I had a dream. It was 2004 I was doing my Masters Thesis and therefore going a bit mental when I had a recurring dream about a boy called Alex. He was tall, Russian. Dark haired, gorgeous, owned a pub (=endless gin) just perfect. In fact, he looked like Carl Barat from the back. I’m sure any sane person would come to the same conclusion: this was fate talking to me. My ‘one’ is out there and his name is Alex. All I have to do is find him.
Back in 2004 I was dating Matt the Twat. We met in our first year at uni in 2000 when everyone was a twat so it didn’t really matter. I ditched him because he just wasn’t ‘the one’. He turned up at my flat every fucking day til I agreed to give it another go. So we dated again, it was still awful. We got a flat together, that was rubbish. For a while I thought this was a s good as my life was ever gonna get. This was my route into a gingham curtained life with two cats, no children, a PhD and a non-descript job. I thought he might actually propose. He never did. I got bored of waiting. His lack of hygiene, obsession with Arsenal, love of the Beatles (possibly the worst band of all time), inability to get out of bed on a Saturday morning, wash bedsheets or vacuum eventually wore me out and I moved out. At the same time I met someone else I liked a lot better so while I couldn’t decide who was the greatest loser I saw them both at the same time. To be honest I wasn’t very subtle. Dim Tim knew about Matt the Twat and didn’t care. Matt the Twat amazingly never knew about Dim Tim even though I once kissed Dim Tim with Matt the Twat standing about two feet away. Amazing. OK so this little anecdote proves nothing other than I am not a particularly nice person. A few weeks later I split up with both of them. This is because Dim Tim bored me and Matt the Twat’s friend saw me kissing Stu with Odd Shoes (he wore one red and one brown shoe). I decided I didn’t need any of them; and acknowledged I didn’t deserve any happiness any more, ever again. And then I met Alex. Sort of.
That, sadly was a self fulfilling prophecy in that I never have had a properly committed long term relationship since. Just lately a number of factors have come together; every boy I like already has a girlfriend; one of my best friends Pippa is off to France for the summer; when I was a student most of my friends were male. Now I work with women and children most of my friends are female. I don’t seem to get out much anymore. I mean I go to gigs regularly and dance lessons, but when was the last time I just went to the pub? No idea. So partly to make friends and partly because I am easily persuadable I created a profile on an internet dating site. I had absolutely no idea what to write. “Ladies! Imagine what it is men find attractive about you. Best not to mention your prizewinning knitting skills” said the advice page. Bollocks. That rules out my opening blurb. Fuck it. Alex would be impressed with my knitting. “I just want a boy who appreciates a hand knitted jumper and a home baked cake” I write. And I find a pic where I don’t’ look wholly deformed. That’s pretty much it apart from the compulsory information and stressing how indie I am. Within a week I have 46 winks. A wink is when someone sort of expresses an interest without talking to you. Winking is free. If I want to read my 14 emails I have to pay up. I give it a few days. Pippa moves back to France. I have the dawning realisation I am gonna be short of gig buddies this summer so I duly pay my £23. Twenty three pounds! I feel like a whore. Well the reverse of a whore, I’m the one paying. A pimp? No, that’s not it. What are those men who pay for sex called? Apart from just “cunt”? Anyway I feel like a man. Out of my 46 winkers only one is not a wanker. That’s a 98% wanker hit rate. 2% acceptability rate. Those statistics are not worth £23. Let me give you some examples:
Man with a twisted face. Attaction is 90% physical 10% intellectual. YOU do not cut the mustard. NEXT!
Overweight baldies no. 2-6. NO to all five you. I find fat repulsive and a little bit frightening. NEXT!
You sir are not 30. You are at least 46. NEXT!
No.8 is wearing a baseball cap and doing a rapper pose. NEXT!
No.9 is wearing the same bag in 7 photos and is standing in the same pose = lacks imagination. NEXT
No.10. Now I regret deleting this guy. He was at least funny. He is 56 (my profile is quite clear about the under 32s) he owns a helicopter, a yacht and appreciates fine dining. Me too. But I’m vegan and strongly suspect you used Google images to acquire that chopper. On reflection anyone even pretending to be that rich would have to buy me dinner at Saf (exquisite Raw Vegan gourmet restaurant) with cocktails before I suddenly realised age was an issue after all.
No. 11- 28 don’t seem to have read my profile at all. One of them thought my name was ‘indie’.
And well it doesn’t get any better. There is just one hopeful candidate at this point. Yup, just one. He is a drummer in a band and sadly looks like Paul Weller. Bleeeeuuuuuurghhhhhhh.
Another week on and I have had a few more winkers and a few more wankers but the pace has slowed considerably. I have now whittled it down to four to exchange emails with:
1. Weller-esque drummer. Apart from the appalling hair seems reasonably normal, well adjusted and likes a gin or five. Turns out also I own one of his band’s cds. I got it as a promo to plug his band and never did. Small world.
2. Gerbil faced Alex. A boy called Alex emailed me, what was I supposed to do? I got all excited he had dark hair and dark eyes and can tell his Balloons from his Bagpipes (probably. He hasn’t been made to sit A-Level Math Rock yet). Too late! I replied to him without looking at ALL his pictures. Now I realise he has what he must think of as a wistful pose into the middle distance but everyone else thinks makes him look a bit incontinent and confused. Now he wants to meet. Next week. I’m ignoring that while I try to work out how horrific a drink in Camden can be with a man who has the face of a small furry rodent.
3. A lawyer with no picture but definitely a decent record collection. I was intrigued. I asked for pictures. I don’t like what I see one little bit, but then he owns a rare Bis cd and he’s seen Pains of Being Pure at Heart live … so… I can date a guy for his record collection, right?
4. I can barely remember him now. He has dark hair, acceptable looking and a fairly decent taste in music. I would meet him if he ever asked.
So none of these guys will ever be my Alex. But one of them might be cool enough to go out with for a few drinks and bands. So here it is; do I take the risk of meeting internet nutters and being bored to tears (the horror of my last date with Mr I-Like-Meat still makes me shudder) or do I finally shout from the rooftops “YES! I am a SPINSTER! Get over it!” ? What would Morrissey do?
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