you don’t know?” isn’t the easiest thing in the world to ask. Eventually, however, an offer did come through. I’m not a fan of the whole ‘naming and shaming’ thing, so for the purpose of this article I’ll just call the lucky girl ‘Colin’.
I had seen a picture of Colin before the date, but still as I stood there waiting by the charmingly-titled ‘Two fat ladies’ in Wimbledon I had a torrent of worries running through my head. ‘What if she’s a massive racist?’ I thought. ‘What if the picture is Photoshopped and she’s actually 35 stone? What if I have to just look on and try to hold back tears as this stranger eats away my pay packet?’. Luckily for me, Colin was neither a racist nor the size of a Fiat Punto. She was a pretty, funny and down to earth person.
That’s not to say that things were perfect.
We went for a meal in a Wimbledon Village restaurant, and although there were no real awkward silences to speak of, throughout the date the voice inside my head was shouting: ‘IT’S A STRANGER. YOU’RE TALKING TO A STRANGER. WHY ARE YOU STILL TALKING TO A STRANGER?’ Think about it – the hostile silences on tubes, blunt conversations with telemarketers, the unenthusiastic grunting at the supermarket checkout: generally people like to keep conversations with strangers to a minimum. There’s probably a good reason for it too: with no friends in common, shared history or experiences to talk about, conversation can often seem a little contrived and irrelevant. But as we continued with conversation about waiters, food and dating in general (yep, I’ll admit it wasn’t one of my most imaginative evenings) it became clear that there was the potential for something there. Colin even did that amazing slow move towards the bill, pretending that she intends to pay (I’m not even being sarcastic there – it’s a tricky move to make well and it’s a nice change of pace when a date doesn’t just assume that it’s compulsory for the man to foot the bill).
Unfortunately that ‘something there’ wasn’t the start of a relationship, not by a long shot: there were no lingering stares and meaningful touching of hands (or whatever else Bridget Jones’s Diary has taught us constitutes the basis for love), but after a while the talking became more natural and I felt like a friendship with Colin would definitely be possible.
Would I go on another blind date? I hear you not ask. If I’m being honest, I’d have to say no. Not only is there the shame of having to ask a friend to sort it out, putting pressure on them for your sake, but there’s also the risk involved. Yep, you might meet the love of your life and walk away down the moonlit street as the stars shine, fireworks explode and crowds cheer at your phenomenal natural chemistry, but there’s also a chance that you’ll spend an evening filled with regret as a repugnant stranger sits opposite you saying things like “I’m not racist, but don’t you think Chinese people smell funny?”
Next time- The first of a two part series on online dating. It’s not considered uncool any more. Seriously, It’s not. Stop saying that. It’s not.
John Jones: The Game
Now I don’t want to come across all ‘boasty’ right off the bat, but I read a fair few books. Not even just to impress girls, staring blankly at a page while thinking about the plot of last night’s Gossip Girl either, I read the words and everything. Once I even read a whole chapter of Harry Potter without taking a break. Seriously it happened.
Yet still, even with this neck-snappingly massive brain of mine, I can’t quite get my head around the last book I read, ‘The Game’. The concept is fairly simple, journalist Neil Strauss investigates the world of ‘pick-up artists’, offering their trade secrets to readers along the way. He teaches readers how to engage with women and eventually, through body language and not-so-subtle psychological hints, how to secure dates with female strangers.
All pretty straightforward so far, but here’s where the problems start for readers who aren’t morally bankrupt. Strauss guides readers through the whole ‘pick-up’ side of things with more enthusiasm than a 14-year-old boy on an FHM internship, but tends to become a bit mute regarding the prospect of the following relationship. The reason is, of course, that his readers aren’t looking to call women to discuss their 10 favourite things about Robert Pattinson: they’re looking for numbers in the sole hope of bumping uglies before running as fast as their pervy legs will carry them.
For the record, I’ve not slipped on my dog collar here based just on the idea of wanting a one night stand: many men, and women, stay single for this very purpose, shunning commitment with every fibre of their being. The real worrying thing is the culture that has developed around the book. Men don’t go looking for women, they go “sarging”, they write-up “FR’s” (field reports) for other “PUA’s” (pick-up artists) to ensure that they don’t become “AFC’s” (Average Frustrated Chumps). Even Strauss himself isn’t a writer; he’s a “Life Hacker”.
Petty? Perhaps. But with 82,000 readers in the first four months of sales and a long-term place as a New York Times best-seller, the book definitely deserves the attention of a single man. This week I have taken up the book’s ideas and chosen to start my adventures at the (very) shallow end of the dating pool.
I decided it would only be fair to try the techniques out in a local establishment, and for those who aren’t regular tasters of the Merton nightlife, the borough is fairly limited when it comes to dance venues. For publicity reasons I probably shouldn’t name the place I eventually chose to visit, so for the sake of this article let’s just call it ‘Bo Na Na’. The club is marketed as an Eastern paradise, and it works, to an extent. Inside it looks like Aladdin’s ‘cave of wonders’, only if instead of the magic carpet you’ve got an epilepsy-inducing dancefloor, and instead of the lamp you’ve got a £12 cocktail that tastes suspiciously like Tropicana. Oh and instead of Jafar waiting outside there’s a drunk girl, sprawled on the concrete like a Starfish, crying into the kebab that she’s just dropped.
The book is intended as a step-by-step guide to picking up women, ventured in real life one page at a time. My first mistake of the evening was probably deciding to take a giant leap instead, picking up a few key points and trying them out. The book tells readers to try ignoring the women/men that you’re interested in, first spending time talking to their friends instead. It promotes the idea of subversive compliments and the idea of simple physical contact (lightly touching the person’s arm etc.) to engage a connection. Annoyingly, all these techniques seemed to be working, at least at first. My second mistake of the evening, as it turns out, was spending too much time with my friends Jack (Daniels) and Sam (Buca) instead of trying out the book’s ideas.
I can only offer one word of warning to those people who genuinely want to spend their evenings chasing after random women: either embrace sobriety and make a good impression or abandon the idea completely. After a drink or seven, the nuances between subversive compliment and all-out insult tend to become a little bit harder to distinguish and you end up looking about as smooth as a lumberjack’s armpit. Meeting prospective partners with alcohol in your system is always a bad idea: either you say something ridiculous and ruin any chance of earning their respect or you blink in your drunken haze and end up peering down to see someone who looks like the Churchill dog chewing on your bottom lip like it’s a squeeze toy.
Overall, I found out that the world’s ‘pick-up artists’ have clearly done their research. Even based on the early part of one night’s experience, it was pretty clear that these subtle tips are helpful when trying to meet female strangers in bars and clubs. The problem is, however, that the relationship is completely contrived. As a man you’re not genuinely interested in what the “target” is saying, but instead just thinking about the next move you’ll make. Also, even if (God forbid) the second and third date does eventually happen and all goes successfully, what will you tell your children? “Well, I met your mummy after I got Life Hacked and after two months of trying to hypnotise her, here we are – Happily Ever After”.
Both ‘The Game’ and its sequel ‘The Rules Of The Game’ are interesting reads, and I would advise both men and women to give it a quick look, even if just to find out the lengths that some people will go to in order to engage with the opposite sex. Personally, I’m after something with a little more sincerity when forming a relationship. Something natural. Something not at all contrived, forced or awkward like, oh I don’t know, blind dating?
Next week: Blind Dating!
Yet still, even with this neck-snappingly massive brain of mine, I can’t quite get my head around the last book I read, ‘The Game’. The concept is fairly simple, journalist Neil Strauss investigates the world of ‘pick-up artists’, offering their trade secrets to readers along the way. He teaches readers how to engage with women and eventually, through body language and not-so-subtle psychological hints, how to secure dates with female strangers.
All pretty straightforward so far, but here’s where the problems start for readers who aren’t morally bankrupt. Strauss guides readers through the whole ‘pick-up’ side of things with more enthusiasm than a 14-year-old boy on an FHM internship, but tends to become a bit mute regarding the prospect of the following relationship. The reason is, of course, that his readers aren’t looking to call women to discuss their 10 favourite things about Robert Pattinson: they’re looking for numbers in the sole hope of bumping uglies before running as fast as their pervy legs will carry them.
For the record, I’ve not slipped on my dog collar here based just on the idea of wanting a one night stand: many men, and women, stay single for this very purpose, shunning commitment with every fibre of their being. The real worrying thing is the culture that has developed around the book. Men don’t go looking for women, they go “sarging”, they write-up “FR’s” (field reports) for other “PUA’s” (pick-up artists) to ensure that they don’t become “AFC’s” (Average Frustrated Chumps). Even Strauss himself isn’t a writer; he’s a “Life Hacker”.
Petty? Perhaps. But with 82,000 readers in the first four months of sales and a long-term place as a New York Times best-seller, the book definitely deserves the attention of a single man. This week I have taken up the book’s ideas and chosen to start my adventures at the (very) shallow end of the dating pool.
I decided it would only be fair to try the techniques out in a local establishment, and for those who aren’t regular tasters of the Merton nightlife, the borough is fairly limited when it comes to dance venues. For publicity reasons I probably shouldn’t name the place I eventually chose to visit, so for the sake of this article let’s just call it ‘Bo Na Na’. The club is marketed as an Eastern paradise, and it works, to an extent. Inside it looks like Aladdin’s ‘cave of wonders’, only if instead of the magic carpet you’ve got an epilepsy-inducing dancefloor, and instead of the lamp you’ve got a £12 cocktail that tastes suspiciously like Tropicana. Oh and instead of Jafar waiting outside there’s a drunk girl, sprawled on the concrete like a Starfish, crying into the kebab that she’s just dropped.
The book is intended as a step-by-step guide to picking up women, ventured in real life one page at a time. My first mistake of the evening was probably deciding to take a giant leap instead, picking up a few key points and trying them out. The book tells readers to try ignoring the women/men that you’re interested in, first spending time talking to their friends instead. It promotes the idea of subversive compliments and the idea of simple physical contact (lightly touching the person’s arm etc.) to engage a connection. Annoyingly, all these techniques seemed to be working, at least at first. My second mistake of the evening, as it turns out, was spending too much time with my friends Jack (Daniels) and Sam (Buca) instead of trying out the book’s ideas.
I can only offer one word of warning to those people who genuinely want to spend their evenings chasing after random women: either embrace sobriety and make a good impression or abandon the idea completely. After a drink or seven, the nuances between subversive compliment and all-out insult tend to become a little bit harder to distinguish and you end up looking about as smooth as a lumberjack’s armpit. Meeting prospective partners with alcohol in your system is always a bad idea: either you say something ridiculous and ruin any chance of earning their respect or you blink in your drunken haze and end up peering down to see someone who looks like the Churchill dog chewing on your bottom lip like it’s a squeeze toy.
Overall, I found out that the world’s ‘pick-up artists’ have clearly done their research. Even based on the early part of one night’s experience, it was pretty clear that these subtle tips are helpful when trying to meet female strangers in bars and clubs. The problem is, however, that the relationship is completely contrived. As a man you’re not genuinely interested in what the “target” is saying, but instead just thinking about the next move you’ll make. Also, even if (God forbid) the second and third date does eventually happen and all goes successfully, what will you tell your children? “Well, I met your mummy after I got Life Hacked and after two months of trying to hypnotise her, here we are – Happily Ever After”.
Both ‘The Game’ and its sequel ‘The Rules Of The Game’ are interesting reads, and I would advise both men and women to give it a quick look, even if just to find out the lengths that some people will go to in order to engage with the opposite sex. Personally, I’m after something with a little more sincerity when forming a relationship. Something natural. Something not at all contrived, forced or awkward like, oh I don’t know, blind dating?
Next week: Blind Dating!
John Jones: I Bloody Love Clubs...Obviously.
Clubs. I bloody love clubs...obviously. I love the chunky bouncer who gets to third base with you before you’ve even entered the building. I love paying a crisp 10 pound note to get in and then nigh-on five pounds for a pint of Fosters-flavoured water. I love getting evil looks from the man in the toilets for washing my own hands. I love being guilted into putting my hands up for Detroit and I love being hugged by sweat-drenched strangers...obviously.
Clubs can be a surreal experience at the best of times. Looking around to see six brutish men circled around a girl with their mouths on the floor and their hands locked and loaded for a grade-A fumble, it often feels like a scene from Attenborough: Human Mating Rituals. Heck, I won’t lie, I still find myself looking around the back of the plastic plants, half expecting to see the silver-tongued narrator on all fours, excitedly whispering about how lucky we are to finally witness the homo sapiens in its natural habitat. Without wanting to be seen boasting about my opposable thumbs here, let’s just say the nightclub scene isn’t really for me.
Now I know that opinion may not sit too well with everybody: some people love clubs, I get it. I still have nightmares about that one group of girls who scream like banshees as their favourite song comes on...oh you know the one, that song with that sexy man singer and the electronic drums and the synth bridge and that bit where the rapper talks about sex.
But the main problem is that these places don’t want people to converse. As a club owner you want to maximise your profits – keeping the dance floor full and the bar busy. Give your punters a quiet atmosphere and they won’t be pouring expensive shots down their throats but instead they’ll sit talking about retro cartoons and Russian literature - then you’d really be in trouble, what with no profits and a club full of fictional morons. Club owners keep the music loud so that their clients will abandon the idea of communication and just resort to drinking away the awkward bass-filled silences. So you’ve not paid the 10 pounds entry for the conversation or the atmosphere, and here’s where the problem begins for a single man. It’s hard to even enter a club environment without being given the ‘he’s only here for one thing’ evil eye. Girls love dancing, for the most part: it doesn’t take a genius to notice that it’s not Frank and Terry buying the Glee boxsets. Men, on the other hand, tend to spend their time on the dancefloor awkwardly pushing their chests out and lurching their feet up and down like a drunken Pinocchio.
So why do men go to clubs at all?
I normally find myself at this stumbling block of a question at around 12am on a Saturday night. Now I’m well aware of the answer that screams its way through the heads of female readers, and let me be the first to say that it’s not to meet a girl: it’s said that 80 per cent of a person’s opinion of you is made in the first seven seconds of meeting, and there’s no way I’m looking to find a girlfriend whose first glimpse of me was a misty-eyed rendition of ‘It’s My Life’ complete with back-to-back guitar solo.
It’s not the music, the conversation or even the girls that lure me into the local nightlife. Truth is, it’s peer pressure. Find me a man that loves clubs and I’ll find you a liar. Week in, week out, men are being bullied into clubs by other men, who are being bullied by other men, who are, in all likelihood, being bullied by the first man in a circle of drunken confusion.
So, please do your borough a favour. The next time you see a single man in a club with two left feet and a penchant for tequila, don’t judge him as a misogynist with his cross-hairs ready to fire. Take pity on the man: have a conversation outside, buy him a kebab perhaps, but if you want to keep your toenails in place it’s probably best not to ask him to dance.
Next week: I’ll be jumping straight into the world of the club nightlife with the help of Neill Strauss’ sleazers Bible, ‘The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists’.
Clubs can be a surreal experience at the best of times. Looking around to see six brutish men circled around a girl with their mouths on the floor and their hands locked and loaded for a grade-A fumble, it often feels like a scene from Attenborough: Human Mating Rituals. Heck, I won’t lie, I still find myself looking around the back of the plastic plants, half expecting to see the silver-tongued narrator on all fours, excitedly whispering about how lucky we are to finally witness the homo sapiens in its natural habitat. Without wanting to be seen boasting about my opposable thumbs here, let’s just say the nightclub scene isn’t really for me.
Now I know that opinion may not sit too well with everybody: some people love clubs, I get it. I still have nightmares about that one group of girls who scream like banshees as their favourite song comes on...oh you know the one, that song with that sexy man singer and the electronic drums and the synth bridge and that bit where the rapper talks about sex.
But the main problem is that these places don’t want people to converse. As a club owner you want to maximise your profits – keeping the dance floor full and the bar busy. Give your punters a quiet atmosphere and they won’t be pouring expensive shots down their throats but instead they’ll sit talking about retro cartoons and Russian literature - then you’d really be in trouble, what with no profits and a club full of fictional morons. Club owners keep the music loud so that their clients will abandon the idea of communication and just resort to drinking away the awkward bass-filled silences. So you’ve not paid the 10 pounds entry for the conversation or the atmosphere, and here’s where the problem begins for a single man. It’s hard to even enter a club environment without being given the ‘he’s only here for one thing’ evil eye. Girls love dancing, for the most part: it doesn’t take a genius to notice that it’s not Frank and Terry buying the Glee boxsets. Men, on the other hand, tend to spend their time on the dancefloor awkwardly pushing their chests out and lurching their feet up and down like a drunken Pinocchio.
So why do men go to clubs at all?
I normally find myself at this stumbling block of a question at around 12am on a Saturday night. Now I’m well aware of the answer that screams its way through the heads of female readers, and let me be the first to say that it’s not to meet a girl: it’s said that 80 per cent of a person’s opinion of you is made in the first seven seconds of meeting, and there’s no way I’m looking to find a girlfriend whose first glimpse of me was a misty-eyed rendition of ‘It’s My Life’ complete with back-to-back guitar solo.
It’s not the music, the conversation or even the girls that lure me into the local nightlife. Truth is, it’s peer pressure. Find me a man that loves clubs and I’ll find you a liar. Week in, week out, men are being bullied into clubs by other men, who are being bullied by other men, who are, in all likelihood, being bullied by the first man in a circle of drunken confusion.
So, please do your borough a favour. The next time you see a single man in a club with two left feet and a penchant for tequila, don’t judge him as a misogynist with his cross-hairs ready to fire. Take pity on the man: have a conversation outside, buy him a kebab perhaps, but if you want to keep your toenails in place it’s probably best not to ask him to dance.
Next week: I’ll be jumping straight into the world of the club nightlife with the help of Neill Strauss’ sleazers Bible, ‘The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists’.
John Jones: An Introduction
Single. Bachelor. Going solo. Independent. On your Larry. There are a lot of ways to convey the fact that you’re unattached, but the response will always remain the same – the inevitable compassionate head tilt and ‘Hang in there, you trooper’ smile.
I am currently a happily single man, I genuinely am. Yet still, as the majority of people read that last sentence they won’t picture a content singleton, but rather a hollow facade for a man who spends his nights swaying in a darkened room, wiping his tears with old love letters while whining along to a ‘Dawson’s Creek’ soundtrack.
Here lies one of the main problems with wanting to stay single for an extended period of time. No matter how convincingly you say that it’s a conscious decision, friends (even the closest ones) will always assume that it’s a bad hand from the gods of fate rather than a lifestyle choice. “But why would you choose to be single?” they say. “Who will you share those Pizza Express vouchers with? Who’s going to take you to Madame Tussauds? How on earth can you sleep without another person dribbling on the pillow beside you?”
Believe it or not, but being single has been working for me recently. I like talking to female friends without receiving evil looks like I’ve just eaten a live kitten and wiped my mouth with an ‘I Heart Al Qaeda’ T-shirt. I like staying out late and I like not having to watch Hugh Grant movies (I still do, obviously, the man’s a hoot - but it’s having the choice that counts). There are lots of different reasons to breathe in the independence and embrace life on the single scene, yet still so many people seem desperate to find a partner as soon as possible, seemingly willing to yank out their own kidney if it means finding Mr/Mrs Right before their birthday/Christmas/Hanukkah/Valentine’s Day (delete as appropriate).
I’ve never understood the urgency that drives these people, content to relentlessly chase after love in the present rather than waiting for it to arrive when it does eventually decide to plod along into your life. Working with such a pressured time frame causes people to make rash decisions, settling for someone half adequate just because they are a) Available and b) Employed. “You like chips?! Oh. My. God. It’s fate...I love Chips! Hold the phone, you like bread?! Someone call the Priest!” I’ve never understood the rush. It’s kind of like a hungry person sprinting into a Morley’s when there’s a perfectly good KFC open five minutes down the road (and who said modern journalism wasn’t ‘with it’? Brap).
However, despite my better judgement, a small part of me is still anxious I’m not quite doing this whole ‘life’ thing right. Imagine you’re shopping on Oxford Street, when suddenly the thousands of pedestrians start sprinting for their lives straight past you. It might be a bomb alert, it could be a last-minute sale at Poundland, but either way it takes a brave man to stay put, waiting to find out. In the same sense it’s difficult for me to remain content in my stubbornly single ways when the world of dating (complete with its hidden desperation) seems so urgent and still so alien to me.
So for the next few months I will be joining the sprint. I will be your very own reluctant Carrie Bradshaw, embracing the unknown side of single life in the hope of uncovering the mysteries hidden in the depths of the dating scene. I am a self-professed sceptic, but for the next few months I am willing to cast my doubts aside, and you never know, I might even meet someone important along the way (girls without a love of Hugh Grant, KFC and bread need not apply).
I intend to jump headfirst into it all – blind dating, speed dating, online dating. From the bar scene to the club scene I plan on embracing everything (short of dropping my keys in a punch bowl) to understand what drives people to the lengths they will go to in order to meet their perfect partners.
I am currently a happily single man, I genuinely am. Yet still, as the majority of people read that last sentence they won’t picture a content singleton, but rather a hollow facade for a man who spends his nights swaying in a darkened room, wiping his tears with old love letters while whining along to a ‘Dawson’s Creek’ soundtrack.
Here lies one of the main problems with wanting to stay single for an extended period of time. No matter how convincingly you say that it’s a conscious decision, friends (even the closest ones) will always assume that it’s a bad hand from the gods of fate rather than a lifestyle choice. “But why would you choose to be single?” they say. “Who will you share those Pizza Express vouchers with? Who’s going to take you to Madame Tussauds? How on earth can you sleep without another person dribbling on the pillow beside you?”
Believe it or not, but being single has been working for me recently. I like talking to female friends without receiving evil looks like I’ve just eaten a live kitten and wiped my mouth with an ‘I Heart Al Qaeda’ T-shirt. I like staying out late and I like not having to watch Hugh Grant movies (I still do, obviously, the man’s a hoot - but it’s having the choice that counts). There are lots of different reasons to breathe in the independence and embrace life on the single scene, yet still so many people seem desperate to find a partner as soon as possible, seemingly willing to yank out their own kidney if it means finding Mr/Mrs Right before their birthday/Christmas/Hanukkah/Valentine’s Day (delete as appropriate).
I’ve never understood the urgency that drives these people, content to relentlessly chase after love in the present rather than waiting for it to arrive when it does eventually decide to plod along into your life. Working with such a pressured time frame causes people to make rash decisions, settling for someone half adequate just because they are a) Available and b) Employed. “You like chips?! Oh. My. God. It’s fate...I love Chips! Hold the phone, you like bread?! Someone call the Priest!” I’ve never understood the rush. It’s kind of like a hungry person sprinting into a Morley’s when there’s a perfectly good KFC open five minutes down the road (and who said modern journalism wasn’t ‘with it’? Brap).
However, despite my better judgement, a small part of me is still anxious I’m not quite doing this whole ‘life’ thing right. Imagine you’re shopping on Oxford Street, when suddenly the thousands of pedestrians start sprinting for their lives straight past you. It might be a bomb alert, it could be a last-minute sale at Poundland, but either way it takes a brave man to stay put, waiting to find out. In the same sense it’s difficult for me to remain content in my stubbornly single ways when the world of dating (complete with its hidden desperation) seems so urgent and still so alien to me.
So for the next few months I will be joining the sprint. I will be your very own reluctant Carrie Bradshaw, embracing the unknown side of single life in the hope of uncovering the mysteries hidden in the depths of the dating scene. I am a self-professed sceptic, but for the next few months I am willing to cast my doubts aside, and you never know, I might even meet someone important along the way (girls without a love of Hugh Grant, KFC and bread need not apply).
I intend to jump headfirst into it all – blind dating, speed dating, online dating. From the bar scene to the club scene I plan on embracing everything (short of dropping my keys in a punch bowl) to understand what drives people to the lengths they will go to in order to meet their perfect partners.
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