Sunday, April 02, 2006

Stories About Bad Internet Dates

Not much else to say, really...


So la la, I think, I'm bored, just been chucked, feel a bit rubbish. Here is a man who seems quite clever and that, but more importantly is gasping with desperation to meet me. I'm not that interested, as it goes. 'What are you doing at the weekend?', he says. "Nothing much, just going to see Rachel Whiteread at the Tate", say I. (Yes, I know, sorry.) "Can I come?", he says. "Yeah, OK", say I. Nothing to lose, and all.

Anyway, I wake up that morning and think I can't be arsed, but then the old YOU JUST NEVER KNOW thing kicks in, so I drag myself onto the bus, sit on it, stare out of the window, etc. Get off, walk to the Tate. Weirdly, bump into the boyfriend of a good friend of mine. He says, Paul's in the shop, go and see if you can find him. I say, I'm meeting someone. I think: what if he's dire? Best not risk it.

Anyroad up, eventually find meeting spot. Then this thing lumbers into view. God, it's like the caterpillar with the hookah pipe in Alice in Wonderland, but with a tiny tiny head. I want to run away. He follows me around, mute, whilst I whisk round whatever's on. He likes something to do with Rousseau, I think, and a tiger. God. We go and have tea. I am hoping he will suggest drink. We sit on the outside bit of the members' bar and look at the dying light. And drink tea. And say nothing.

Me: Well, not saying much are we?
Him: I like the companionable silence.
Me: Oh.

I take photos of the dying light. They came out OK.

Then I send a text to myself. And then I go: I have to go into work. Lovely to meet you. Then 2 days later he emails saying, I had a great time, great to meet you. I email back saying, yes lovely, but I'm not sure we're going to get married. He emails straight back: GOD WHY IS IT ALWAYS LIKE THIS WHY DOES IT ALWAYS HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS WHY CAN'T PEOPLE JUST FIND EACH OTHER AND BE FRIENDS.

Because you are a mute slug with a pin for a head.


Andy. That was his name. We went to a bar. He walked in with his steering wheel. What is that, I said. I don't want anyone to steal my baby, he said, pointing at a frosted purple Lotus Elise. Then he got stuck trying to get into the car when he left. I saw it. And I laughed.


We went on a date. I spent all night drawing faces on empty pistachio shells, so they looked like a swarm of kindly mice. Then I photographed them. For ages. He didn't notice. Then he went home.


Lots of emails.He liked golf. I turned up. He was tiny, and like a doll. He'd made out he was big, like a giant. We had a weird conversation. Then I left.


The very tall Canadian with no hair like Lurch, but thinner, who never called me back.


The man whose family suddenly became ill. All of them.

And the other one. The photographer. All of them? Ill? After he met me? Really?

The bloke I was at university with and didn't remember until I met him again, and by Christ, there's a reason why we hadn't been friends back then

The man with the online stationery store.

The Daily Mail journalist with the mouth in the Persian restaurant.

The man who took me off to a suite at the Covent Garden hotel, showered me with delightful presents, phoned me up every day for 3 weeks, then disappeared. Literally.

The man who sent me an email arranging to meet, but accidentally emailed all his internet laydeez at the same time. How we laughed.

The man who I told to piss off, so he assumed an entirely different online identity, and tried again.

The man who texted me thanking me for the really great night the night before (when I hadn't seen him for a week), then tried to pretend that texts could be sent by accident. He proved his point further by sending me a text in Spanish ("but I can't speak Spanish!").

The beautiful boy from Bristol who introduced me to his completely insane friend, setting off a chain of utterly bizarre events that culminated in a year-long attempt to launch a disposable golf tee, a fight in a bar in France, a fight at my birthday party, a sheepskin rug, a a fight in a car park in Cardiff, a near nervous breakdown, my ex-best friend and a blowjob in a conservatory in Devon

The confidence trickster who took up a half-joking invitation to France, shagged my ex-best friend in an orchard, drank my house dry, and encouraged my (alcoholic) ex-best friend to drink when I'd told him to stop. (They now live together, by the way, and yes, she still is my ex-best friend)

The bad novelist

The enormously tall and fat man who collected Jack Vettriano prints and told me he wanted me to bite his balls

The barman at the Electric

The therapist with bipolar disorder.


I hate these ones because even if you're not that interested ... well, you know.

1. Coffee at the Tate. He was quite attractive. We obviously had nothing in common. We left.

2. Furious obsessive gorgeous emails. We met. He ate noodles. I watched. We had one drink. He pretended he needed to pick his car up from the car pound, and left.

3. Funny, clever emails. We met. We had 3 drinks. He obviously thought I was an idiot. I thought he was dull. We left.

4. Beautiful man. Long evening. Very tall. Kissed. Got home. Found out he'd emailed my best mate (also on the online) ooh, about 4 minutes after he'd got home. From being out with me.

5. Drink at my local. He looked at me as if I were mad. We left.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

How sad that you are not getting on with these lovely men. I note your grammar is generally very good. Do you think you are irritated by errors in their syntax or lack of the subjunctive, rather that by the depths of their psyches (althought the man with the steering wheel was worrying)? How about publishing something a little more cheerful and stop worrying about these men's imperfections. Signed, a lady. P.S. Less reading Lynn Truss (how appropriate!), more eating chocolate (at least 60% cocoa solids) to lift the mood.

6:49 AM  
Blogger Datingmonkey said...

Dear Anonymous
Thank you for your kind comments.
I am generally very cheerful indeed, chocolate or no chocolate! I liked Lynn Truss' book very much - fun isn't it.
Now as it happens I don't worry very much about syntax when I meet gentlemen callers. Most of my meetings over the last 7 years have been unremarkable but not unpleasant. Some have been gloriously happy. Some have been jolly funny, or a bit worrying. Sadly the last group usually makes for a funnier story, and as I am (on the whole) trying to amuse with this blog, I have written then down here.
Thank you, nonetheless, for your message.
All good wishes

2:06 PM  

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