The Dater Analyst.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

LA Bae

Ok, so Brazilian Bae may not have turned out to be the absolute love of my life but he was definitely a vast improvement on Interchangeable Bae. I seemed to be on a steady incline and, feeling rather bolstered from the experience, decided that my plan to venture into the more international waters of the dating pool was worth sticking with. Enter Brody. I matched with Brody on Bumble. His profile told me he was from LA and an Art Director in Television. The smouldering looks and wide brimmed hats in his pictures, combined with the fact that his bio also stated his year 5 teacher would describe him as “filled to the brim with rebellion”, suggested that he was going to fit every stereotype I could mentally concoct of someone from LA. I swiped right. It was a match.

The cyber small talk commenced and things got better and better from the word go. Not only was Brody from LA and working in television, he was currently travelling around Europe working as a videographer and a tour manager from an American band called Twin Peaks. London was the last stop of their tour and he had decided to stay on for three days to explore the city before heading home. Now, my rule so far with The Dater Analyst has been to go into every date with an open mind and the hope that the person I am about to meet could be the love of my life. The fact that Brody was only in the UK for three days strongly suggested that even if this was the case, geographically, a blossoming romance was going to be challenging. Come on though, a Californian videographer on a European tour with a band - that shit’s got perfect blog fodder written ALL over it, it was too good an opportunity to miss.

The cyber small talk continued and I asked what he was doing with his time off in London. A photo pinged back to me. I have never received a photo on Bumble before, how modern! Well, technically, I didn’t immediately see the photo. The Bumblebees clearly aren’t naive to the genre of pictures one might find on a dating app so you actually get a blurred out square with directions to “tap to view image”. An attempt to avoid being blindsided by a big willy. I had only just matched with this man though, how did I know that that wasn’t what I was going to get. Tentatively, I tapped to view the image with one hand whilst using the other to shield my innocent eyes. I peaked through splayed fingers and what greeted me was so much more entertaining than a dick pic. It was a carefully staged cafe scene - a scrubbed wood table, a bunch of flowers and a cup of coffee next to an open window overlooking a quaint London street. It gets better. Front and centre of the photo was a watercolour painting of the scene and a box of paints. Brody was proud enough of his artistic endeavours to not only admit to the fact he was spending his day painting (which, let’s be honest, sounds a bit wanky) but to actually send a picture so I could see his skills for myself. How very LA!

Right, I thought, two can play at that game. I happened to be working from home that day so I curated my own still life. I moved a vase of lilies to my own scrubbed wood table, in front of a gilded mirror and placed a lit candle, open laptop and notebook in the foreground. Even sexier than a tasteful nude, some might argue. I sent it off and told him I was just doing a bit of writing. “What are you writing?” came the response...

Rule two of The Dater Analyst is that I never tell the datees about the blog. In this instance though, I was willing to bet money on the fact that Brody’s ego was a big enough that he would see a dating blog as a challenge rather than a deterrent so I told him the truth. Within two minutes I had a response: “A dating blog! Can I steal you away for a date night? You can write about it. What if we meet for just two hours and you write while I paint. We don’t even have to talk.” Boom! Hook, line and sinker!

I actually had plans that night so sadly the artistic date did not take place. I was free the following afternoon though so we agreed to meet then in a microbrewery in Coal Drops Yard, obvs! I’m about to break a third rule of The Dater Analyst here. I never normally divulge the contents of the cyber small talk but I feel it would be beneficial here in order to give a more rounded impression of the character we are dealing with. The reason I couldn’t make the original date was because I had Book Club. This got us on to the topic of literature and what Brody liked to read. I quote: “I do love Christopher Hitchens, it’s truly stimulating and chillingly current how he addresses the inevitable collapse of capitalism and things like the likelihood of Trump and Brexit but this is stuff he wrote in the 1990s...Huxley fucked me up. Have you read Doors of Perception? That book and its encouragement to experiment with hallucinogens changed my life for the better...I have done my share of experimenting and consciousness expanding but all that is only as valuable as your intention and your mentality”. You get the idea.

I arrived at the arranged microbrewery and there was absolutely no mistaking Brody. The paints were still with him but thankfully stored in his man bag. He also had a baker boy hat and a multi-coloured patterned scarf with a gold thread running through it which I’m sure had a deep meaning and was a gift from a Sharman on a yoga retreat in India but looked more like one of those ones you can buy for a fiver in Camden Market.

As his messages should have highlighted, Brody did not do small talk. We quickly covered both of our career ambitions, an extended American history leading up to the civil war, my neurological disorder and the fact that he could relate to this because his cat also had a neurological disorder. Surprisingly though, he wasn’t as wanky as I had expected. He actually came across as more self-assured than self-righteous. Conversations were two-way and he would quite often start saying something and then say “sorry, I interrupted you, carry on”. This sounds small but is amazingly rare, especially on dates.

Although it’s not something I have discussed a lot on this blog so far, I’m normally quite open about talking about the neurological disorder I was diagnosed with last year on dates (this is largely because it causes me to have shaking fits at random moments - I remain totally compos mentis through these but I kind of have to pre-warn people in case I suddenly start manically shaking with no advance warning). I don’t normally tell strangers though that one of the things I do to help manage it is Qi Gong, a movement based meditations which I do every morning. You can see why, it sounds hippy dippy, fairly out there and a difficult one to explain on a date whilst still sounding halfway normal. I thought it might be Brody’s cup of tea though. Indeed it was, he already knew all about Qi Gong. We had a long discussion about it and a specific type of yoga he used to practise which involved getting up at 4:30am and lots of chanting. It sounded suitably on brand and soul-searching for Brody. Then I realised though, that the way I judged him for his yoga routine was exactly how I was nervous that people judged me for my Qi Gong. Brody didn’t care or judge me though, he was comfortable with what he enjoyed doing, happy to talk about it and open-minded to different interests.

One beer down and I felt I hadn’t got all the details I could out of Brody so I agreed to show him a bit of London. We walked along Regent’s Canal, through Camden Lock and Camden Markets, past the zoo where you can see the warthogs and lions from the canal path, through Regent’s Park and up Primrose Hill for a sunset view of the city (I smashed it as a tour guide). I was right though; I had only seen the tip of the iceberg. Brody’s family life sounded suitably wacky. In brief: he had grown up on a ranch somewhere in the mid-west, which was sold when his parents, Steven and Angela, had split up. Steven currently holds a world record - he had a heart attack and was officially dead for fifty-two minutes whilst they did CPR. That is one of the longest times someone has been technically dead for and been resuscitated with no long-term physical or mental implications. Steven now lives on a houseboat with his new girlfriend. Pretty cool! Angela met her first boyfriend when he moved to America from Greece to avoid conscription. Their next-door neighbour reported him for selling weed though so he had to move back to Greece and Angela went with him, travelling around Greece for two years. It was all a pretty colourful past.

There were other parts of our date that were slightly more dubious. I’m all in favour of vegetarianism but wasn’t quite prepared for an in depth discussion on the perception of an animal’s soul. I swiftly moved the conversation along. I do which I had proved more on one of his more recent ventures though. He told me he was currently involved in the art direction of an all-male feminist magazine. The more I think about this, the more questions I have. I am under no doubt that men can be feminists but to make an exclusively male feminist magazine sounds slightly counter-intuitive to me? Surely this is just more men excluding women from a conversation that is about them, men mansplaining feminism to women? Maybe I got the wrong end of the stick but this seemed to be the patriarchy jumping on the zeitgeist to maintain their control? You never know though, maybe I’m being defensive; maybe this is going to be the next big thing. If you suddenly hear about a new and trendy male feminist publication do let me know, it could be Brody. 

Eventually it began to get dark so the tour came to an end and I dropped Brody off at the nearest tube station and bid farewell before he flew back to LA the following day. I came away thinking that Brody really hadn’t been as narcissistic as I had expected. In many way, I had drunk the Californian Koolaid: as much eye-rolling as there was at the LA cliches Brody embodied, he also had that American confidence that made him totally comfortable in his own skin and with his own interests. He was unashamed in discussing his flaws and his strengths and skipping straight past the small talk to try and really get to know a person.

That would a sickeningly soul-searching end to the post though and absolutely not the light-hearted, scathing judgement that any of you read this blog for. If I’m being totally honest, what really happened was that I just enjoyed the opportunity to be as wanky as he was. For an afternoon I could happily discuss humanitarian politics, the benefits of meditation and what I felt fulfilment looked like rather than dissecting Love Island and complaining about commuting. It’s quite fun to be a knob every once in a while and I would happily spend a similar afternoon with Brody if he were to find himself back in the UK. If distance wasn’t an issue though, would Brody be The One? I think, realistically, probably not. I had had an engaging and enlightening afternoon but there weren’t exactly many lols. I think I’m looking for someone who can chat shit rather than chataranga. Or at least a bit of both.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Brazilian Bae

I had learnt my lesson from my incident with Interchangeable Bae who, if anything, did a pretty good job of single-handedly personifying the reasons Brexit is a bad idea. I was not going to make the same mistake twice so for my next date I went as international as possible. Enter Francisco. Francisco was half Brazilian and half Swiss but had gone to university, or school as he called it, in America. That’s three out of the seven continents covered in one sentence! You can’t get much better than that. Well it turns out you can - he was clearly a dab hand at travel and willing to show off his skills, offering to travel up to my neck of the woods, Camden for our date. The dream: continental yet convenient!

This got me thinking, maybe there was another benefit to restarting “The Dater Analyst”. I decided to take every dating opportunity, when possible, to try out a different bar in my new neighbourhood. This was admittedly a risky strategy; if I suggested a bar I’d never been to and it turned out to be an absolute dive or, as can quite often be the case in Camden, we accidentally ended up in a punk metal themed Irish pub or a gothic brewery, the date may not form the best first impression. Secondly, I could get hit with the double whammy of a bad bar AND a bad date; finding myself drinking warm flat beer and sticking to the floor of a shabby pub whilst simultaneously wracking my brain for anything to say to keep the conversation alive with someone who had lost a great deal of hair and gained a great deal of weight since the pictures on their dating profile were taken... On balance I decided it was worth a try, if nothing else The Dater Analyst can become a handy (and pretty niche) guide to dating in North West London. 

To kick off my new experiment I had selected Fifty Five Bar, a local cocktail bar. I got there first and quickly realised I had already lost on the first gamble of the evening. The bar was fine but a bit studenty; the paintwork was rather chipped and the holes in the faux leather benches that lined the walls like a common room has been covered with several layers of sellotape. It didn’t scream romance. It was also nowhere near Halloween which made me wonder whether the decorations were still up from last year, if the bar was meant to have a vampire theme, or if the cobwebs were just due to lack of dusting. It was not a great start to the date when Francisco walked in and I immediately had to apologise for the location. We also quickly learnt that they didn’t have any beer on draft so we had to make do with the lukewarm bottles I had been dreading.

Our surroundings had set the standard pretty low. Conversation with Francisco put the evening on a steady incline though. It turned out that not only was he half Brazilian, half Swiss and educated in America but he also worked in foreign policy and had previously lived in both Myanmar and Pakistan. That was another continent ticked off, ten minutes in and we were over half way towards a continental bingo! Given his profession as well, it looked like he was in with a pretty high chance of hitting a full house! Things only improved when he also mentioned that he spoke five languages. I was suitably impressed and mumbled something about having spent a couple of months in France and worked in a bar in Peru (I didn’t let on that this only increased my Spanish vocabulary by about five words: avocado, bill, beer, drink and thank you). My year abroad in Sydney was also beginning to look rather tame.

Ok, so he had absolutely trumped me on the travel front. The conversation turned to another mutual interest, literature. It turned out he had just finished Sally Rooney’s Normal People and was now reading Milkman by Anna Burns. This was huge news. These are both books that we have done for our book group and are probably two of the most unanimously liked and avidly debated books we have had since the group formed over two years ago. Major brownie points to Francisco. 

Another round of lukewarm beers was ordered and conversation turned to plans for the future. Francisco said that whilst he really enjoyed his job his ambition was to move to his own farm one day. Ah, I grew up on a farm in Cumbria, how convenient! With all the major bases covered I decided to see how good this guy really was and chuck in a few curve balls. For the first time since I moved here, I considered myself a real Londoner as we spent the next ten minutes discussing the correct tube etiquette - I had a whole new respect for him when I found out that he quite happily asked people to stand up if there was someone more deserving of their seat. He still found the levels of British politeness and enjoyment of queueing baffling but whole-heartedly agreed with my belief that vegans shouldn’t have Amazon Prime (maybe one to be discussed in a further post). 

I know what you’re thinking, this guy sounds like an absolute catch. Why has the blog come back at all? Why haven’t I just ridden straight off into the sunset with Francisco to tick off those last three remaining continents? There was just one issue though. Whilst I could have sat and talked to Francisco for hours on end, I had absolutely no desire to rip his clothes off. It wasn’t that he wasn’t good looking. There was absolutely nothing misleading about him or different from the pictures I had initially swiped right to, there just wasn’t a spark. So much so, that I got nervous for the end of the date, in case he might lean in. I really didn’t want to kiss him but also really didn’t want to reject him because he was so great. 

On a quick side note, I learnt a wee tip on this date that could be potentially beneficial to anyone contemplating dabbling in app dating but too nervous to make the leap. When organising the date, caveat the discussion by saying that you can only stay until a certain time as you have dinner plans. In this instance I did in fact have dinner plans but that needn’t necessarily be the case. This way you go into a date knowing that you already have an exit strategy, even if it is truly awful you will be able to count down the minutes until you have said you have to leave rather than desperately wracking your brains to find a reason to get out of there without being rude. If, alternatively, it is love at first sight, you can either conveniently find a reason that your dinner has been cancelled or know that you are leaving them wanting more. 

In this instance, I was about to get up to leave when he said he needed the loo. I said that I actually had to go too or I was going to be late for dinner so the parting was a quick hug rather than the usual prolonged putting on of coats, collecting belongings, leaving the bar together, working out which direction the other one is going in then potentially being faced with the worst situation of all: a good bye on the tube. Avoid this one at all costs! So many witnesses, such awkward angles, so many possibilities of getting the timing wrong. Say goodbye too early and you risk the train suddenly stopping short of the platform meaning you have to go through the whole thing again thirty seconds later. Say goodbye too late and there’s a rushed hug with backpacks and elbows everywhere followed by a mad scramble for the door. Come to think of it, I really should have brought this up in my lengthy discussion with Francisco about tube etiquette!

The next day I had an incredibly sweet message from Francisco saying that he had loved meeting me and would like to get to know me better but got the impression I wasn’t really feeling it and if that was the case there was no hard feelings. I really need to work on hiding my emotions better! Full marks to Francisco though for his emotional intelligence. I replied saying that he was right, I wasn’t really feeling it romantically but had enjoyed my evening and would love to stay in touch as friends (it’s really hard to ever use that line without it sounding incredibly corny). I asked him if he would like to join my book club. He didn’t reply. Fair enough really.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Interchangeable Bae

On a national level I was devastated to leave the single market. On a personal level I am even more devastated to be re-joining it. If the future of this country is bleak, the future of this single market looks even bleaker. No longer will we be able to suggest the fail-safe first date option of wine and cheese. “BUT”, I hear the fervent Brexiteers amongst you cry (of which I can’t imagine there are that many but this blog is nothing if not apolitical), “you can still have British cheese and wine”. This is true. Whatever your political affiliations though, there is a reason that French, rather than English is universally known as the language of love.

You can’t help but fancy someone as they order a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape, as happens frequently on my first dates. The same cannot be said as they ask the waiter for a bottle of Court Garden Ditchling Red which legitimately sounds like the grapes were grown in an underwhelming dyke. Similarly, I am as strong an advocate of a Wensleydale or a Double Gloucester as the next gal. but they don’t sound quite as seductive as Epoisses or a Comte. I’m afraid it only gets worse; not only are we to be done out of the dairy-based and drinkable delights the continent has to offer, we won’t have the thickly accented, tanned and toned men to discuss them with. We must say au revoir to Antoine, arrivederci to Angelo and adios to Alberto. Shit! Or merde! Time is of the essence. As I rejoined one single market, I realised I better make the most of the other whilst I still had the chance...

So there I was, back in the game and back on the apps. I am thrilled to report that little has changed in my two-year absence from the world of Hinge, Bumble and Tinder. Using them is rather like riding a bike - even if you’re a little rusty, the fundamentals remain the same. It wasn’t long before the matches started trickling in. Given the previous paragraph, it would be fair to assume I kept things strictly continental but age has taught me the benefit of an open mind (plus beggars can’t be choosers). Thus I ended up agreeing to a date with the distinctly un-exotic sounding Angus.

I’m still not entirely sure how much of his original date suggestion was a joke and how much of it was a genuine invitation but during our cyber small talk he mentioned that he was spending his afternoon prepping for a dinner party (or DP as he referred to it) and asked if I would like to join. I mulled this over - on the one hand, after a fair amount of time out of the dating game, a dinner party of strangers would definitely be throwing myself back in at the deep end. On the other hand, it could have the potential for great blog fodder. Well, there was no question really was there. “Sure”, I replied.

It was only at this point that he divulged who the other guests were: his brother, his brother’s fiancee, his brother’s dog, his cousin, his cousin’s husband, their baby, his other cousin, her husband and their baby. What kind of a psychopath invites someone to meet their entire extended family on a first date?!? I suggested that maybe a pre-cooking drink would be more conventional and a safer bet.

Then came the logistics. He lived in CJ but had to head into town to pick up a jacket. This took a while to decipher; it transpires, for those of us not in the know, that CJ is Clapham Junction and ‘town’ refers to central London, specifically Piccadilly in this instance. I mean, alarm bells should have really gone off at this point - I am all in favour of an abbreviation, I can ROFL, LMAO and get DTF along with the best of them, but assuming that a stranger would immediately know what a DP and a CJ were suggested that old Angus moved in fairly narrow social circles. I had committed though so I had to follow through. He said he didn’t know central London too well so I suggested meeting in a fairly non-descript pub in Soho. It was mid-afternoon on a Saturday so I felt it was not quite the time for wine and cheese. 

There were further alarm bells when I arrived to find him wearing brown suede loafers, a signet ring and a jumper that only zipped down half way. I might as well have been back at one of our interchangeable singles dinners! Still, don’t judge a book by its cover and all that - we got chatting. It transpired that the jacket he was purchasing was a tweed one from Charles Tyrwhitt that he needed for just general drinks and things, naturally. I quickly steered the conversation on to less ridiculous territory. Hoping that podcasts would be a safer bet I said that I had been listening to Desert Island Discs on my walk there. He seemed surprised by this, saying “Really, I always thought it was just boring people being interviewed for old people to listen to?” I mean, there aren’t many things that I hold sacred but Desert Island Discs is definitely one of them. I will admit that this was pretty much a deal breaker there and then but by this point I had a pint in my hand, I couldn’t just walk away.

We moved on to the safer ground of what we did for work. Angus told me he was a stockbroker. This is one of those professions that, for me, just falls under the general umbrella of ‘adulting’ - I always try to make noises that suggest I am both impressed and fully informed on what this entails but in actual fact I don’t have a scoobies what on earth a stockbroker does. I assumed it was something suity though so asked if he worked in the City, a safe guess. “No, no,” he said, “I’m based in Oxford Circus”. Hang on a second. Earlier that day he had been unable to suggest a place for us to meet in Soho, the area next to Oxford Circus. It was slightly worrying that he worked in Oxford Circus and didn’t know a single pub in the vicinity. 

I thought that maybe food might be more of his cup (and saucer) of tea so asked what his usual lunch spots were. No points for guessing the response to this one - he was a regular Pret or M&S soup kind of guy, I asked if he had ventured as far as the Berwick Street food market. “Ooh, no, I’ve never even heard of it. What sort of food do they do?” I gave him a stall-by-stall account of the set up - the delicious gyros, the exotic salads, the stall selling what is arguably the best falafel wrap in London. “Hmm, might not be quite my sort of thing”, he pondered, “I’m not much of a fan of foreign food”. I was beginning to think this opinion may not only relate to Angus’s culinary tastes, so much for a continental embrace of all things and men European!

From there we moved on to what my plans were for the rest of the day, given that I was both unable and unwilling to attend his family reunion. I told him I was heading up to Old Street to help a friend with some DIY. He didn’t know where Old Street was. When I said it was in Shoreditch he clocked on, “Oh yes, in that direction?” In a similar manner to the date as a whole, he was entirely off the mark and pointing in totally the wrong direction. Well it is a long old commute from CJ to OS, with the latter providing little opportunity for him to take his new jacket for a spin.

To be fair to the guy, the date wasn’t entirely negative. Angus and I shared similar views on the stomach turning potential of a runny egg white and to give him his due, conversation was flowing and relaxed, if a little ridiculous. This may or may not have been helped by the fact that I had barely touched alcohol for over six months so by the bottom of two pints I was bother rather lively and a little bit slurry. He was a really nice guy though, it not fairly sheltered in both his life experience and London geographical knowledge. It wasn’t a resounding success of a first dip back into the dating pool but it wasn’t shockingly frosty enough to induce brain freeze or wind me. This arguably isn’t setting the bar particularly high but I’m really trying to find a silver lining here!

Eventually Angus had a lasagne to get making and I had a toilet seat to get attaching so we went our separate ways. To my earlier point, Angus couldn’t have been less continental if he tried. He was about as British as they come and did a great deal to prove my point of the need to make the most of those Europeans whilst we have them - a far better deal than any other that may be currently on the cards!

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Another Singles Dinner

It turns out that Ed and I were not the only ones in London to come up with the concept of a singles dinner. It wasn’t long before I was invited to another similar event, which gave a whole new meaning to BYOB – bring your own boy. Specifically you had to bring a boy that was also single and that you didn’t fancy. Now, cast your minds back to the early days of the blog and you may remember my companion to the particularly underwhelming ‘Twelve Baes of Christmas’ – Woody. Woody appears to have been as unsuccessful in finding love as I have so luckily was still on the market and free. 

The person organising this event seemed to have similar spacial challenges to those that I had faced so had sent all her guests instructions to meet for drinks in a pub round the corner from her flat as the entirety of her kitchen/sitting room had been taken up by the table. I arrived at the pub to find Woody already there so we ordered drinks and did a quick scout of the bar to find fellow singletons. There was a slight issue though; the whole point in organising a dinner to introduce new single people to each other is that none of them know each other before hand. If you don’t know someone how on earth are you supposed to recognise him or her in a pub? We gave up and settled down for a catch up instead. It was only at this point that I admitted to Woody that this wasn’t actually my party, I only knew the hostess and one other person there and could give him no more information. This did not make him feel any more comfortable.

It was at this moment that a good friend of my sister’s walked through the door – this couldn’t be coincidence; he must be part of the dinner party as well. My spirits lifted. Ol’s great so at least there was another reliable ally to ensure it would at least be an enjoyable, if not fruitful evening. Alas, it turned out that he presence was in fact a coincidence after all. Ol was joined by several more of Leo’s friends who proceeded to sit at the table next door. Ol found my situation hilarious and explained it to his group who all became deeply invested, eyeing up each person as they arrived and deciding whether they were involved in the dinner or not. As the dinner guests began to arrive, I struggled once again to keep track of the Hugos, Harrys and Ludos I was introduced to as I was painfully aware of the close scrutiny I was under from the table behind.

Eventually I was saved by the hostess who asked me if I would head back to the flat early with her to help write challenges that would be deposited on each place at the table. Everyone would then have to perform these challenges throughout the course of the meal without anyone noticing. This was not my first rodeo when it came to challenge writing but I was used to doing them with my friends who I knew well and could therefore tailor the challenges accordingly but I was now faced with a room full of strangers so decided to play it safe. I ensured my challenges were distinctly conservativet to match the assumed political affiliations of my fellow guests.

At this point the other guests arrived from the pub and Woody took it upon himself to write my challenge. I sat down and unfolded my piece of paper to read, ‘stroke the person next to you every time you laugh’. Fine, challenge accepted, let the games begin...

I must say, they had really pulled out all the stops with the food. Delicious baked Camembert with crusty bread was followed by chicken fajitas with all the trimmings. Once we had all been allocated our seats we sat down to feast and attempt to find love with those on either side of us. To my left I had Archie, who worked in insurance, and on my right, Marcus, who worked in property. Woopee. With one ear on the small talk, I cast my eye around the table to see how everyone’s challenges were going. There was absolutely no sign of people calling the person next to them the wrong name, eating off their plate or winking at the person across the table – tough crowd. I wasn’t sure what Marcus had just said but I giggled and stroked his arm. It turned out he had actually just asked me what I did, I had really timed that wrong. I apologised and told him I worked in advertising.

At this point there was an interjection from one of the Harrys on the other side of the table who leant over and exclaimed, ‘Excuse me, did you say you work in advertising? You were on my tube earlier and I recognised you because of your red glasses and I thought to myself, that girl must work in a creative industry’. I was slightly taken aback by his facial recognition abilities but similarly appalled by my own transparency. This did provide the perfect opportunity to escape the realms of insurance based chat. I retorted with ‘Wow, you were right. Why don’t we play a game of two truths one lie to see if we are all as obvious as we look’. I think the other people at our end of the table were running out of small talk by this point too so they all joined in. The fact that I now cannot remember a single one of these two truths one lie It goes some way to explain the calibre of the conversationalists I was with.

I would like to clarify that the guys on either side of me were not mean or nasty people, they were just well brought up and nice. By this point I had had rather a lot to drink though and ashamedly was not feeling incredibly nice. During a lull in conversation I turned to Marcus and exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘Bloody hell Marcus, we haven’t even finished the main course yet and you’re already trying to seduce me’. It was mean and I shouldn’t have done it, poor Marcus went bright red and started fervently objecting. It did seem to do the trick though, lowering the tone worked a treat to raise the volume around us as people became less inhibited and acknowledged the reason we were all there.

It was now time for pudding and our hostess made all the men move down two places in order to create the best possible chances of people finding ‘the one’ if they had not done so already. Woody had been at the far end of the table so I hadn’t been able to check in on how his evening was going and whether romance had blossomed. Maybe those around him were a little less tight laced and were embracing the challenges. It was during the seat move though that Woody actually got up, announced he was exhausted and made his exit – the bastard, now I was flying solo. Well, not quite. I had known one other person at the party and was relieved to find that due to the seat change he was now sitting next to me.

The combination of a friendly face that I didn’t have to flirt with and the arrival of a large plate of brownies perked me up no end. I know what you’re all worried about though – don’t worry, I didn’t abandon my challenge. I just changed my tact. Instead of suggestively stroking Alex, I repeatedly used his trousers as a napkin to wipe off my brownie crumbs.  I had been right in my suspicions though. As talk turned to going out, our hostess stood up and asked everyone to reveal their challenges and whether they had completed them. One by one people stood up and confessed they had thought their challenge either too rude, too difficult or inappropriate and hadn’t even attempted them. My creativity had been wasted; I had been greatly looking forward to someone pretending they were an avid figure skater and performing a demo, or someone attempting to crawl under the table unnoticed. It also emphasised that although everyone at the dinner was incredibly nice, that was the issue, they were too nice. I just don’t think I could fancy a guy who wasn’t willing to put his trousers on inside out during a dinner because a girl he had never met before had told him to on a piece of paper – but maybe that’s me being unreasonable. 

By this point I was pretty drunk though so we all headed out for a spot of boogying. As the night drew to an end and we realised several of us were heading back in the same direction and the delicious dinner seemed like a distant memory, I suggested they were all more than welcome to come back to mine for tea and toast but in my drunken state I was repeatedly sure to point out that this was purely platonic and was not a euphemism for nudity and penetration. They were rather taken aback but accepted. The manners and nicety of these fellow dinner-goers was confirmed the following day when I received a messenger request from a certain Harry. I opened it, only to read the most effusive message, possibly the only effusive message, I have ever received for a bit of soggy toast and marmite. This message perfectly summarised my fellow guests – exceedingly well brought up, very well mannered and far far too nice. `     

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Commune Bae

Many, many moons ago, in the student heydays of my youth, I travelled the high seas – opening my eyes to the ways of the world. It was whilst staying in a wooden hut on a volcanic island in the middle of a lake in Nicaragua, that my friend Phoebe and I met two young gentlemen: Drew and James. Phoebe was rather taken by Drew, which was lucky as I only had eyes for James. Alas, nothing was to come of either of these pursuits – we shared a drink with the two guys and the following morning they disappeared north for volcano boarding whilst we were coast bound for the appropriately named and suitably tragic ‘Sunday Funday’.

Flash forward five years and I have abandoned my previous flatmate Ed and moved into my current residence, which I now share with Phoebe. Imagine my surprise one evening when I sat absentmindedly swiping away whilst we watched Doctor Foster, to see Drew pop up on my Bumble. I immediately showed Phoebe who, now happily in a long-term relationship, suggested I swipe right. I did and it was a match. As already mentioned, as far as I was concerned, Drew’s looks had paled into insignificance compared to those of his companion, James. I did not message him and twenty-four hours later the match was deleted. Twenty-four hours and five minutes after we had matched on Bumble, I received a Facebook message from Drew. Well, you’ve got to admire the guy for his punctuality so, egged on by Phoebe, I agreed to meet him for a drink. 

I should have heard alarm bells when I let Drew choose the location and he conveniently chose a pub that was entirely non-descript other than the fact that it was a five minute walk from his house (more on how I came to know this later…). We met at the closest tube and wandered down to the pub. I had already seen from his Bumble profile that Drew’s attempts to find himself in Central America had failed and he had subsequently embarked on a voyage to India. Judging by his newfound beard, brightly patterned shirt and the rather shabby looking anorak he was wearing, this outing had proved more successful. 

Things did not get off to a good start when Drew walked into the pub, marched straight up to the bar and ordered a bottle of red wine without any consultation into what I liked to drink. I decided not to write Drew off too quickly for this blunder and we headed to our table. The time passed as we made the usual first date small talk, covering the normal topics: 

1) Drew felt transgender people must be inherently religious as they must believe in a body and soul

2) Drew felt that Putin really was a modern day action man

3) Drew felt we should only donate to environmental, not humanitarian charities

4) Drew felt non-binary sexuality shouldn’t be taught in schools as it only confused children.

Drew clearly liked the sound of his own voice. I would describe the evening as more of an argument than a date but before we had had time to move on to the deeper topics like what he did for a living and what his weekend plans were, we had finished the bottle of wine. I offered to get the drinks this time as I needed the loo anyway and Drew said we could either stay at the pub for another drink or he had gin and tonics back at his. I headed to the safety of the loo and pondered this offer. I absolutely did not fancy Drew, in fact I actively and vehemently disliked him. BUT, I also hadn’t had sex in blooming ages… this could be an easy quick fix. I could go back to his, scratch the itch and leave, safely in the knowledge that I would never see him again and nor would I want to. I headed back upstairs to find the bar was closing – my decision was made for me and we headed back to Drew’s.

Drew lived exactly where you would expect someone with a beard, a brightly coloured patterned shirt, an anorak and a passion for India to live – a commune. Well, not technically a commune, it was an old people’s home that had been bought to turn into luxury flats. The landlord hadn’t got planning permission for these yet so was letting people live there for a peppercorn rent in the mean time to avoid squatters. Drew’s room also looked exactly like what you would expect from someone with a beard, a brightly coloured patterned shirt, an anorak and a passion for India. He had recently found a pot of bright yellow paint under the stairs, which he had used to adorn his walls, along with some non-descript fabric which hung over a mattress on palettes on the floor. The mood was completed when he lit some incense and put some mild David Brubeck jazz on YouTube for ambiance. I was simultaneously repulsed and fighting the urge to giggle. 

Without the safety blanket of a pub’s background noise and having covered all the usual small talk topics, conversation was rather stinted but the piece de resistance was yet to come. As I sat awkwardly on the corner of the sofa, sipping my mug of gin and tonic, Drew announced he needed the loo. No problem with that. As he got up to leave though, he headed for the door and on his way out picked up a magazine – some light lavatorial literature. The romantic mood he had worked so hard to create over the discussion of his homophobic views was suddenly dashed by what was pretty much an admission that he was just off for a pre-shag shit. I decided it was time to bring this social experiment to an end. There are only certain lengths a girl can go to to end a draught. I took his poopertunity to beat a hasty retreat!

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Bae on a Hot Tin Roof

This week we have the arrival of another guest appearance: my colleague, LeeRoy. That is not his real name. In the interest of professionalism and privacy I offered him a pseudonym and he chose LeeRoy. So ladies and gentleman, it is my pleasure to introduce to you… LeeRoy *insert rapturous applause here*. Just the other day the team were partaking in idle desk chit-chat as adults with grown up jobs tend to do when we got onto the top of people’s plans for that evening. LeeRoy very nonchalantly mentioned that he was off to the theatre that night to see Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Unfortunately for LeeRoy, this was not glided over as the throw away comment he had intended. This was the most talked about play of the moment – the one with Jack O’Connor, the fit one from Skins in, the one with Sienna Miller in, the one that sees both the fit one from Skins and Sienna Miller strip down to the absolute nudey. How had he managed to get tickets and who on earth was he taking to witness this wonder of both the theatrical arts and the human form?

LeeRoy became rather sheepish and mumbled that he was going with a girl he had studied drama with at uni. Nope, still not off the hook there LeeRoy. Who is this girl? Is there a history here? Is this a date? LeeRoy went bright red, attempted to skirt all further questioning and insisted that although they had snogged in the past, this was absolutely, categorically, definitely not a date. He can’t have been too keen to catch up with this long lost platonic friend though. LeeRoy admitted he was purposefully loitering around the office for as long as possible to avoid too much small talk before the play started. He also then downed a shot of whiskey and nabbed some supplies from the Mentos desk before he left. I always need dutch courage and breath mints before a catch up with a friend that involves minimum catching up and maximum sitting in silence in a darkened room watching attractive people remove their clothes…

Flash-forward to the next morning and I have never been more excited to get to work and see how this non-date had gone. We received the full debrief and the following had ensued:

Timed to perfection, LeeRoy had arrived at the theatre just as the first bell went so they headed straight for their seats and were plunged into darkness and uncomfortable sexual tension as they were immediately confronted by Jack O’Connor’s naked body. I know where you think is going, surely Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is the ideal location for the classier execution of the classic teenage cinema move of the yawn-stretch-put-your-arm-round-her. But this wasn’t a date, remember. So LeeRoy kept his hands to himself.

Swept away by the performance, and as the true thespians that they had been trained as, LeeRoy and his mystery lady FRIEND headed to a bar following the curtain call to discuss the nuances of Tennessee William’s prose and Sienna Miller’s performance. It was only once two bottles of Malbec had slipped down that LeeRoy noticed the time and realised he was going to have to dash if he was going to make the last tube home – who knew that actually catching up could be so time consuming?!

The two star-crossed lovers companions hopped onto the tube and eventually bade big, fond and platonic farewells at Kings Cross as the Piccadilly line tore them apart. It was only when he arrived at the platform that LeeRoy realised that in the awkward, rushed pre-play preamble he had put his house keys in his acquaintance’s bag to avoid the potential discomfort of his keys digging into his thigh from his jeans pocket during the production. Quick, there was no time to lose. Fate had played its part, he had to catch her. There was no time to lose. He ran. Tearing up the escalator steps two at a time, sending parents pushing prams and buskers flying in his wake, and calling her name as he went. He was really putting Romeo’s balcony scaling antics to shame. As he neared the top, there she was, at the ticket barrier. She heard her name and turned, hair swishing in slow motion.

“Sorry, I think I left my keys in your bag”. Her face fell, ah yes. She fished out the keys in question and without another word, Leroy turned and disappeared into the gaping chasm of the underground. Fate had failed, the moment had passed. But fate isn’t used to the wonders of modern technology. Not one to the let the opportunity slip through his fingers, LeeRoy got out his phone. (one does wonder why that hadn’t also been in the handbag due to the aforementioned comfort issues but let’s not focus on the fine details here). In a fit of passion, LeeRoy tapped out what could easily have been described as the most moving love-letter of the millennial generation: ‘I think I probably should have snogged you then’. Five minutes later and his phone buzzed, it was Bae on a Hot Tin Roof: ‘I agree’.

But these two are thespians. They know how it goes: if we have learnt anything from Shakespeare’s most iconic romantic tragedy, we know that this love, once finally admitted, is doomed never to be fulfilled. LeeRoy didn’t text back.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Banker Wanker Bae

Whilst our singles dinner may not have been a resounding success, I have started to realise that the bigger the city, the more singletons there are and therefore, the more events there are catered especially to them. One such event is ‘Lord of the Flings’. The premise is simple; you buy a ticket then fill in a form about yourself. You can then choose whether you would like to go on a one-on-one blind date or a double blind date. You are sent an email with a time and a location where you join your date for dinner before all the daters congregate in the ever-classy Bunga Bunga.  Always keen to try something different, I opted to go for the double option and signed up with a friend. 

 The form was not dissimilar to setting up a dating profile but the final question did provide particular enjoyment. ‘If you could be any fictional character, who would you choose and why?’. After much deliberation I opted for Baloo the Bear – I’m big fan of bear hugs but also pretty nifty when it comes down to the Bear Necessities (I was pretty pleased with myself for that one, if I’m honest). The day of the date arrived and armed only with the information that we were meeting two guys called Jack and Joe, Libby and I headed to a rather strange bar in Clapham that seemed to serve craft beer and over-priced chicken sandwiches. I had never been on a double blind date before and it was only when I got to the venue that I began to think about the potential pit falls: how do you tell which pair of men walking in are the right ones, what happens if one of them is a minger, what happens if we both fancy the same one – whoever said there was safety in numbers was clearly either exceedingly poly-amorous or did not intend for the phrase to be applied to dating. 

 Eventually we managed to identify Jack and Joe and headed to our table. Things were already more positive than they could have been: there was no significant difference in attractiveness and no immediate calls of ‘shotgun him’. The evening opened with general four way conversation that was not desimilar to the interactions of dogs in a park – we were strangers and still relatively open minded so warily sniffed each other’s metaphorical bums before hedging out bets. We learnt that Jack and Joe were flatmates, it was Joe’s idea to come to the event and nervous of flying solo on his first blind date, had roped in his flatmate, Jack. By the time the food had arrived, it was clear that Libby and Joe were getting on well so as the supportive friend and well-trained wingman that I am, I turned my attention to Jack. If I’m honest, Jack was more my type anyway – with a good strong jaw line and thick brown hair, I hadn’t completely ruled Jack out of the runnings for potential Bae. Then he said he was a banker. He explained that as he usually gets up for work at 5am, after going to the gym in the evenings, he doesn’t have much time for other interests – thrilling. I was hoping he would prove the banker wanker stereotype wrong but as he sat there in his suit, giving off the impression that I was really very lucky that he had managed to fit the evening into his busy work life, I wasn’t so sure. In fact he absolutely fitted the stereotype, to the point of disappearing to the loo every fifteen minutes, wiping his nose as he returned with a heightened interest in the sound of his own voice. 

 I was relieved when the decision was made to call an Uber and head to Bunga Bunga. Jack got straight in the front to monopolise the aux cable. I sat in the back with Libby and Joe who were by this point exchanging numbers and was glad to see that Libby had been having better luck than I was. Upon arrival we bumped into my flatmate Ed, who had decided it wasn’t worth forking out for the date part of the evening but would join for the after party purely consisting of single people. Not quite drunk enough to face the meat-market that awaited us, Libby, Ed and I, plus Ed’s friend Harry who had been one of the attendees at our singles dinner, headed to the pub over the road. What I have failed to thus far mention was that Libby and Ed had matched on Bumble before I moved to London and had been on a solitary date that had not been repeated. This all made for a slightly awkward but highly entertaining drink. 

 Eventually we headed back to Bunga Bunga to face the incredibly cheesey music. We hadn’t been there long when a guy approached me. His opening line was ‘You must be Occy, you were on a date with my friend Jack this evening. He was just saying how great you were and what a fun evening he had had’. This line would have been slightly more plausible if Jack hadn’t been in my eye line at the time. His posture: slumped alone against a wall, staring into the gin and tonic he was cradling did not scream post-date high. I politely excused myself and headed off in search of friends and a drink. I hadn’t got far when I was blindsided by Joe. I was rather surprised to see him as I had assumed he would be with Libby. I was even more surprised when he blurted, ‘oh hey, Occy. I’m glad I found you, I just wondered if you would like to go for a drink next week?’. It was his turn to look surprised as he got a sharp ‘No’ in response. I went on to explain that he had been openly flirting with Libby all night, hadn’t paid me any attention at all and was clearly just trying to hedge his bets and secure a snog out of the evening. He had clearly watched too many rom-coms and at this point starting grovelling, pleading that it was me had fancied all along and that we were meant to be together and I couldn’t just walk away, it would be a tragedy if we never saw each other again. At this point I did just that and walked away. 

 Luckily I quickly found Ed who had had enough of the event by that point as well so we picked our way towards the exit, through the crowds of cavorting couples. There were several jeers and wolf whistles from those in the smoking area as we got in our Uber – clearly assuming that there was to be at least one sexually successful date story to come from the evening. Little did they know that we returned to the flat for tea, toast and marmite before snuggling up in our respective beds!

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Baes for Days

I am sad to say that things did not work out between Ed and Flambae. As Ed joined back on dating square one, we soon realised that Ed and I were in a potentially mutually exploitable and highly beneficial scenario. We had been in different years at uni and hadn’t gone to school together – providing entire swathes of our friendship groups that the other didn’t know. These were entirely new and untapped single markets, ready and waiting for fresh meat to take a dip in their dating ponds and spice up their lives.

This was too good an opportunity to be missed. We decided to host a singles dinner. The premise was simple: I would invite five single female friends and Ed would invite five single male friends. The only rule was that neither of us could invite people that the other person had ever met. Mission accomplished and  guest list confirmed, the date was set and invites were sent out. Eventually the day arrived and as the exceedingly well prepared and organised yo-pros that we were, we had painstakingly prepared the food the night before, ready to pop in the oven when we got back from work.

Our kitchen, although very pleasant, was not large, and dinner for twelve proved rather cosy. This wasn’t helped by the fact that we didn’t actually own twelve chairs so we had to improvise slightly. The seating plan was carefully arranged to strategically place Ed and I on makeshift chairs we had created from poofs and cushions from the sitting room. The seating plan in itself proved quite a challenge. We each had strong views on which of our friends the other would fancy so that was easy enough to orchestrate but beyond that we had to resort to guess work – the very nature of inviting members of our own sex that the other didn’t know made ensuring the boy-girl-boy-girl format was as compatible as possible rather difficult. We decided that all the men should move round two places for pudding, meaning that any particularly incompatible pairings would only have to endure one course of awkward small talk before being whisked off.

One thing I haven’t mentioned so far is that there was also a wild card in this scenario. One of Ed’s friends had had to pull out at the last minute. I was in communication on Bumble at the time with a guy I had met several years previously so on a whim asked if he would like to join and he very sportingly agreed. With the seating plan sorted and the food in the oven, our guests began to arrive. I can only compare the first half an hour of the evening to a twelve year olds’ school disco but with a slightly classier assortment of crudités and humus rather than party rings and sausage rolls. The room was unintentionally and awkwardly split - boys on one side and girls on the other. This was only intensified as people arrived; they were greeted by a barrage of names from a receiving line of the opposite sex before retreating to their own trenches. 

I have to confess that I made a rookie error in the opening minutes of the game that would cost me greatly throughout the match.... As unknown male after unknown male arrived, I welcomed them fleetingly before rushing off to ensure that the beans weren’t boiling over, the sausage lattice wasn’t burning, and that everyone had drinks. It was only once we ushered our guests into the kitchen that I realised I had no idea who was who in the procession of guys in black jeans, Argentian belts, New Balance trainers and chequered shirts. I’m pretty sure they were all called Harry, Archie or Fred in various guises but chances of me matching a particular Charlie to the right hair-swished individual were minimal. I used the necessity of plating the food to leave them to avoid the awkwardness of trying to guide them to the correctly named seats.

Once forced intermingling of the sexes had begun and everyone was a couple of drinks deep, things became a little less awkward. Conversation slowly moved on from who went to school with whom and which insurance firm each of the guys worked for. I even managed some quite interesting conversations with Fred/Charlie/Harry about how to tell the gender of a jellyfish and the decrease in the Japanese population due to the increasing popularity of porn. We couldn’t expect our guests to pass an enjoyable evening purely through the means of intellectual conversation though. As pudding came to an end we launched into a rousing game of ‘Good pants, bad pants’ – chanting at each person around the table in turn until they gave us a glimpse of their underwear which was met with either cheers or boos. Little did we know that we had a dark horse in our midst – it was only when we reached our last male guest and he revealed quite the most exceptional pair of boxers that he admitted he actually worked for a high end men’s underwear company – no insurance firms or property for him! Bumble Bae had proved a rather serious addition to the party and sat looking somewhere between disapproving and gently bemused by these antics. To give him his due though, he stuck the evening out and even gave us a glimpse of his waistband when severely cajoled. 

As base as this game may sound, it had the desired effect and Ed’s gin supply was cracked into. At this point the evening becomes slightly hazey but I believe a game of Tune My Radio ensued, followed by some highly competitive musical statues. Rather than trying to impress the opposite sex with our maturity and eligibility, there seemed to be a party-wide regression as musical statues was made all the more challenging by combining it with the childhood classic of ‘the floor is lava’. It took several smashed glasses and a broken chair before the party itself began to break up – the purpose of the evening having been completely forgotten. The regression to childhood appeared complete when the opposing sexes left in the tribes in which they had arrived, giving the impression that each thought the other had the lurgey and must be avoided across the playground at all costs.

There was one exception to this, the ever focussed and determined flatmate Ed. Three of the female guests had opted to stay over rather than face the trek home to North London. One particular guest, Rosie, had caught Ed’s eye and he was thrilled to hear she would be sleeping on our sofa. Several gins later, it was only whilst brushing his teeth that Ed realised Rosie could be the girl of his dreams. He didn’t have a moment to lose, he must act now; electric toothbrush still whirring in his mouth, he rushed down the stairs two at a time and flung open the living room door. Alas, too late, Rosie was asleep. Dejected, but with what were by now exceedingly clean molars, Ed retreated bathroom-wards. 

Ed and I nursed our rather sore heads to work the following morning before heading to our respective homes for the weekend. It was only when we returned to the flat on Sunday night to be met with the kitchen’s detritus and to learn that our banging tunes had managed to fuse every plug in the house, including the fridge and freezer which had subsequently defrosted, did we decide that romance or none, it had been a pretty cracking party! Whilst the lack of snogs or wedding invitations does suggest the evening wasn’t a resounding success, word did reach us that two of our guests had bumped into each other on a night out and shared an impassioned D floor snog so our efforts hadn’t been entirely in vain.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Flambae

Seven months in to London living and it turns out that full time employment is rather time consuming – I know the clue’s in the title but it’s only when you start working that you realise just how much time you had as a student. Suddenly, I was hit with not only work-based commitments, but social ones as well. The lack of twenty-something year olds in Cumbria had meant that other than one or two exceptions a week, my schedule was largely free to go on as many disastrous dates as I pleased and spend endless hours in the bath sifting through my various vacuous cyber conversations. 

Suddenly my diary was filled with drinks, dinners, drinks, theatre trips, drinks and the very occasional evening at home, which was entirely necessary purely to make sure I had a supply of clean underwear and packed lunches. Exhausted, exhilarated and downhearted, I started to worry that I was never going to find time to keep up my promise of moving the blog to the Big Smoke. 

For my first two months in London I was living with a good friend of my sister’s from uni who, for the sake of this post, shall be called Ed. Ed had already been living in London for two years and was totally au fait with juggling sporting, social and professional activities. Two weeks in to our flat-share and it became clear that he also found time to squeeze the odd evening of female company into his schedule. One Thursday he nonchalantly asked what my plans were for the following evening. I thought our cohabitation was working out quite well so was rather taken aback when he let out a variable sigh of relief at the news that I had plans. The reason for this soon became apparent. He had invited a girl to the flat for dinner. Having met her whilst adventuring in the Serengeti, he did not want his culinary masterpiece of ostrich steaks, intended to carry them back to their evenings under the Sub-Saharan stars to be rudely interrupted by his bumbling baboon of a flatmate. Hint taken. I dragged out my plans the following evening for as long as possible. 

Eventually, I had to call it a night and headed back to the flat. As I put my key in the lock I could hear girly giggling coming from the kitchen. I felt it would be rude to not make my presence known so tentatively knocked and entered. Within was a candlelit scene of romantic perfection. By this point the ostrich steaks had been devoured, and the pair had moved on to the rather less exotic apple pie and ice cream. Not wanting to rain on the re-enactment of their African parade, I kept niceties to a minimum before heading to bed. 

I awoke in the morning to the noise of gentle chatter, like monkeys in the canopy, and concluded that the ostrich steaks had had the desired effect (who knew ostrich was up there with oysters as an aphrodisiac!). The three of us passed a very pleasant breakfast together before Ed’s friend, Flambae, headed back to her neck of the woods. 

 By this point this is probably starting to feel like a bit of a non-starter of a blog post, and you are all probably wondering as to why Flambae has got her name. There is a part of the story I have not yet divulged. At around 2am, I was woken from my slumber by a sudden need to use the facilities. The journey from my bedroom to the bathroom took me past the kitchen door, which had been left ajar. Although the chitter-chatter of the lovebirds’ cooings has since faded to the floor above, I noticed that Ed had left the kitchen light on so nipped in to turn it off. 

 What a sight I was met with…. the candles remained on the table, still lit, but around them, strewn across the floor lay a wide variety of clothing. Clothing that looked very similar to that which my flatmate and his guest were wearing earlier in the evening. They say a leopard can never change his spots but it would appear he can at least remove them at great speed. The remaining components of the meal had been flung to one side of the table and all I can say is that in their haste, the pair were lucky that their apparently naked bodies had not come into contact with any similarly naked flames. I blew out the candles, folded up the various items of clothing and left them neatly on a chair before returning to bed. 

 I decided it would be animal cruelty to bring my late-night safari up at breakfast so made polite conversation as we munched our eggs (hen, not ostrich) and bacon. It was only once Flambae had left that I revealed my discovery, leaving poor Ed as flushed as a flamingo!

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Maybae There’s More

I’m a sell out and I’m sorry. The more avid NSNC fans amongst you may have already noticed that the blog posts have been dwindling in regularity over the past few months. There are two reasons for this. Firstly, despite kicking off 2017 with high hopes, the truth is: there are only so many disastrous dates a girl can go on before she becomes disheartened. Through the cold winter months the lure of warm fires, pyjamas and reruns of Mock the Week proved too tempting when compared with expensive drinks, uninspiring small talk and excessive aftershave inhalation.

I therefore applied the same approach I take to New Year’s gym memberships to my love life, who could possibly have the motivation to do anything in January? Surely, once the days got warmer and the evenings got longer, I would feel much more proactively inclined. I therefore resigned myself to selflessly upholding the ‘No Sex’ part of this blog’s name. I am rather embarrassed to announce, however, that the ‘No City’ part of the title has proven harder to maintain. Herein lies my second apology: in what can only be described as the corporate equivalent of a whirl-wind romance, I have found myself moving to London. As disappointed as I am in myself, the thought of how smug Lawyer Bae would be if he knew makes me feel even worse.

My initial thought was: ‘Think of the number of people in London! Think of the number of men! This’ll be the end of the blog, I’ll find Bae in five minutes flat!’. I was the small town girl, I had been living in a lonely world. I boarded my train, albeit not at midnight, and headed off to start my new life, certain that my future husband would be waiting on the platform at Euston station. As I sit on said train, watching Cumbria’s rolling hills gradually evolve into urban sprawl, I’m feeling rather reflective so have decided to look back  through the highs and multiple lows of NSNC.

Before the birth of No Sex, No City I had always treated Tinder as a game. Over the past nine months I have compiled a wealth of highly unreliable research. Through various watertight sources such as wine-fuelled friends, those really nice drunk girls you meet in club loos and Glamour articles,  I have learnt that I was not alone in my opinions. Rather than searching for my soul mate I was busy trying to work out my own level of attractiveness by measuring it against that of my matches.

Tom may have a nice photo as best man at his brother’s wedding, enjoy hiking and have his own house, but these attributes aren’t exciting, they’re safe. I know that Craig, a Men’s Health model who thoughtfully drinks coffee in monochrome and has included his snapchat username in his bio will in all likelihood turn out to be vain, vacuous and riddled with venereal diseases. He is  also bloody beautiful. I don’t swipe right on Craig to solve global famine, or even with the intention of talking to him. I swipe right to see if he has swiped right for me. If he has, we must be equally chiselled and smouldering, even if my bedroom mirror doesn’t say so. I used dating apps to boost my ego rather than find my spouse.

It was therefore partially with a sense of self-righteous open-mindedness, and partially with an inkling that there was some quite good blog fodder to be found, that I resolutely decided to swipe right to both the Toms and the Craigs of this world. Whilst I was busily setting up dates with this eclectic Cumbrian cross section I made my second discovery.

Actual statistics now state that one in three relationships start online. Despite this, although diligently swiping, and even occasionally chatting, I found a huge disparity between the number of my friends who use dating apps and the number of them that actually go on dates. Now, some, maybe even many, people would argue that my personal experience does not do a great deal to encourage others to put their money where their cyber-mouth is. My amorous exploits have undeniably not proven successful but I would argue, neither have they been total failures. The dates may not have been great they were better than the ‘what ifs’ I would have been faced with had I not gone. I am also much more knowledgeable on goat farming, cement laying, mobile phone contracts and aerodynamics than I was nine months ago. As much as I hate to admit it, Lawyer Bae’s unwelcome advice may even prove quite useful when I’m flat hunting with the man of my dreams who must currently be on the tube to meet me at Euston. 

.....It has now been three weeks since I wrote the above. Three weeks into my new metropolitan life and I’ve realised there was a vital flaw in my well thought out plan: a higher density of men does not equate to a higher ratio of honeys. More people means more weirdos. I can see now that my work is not yet done and neither is this blog. If anything, my task has got harder: there are now quite literally millions more frogs to kiss before I hold any chance of finding Prince Charming.  So whilst the title may have to change slightly, it doesn’t look like this blog is going anywhere anytime soon….

[thedateranalyst-blog]

No Sex in a Foreign City: Baejing

As people limp on through an increasingly soggy January (both meteorologically and alcoholicly), let me whisk you away with a tale of corruption, action and romance that all begins in the depths of the triad-run Orient. My mate, George, has just got back from Beijing. As a fellow Cumbrian singleton, he has given me permission to retell some of his experiences in China which, I must say, absolutely trump my own dating disasters, hands down. Without further ado, let me begin...

George landed in Beijing and things did not get off to a good start. He made his way to the metro station and attempted to navigate the ticket machine: he selected the right type of ticket and destination then, as instructed, inserted his money into the slot. Nothing happened. It was at the point that George realised he had accidentally just fed the equivalent of £10 into the bin meant for unwanted receipts. Having quite literally thrown away money, George forked out once more and eventually made it to Tiannamon Square. Although the blame for this error must be laid entirely upon George, it had not provided a good first impression of Beijing.

As George trudged up the subway stairs he heard someone address him; ‘Excuse me, where are you from?’. Accustomed to the positively stand-offish silence of the tube, George was rather taken aback. He looked around to make sure this question had been directed at him, and as the only caucasian in the immediate vicinity, he concluded that it had. His addresser, he soon discovered, was a Chinese girl called Ming. Ming had spotted him and seized the opportunity to practise her english. Maybe George had been wrong in his initial impression of Beijing, maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Ming suggested they head to a tea shop to practice her English at greater length, and seeing the ideal opportunity to immerse himself in authentic local culture, George agreed. Ming led George away from the main tourist areas and down several sketchy backstreets before arriving at what could only be described as an Asian version of a greasy spoon. As they settled in, George’s companion proved utterly char-Ming. A cup of tea led to a beer and beer led to a glass of wine (the latter two of which Ming suggested they mix together, an offer George politely refused). 

As the drinks flowed more freely, Ming admitted her attraction to pale men. I don’t think George will mind me saying that he is hardly tanned at the best of times and, following the long flight, was looking even pastier than usual. Starting to think that maybe this inter-cultural social experiment had gone far enough and, noticing it was getting dark, George decided to draw the encounter a close. Being a gentleman, George offered to foot the bill. With it being his first day, he was still a little unsure of the exchange rate (which he assumed was 100 to 1) but even still 4172 yuan seemed a little steep. Tipsy and somewhat intimidated by what was an abnormally large sommelier, George coughed up. Ming walked him back to the subway where they bade their farewells. 

It was only once George reached his hotel and cracked out his handy currency converter app that he realised he had actually just handed over £480 for two teas, a beer and a bottle of wine. The following day George’s sister and mother joined him in Beijing so, flanked by a female on either side and accompanied by a member of the hotel staff, George returned to what was now quite obviously a fake bar. There was no sign of Ming but George was promptly introduced to the mastermind of the operation, Sean. It transpired that George had been locked in the previous day as they were expecting more of a fight and therefore were very surprised when he had paid the bill without any form of argument. 

This initial compliance had apparently worked in George’s favour, however, and Sean was now more than happy to negotiate a more reasonable scam. They managed to negotiate a 65% return on the original drinks bill and the money was duly counted out. George noticed that he seemed to still be a couple of notes short but at this point his companion from the hotel (who had, up until then, been cowering in the corner) interjected that this really wasn’t a very safe environment and that they should leave with what they had. Leaving the bar for the second time, only £180 out of pocket, George felt he had really done rather well and eventually parted Baejing with the fondest of memories.

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Lawyer Bae

Christmas is very much over. All that’s left of the January sales are the XS and XL items, all forms of social invitations have dried up as peoples stop drinking in an attempt to atone for their guilt at overindulging on Baileys and mulled wine, and even the blue ones have been eaten out of the Quality Street tins in a desperate search for a chocolate hit during the early days of the ‘New year, new me’ resolutions. It’s January, the weather’s dire, and people are feeling even more desperate and alone than usual. Ideal! Clever researchers have found out that there is a surge in dating app usage in the first month of the year through a combination of loneliness and optimism as people want a new partner to go with their new banging bod which surely must be on it’s way now that they’ve been to the gym three times. I decided to cash in on the new meat and hit Tinder, Bumble and Happn hard.

The researchers were right and it wasn’t long before Happn delivered the goods in the shape of a 35 year old lawyer from Newcastle, Kevin. My last Happn encounter had been Pilot Bae, arguably one of my most successful dates so far. Clearly Happn was the popular cyber hang out for the slightly more mature man and I was hoping for another success, this time with someone who at least lived in the same country! Impressed that Kevin was willing to make the hour long drive for the sake of a date, we met in a pub not far from where I live.

Kevin was already standing at the bar when I arrived. He had been very crafty in his use of a suave monochrome profile picture on his Happn account. What seemed to be a thick, manly beard in his picture, was, in reality, almost entirely grey. I think I would have minded less if it was someone my own age who had a grey beard, it would have just been unfortunate genes. In this case, however, the grey beard was combined with those glasses that don’t have rims so it looks like you’re not actually wearing glasses, which made the eleven year age gap seem even greater than it was. I decided against making a claim of misleading conduct and continued with proceedings. 

Considering the distance Kevin had travelled for the date I thought meeting for a drink was a little mean so I agreed to have dinner with him and hoped that I had been too quick to judge. The menus arrived and the meal did not get off to a good start. I’m not sure quite what Kevin was expecting from a run-of-the-mill Cumbrian pub but he spent a great deal of time looking down his nose at the menu before announcing, ‘Well I suppose I had better have the steak but I don’t imagine it will be very good’. It turns out that Kevin was quite the foody. A big fan of cooking myself, I was relieved that we had hit mutual ground. I was wrong. Kevin was quick to point out that, he simply doesn’t have the time to cook for himself. He recently moved back up to Newcastle from London. In London ‘one really can’t go wrong in Knightsbridge, they really do have some quite good restaurants around there now’. I was surprised by the stark juxtaposition when I learned that, having moved back north, Lawyer Bae was living with his parents and his mother now did all his cooking and washing for him. Kevin was simultaneously the most snobbish and molly-coddled thirty-five year old I have ever met. That’s without even mentioning the fuss he made over the wine list! Who would have thought there was  such a blatant distinction in knowledge between the sommeliers or Knightsbrige and Wetheral!

Unfortunately things did not improve as the meal progressed. I explained to Lawyer Bae that although I wasn’t planning on living in Cumbria for ever, I currently had no desire to live in London and instead am looking for jobs in more Northern cities. Kevin heard the word London and went into lawyer mode. Did I know that he had recently moved up from London?!? Clearly not having listened to a word of what I had said, he embarked on a one man court case; providing both  the prosecution and defence of every borough of London in turn and why I should or shouldn’t move there. The only up-side of this was it got us through most of the main course without having to fish around for any further common interests.

In case you were interested, Kevin thinks the most important thing when looking to live in London is,  ‘you simply have to be near green space’. Lawyer Bae had cohabited near a green space in London with his ex-girlfriend and their dog. I felt that the dog was definitely safer territory than the ex so headed down that route. ‘What breed was your dog?’. This was the final nail in the coffin for Kevin. His dog was a black labrador, they’re his favourites. I know that what I am about to write may insult many of my readers: I’m sorry but I just can’t stand black labradors. I know many of you own them, and I have probably been more than complimentary about yours in the past but the truth is, I was lying. To me, they fall into the same category as babies: they smell a bit funny, they all look the same and people get terribly offended if you’re rude about them.

Obviously I didn’t say any of this to Kevin. I made polite noises, insisted I was far too full for pudding and suggested we get the bill as he had a long journey home ahead of him and a busy day of lawyering to get up for. My lack of follow up text from Lawyer Bae suggests that the lack of attraction was definitely mutual. No doubt he saw me as a highly immature millennial - still living at home and too backwards and rural to comprehend the complexities of a fine wine and wonders of the capital. Considering the evidence I think it is safe to say no adjournment, case closed!

[thedateranalyst-blog]

The Twelve Baes of Christmas: Part 2

The Seventh Bae of Christmas:

The three minute bell rang and having drunk and debriefed, Woody and I returned to our dating. This time I was joined by Arnav. Now, I must confess, I wasn’t being completely honest with my dates. I knew that no one would show any interest in a girl who lived over three hundred miles away so I told a small white lie and said I had recently moved to London from Cumbria. I was somewhat surprised when Arnav responded to this, ‘Oh really, where is Cumbria?’. Having explained that I grew up just south of Scotland, his next question was ‘Hmm, ok, so what are people actually like up north?’. I was quite sad that the three minute bell went at this point before I could have fun fabricating the intricacies and features of the Northern race!

The Eighth Bae of Christmas:

I will admit, when Kevin sat down opposite me I wasn’t exactly bowled over. There was a heavily receding hairline and an arrogance that wasn’t entirely endearing or attractive. He got major brownie points for his first question though: if I was going to host a music festival, where would it be, who would I book and what food would I serve? Discussing and comparing responses  filled up the three minutes nicely and completely avoided the disastrously dull quagmire of occupations and hobbies - full marks to Kevin!

The Ninth Bae of Christmas:

Harun had clearly been taking tips from his neighbouring dater and kicked off by asking what animal I would like to be reincarnated as. An otter, obviously! Who wouldn’t want to be reborn as an animal that has a special pouch for keeping their favourite rock in!? Harun, apparently. His animal of choice was a cockroach. His reasoning: ‘Who wouldn’t want to be universally loathed by all of humanity?!’. I can’t say that I have ever looked for a recipient of widespread hatred as a lover and don’t think that Harun quite bought me round to the concept. Although, as he pointed out, if there is a nuclear attack, he’ll fine and dandy - I think I’ll stick to my pebble pocket thanks!

The Tenth Bae of Christmas:

The cockroach eventually scuttled off and was replaced by the man with hands down, the most swagger I have ever seen. Nelson told me he worked for Hugo Boss -  a fact which, in sight of his sleek black outfit and tasteful smattering of jewellery, I was inclined to believe. He was killing it, he looked intimidatingly cool! His street-cred was raised even higher when we discovered a mutual love of Brazil and we happily spent the next three minutes discussing Copa Cabana, caipirinhas and cachaca . As he got up to leave, however, the vision was shattered. His very smart suede, pointy boots would last all of two minutes in the Cumbrian mire and his coat looked far more suited to Rio than Wreay!

The Eleventh Bae of Christmas:

Rhys sat down next, looking like the type of guy that plays rugby at weekends - a definite plus point appearance-wise for me! There wasn’t much he could have said that would have stopped me from fancying him. He managed it though. Six years ago Rhys made the decision to set up a new social network, it failed. The three minutes largely consisted of a self-reflecting monologue. Rhys appeared to be using speed dating as a form of therapy to examine his own previous failures. Although I am all in favour of a man who is willing to recognise his own flaws, this seemed a little excessive. Also, it was six years ago! Move on!

The Twelfth Bae of Christmas:

We had got to the last one so this guy had to be THE one. In all honesty though, a heavy night the night before followed by eleven rounds of intense small talk were starting to take their toll on me. I confessed my slightly hungover state to AJ and asked whether he had also been getting stuck in the festive spirits over the weekend. Nah, it had been a quiet Saturday night in with a film for him. He asked what I had been up to the night before and I told him about my friends’ house party. ‘Oh, that sounds fun,’ he said, ‘I really like house parties but have only been to two since I graduated from Huddersfield’. I tried to cheer him up: ‘Two isn’t that bad, when did you graduate’. ‘2008′. Two parties in eight years - that must be some sort of record! What a note to end on!

Woody and I reconvened and agreed that although it had been a thoroughly enjoyable and entertaining afternoon, not one of our speed dates had changed our lives. We grabbed our coats and headed for the door. This is not where the story ends, however. What I have failed to mention thus far is that, before signing up to go speed-dating, I had sent my sister to one of their events three days before to suss it out. I got back to her flat on Sunday evening and pulled out my card to compare notes. As we ran through the list of names together, it became obvious that there were several repetitions - at least four of the men appeared on both of our lists. The biggest shock of all was Kevin, the music-festval-maker! This explained his nonchalant attitude - he was an old hand at the speed dating game! I have no problem with people trying speed dating more than once - as ‘No Sex, No City’ proves, I am all in favour of people being proactive in bae hunting. I do feel that going twice within a week is really a bit much though, they wouldn’t have even had time to arrange dates with the first batch before moving on to the second. 

The whole thing made me feel a bit sad. Whilst there were clearly groups of girls there just to try something new and have a bit of a giggle; there were a number of men who must attend these events week in, week out on a solo mission to try and find ‘The One’. Maybe I have read the situation entirely wrong though and these men actually weren’t wife-hunting at all; maybe these men were all just journalists, writers and bloggers, searching for something to write about - stranger things have happened!   

[thedateranalyst-blog]

The Twelve Baes of Christmas: Part 1

Last weekend I embarked on a rare adventure out of the desolate North and headed to the bright lights of London Town. Let me tell you, the folks of London don’t know how lucky they are! You can’t as much as get on a tube without spotting a hottie! Although my schedule was pretty full, catching up with friends and Christmas shopping, I couldn’t resists dipping my toe into what seemed more of a dating ocean than a pool. I did a little research and come Sunday afternoon, found myself dragging my friend, Woody, along to an event, optimistically titled ‘Last Night a Speed Date Changed My Life’.

It was located in a Shoreditch bar that put Carlisle’s attempts at trendy to shame. Its suitably low lighting, loud music, mismatched furniture and random items stuck on the walls ticked all the trendy boxes. This would have been ideal for an evening event but at 2:00pm on a Sunday afternoon it was all a bit intense. We had been under the impression that everyone had to come in a mixed-sex pair to ensure even numbers but we seemed to be the only attendees to have stuck to this. Groups of women sat giggling and cradling cosmos whilst the darker peripheries of the room contained single males, nursing beers and looking intently at their phones, desperately trying to avoid any more awkward small talk than was strictly necessary. 

The organiser eventually stood up and gave a brief spiel about the number of marriages that had resulted from previous speed dating events (she also told us how many of these marriages had ended in divorce - information that seemed surplus to requirement). On that cheery note, we were given our cards on which to note our dates then the girls were dispersed to individual tables. Each man would sit opposite you, you had a three minute date and then a bell would go and the men would move on. So far, so good. Let the dating begin:

The First Bae of Christmas:

Things did not get off to a good start when Vihaan sat down in front of me. From his appearance, one would have thought that the dark room would have suited him, but he still managed to resemble a mole that had accidentally burrowed in the wrong direction and was slightly discombobulated to find himself above ground. As this was the first date of the day I would like to think that neither of us had quite hit our stride in terms of A-game chat. Nevertheless, I was slightly surprised when, asking him what he did in his spare time, he responded, ‘I’ve developed a fetish for pizza, particularly sourdough’. Luckily the bell went before he could disclose any further details about this particular penchant.

The Second Bae of Christmas:

The odds were stacked against Johan from the word ‘go’. A slightly older gentleman, I respected Johan for his willingness to get out there and try new things but unfortunately his striking resemblance to the child-catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang was too unnerving to move on from. This was combined with a thick German accent that was indecipherable over the loud music. I spent what seemed like a very long three minutes making non-committal answers to questions I had not heard and desperately trying to avoid the sweets that had been placed on the table, just in case they were the bait to Johan’s trap.

The Third Bae of Christmas:

My mind was not put at rest when Johan was replaced by Sanjeep. Upon arrival we had had to enter our names and email addresses into a computer. I had noticed the name above mine had been Sanjeep, chiefly because his email address had been ‘[email protected]’. Was this another trap? When Sanjeep launched in with the question, ‘what are you most afraid of?’, I refrained from answering ‘Johan’. Instead I disclosed my second greatest fear, raw eggs. Sanjeep didn’t seem to know how to respond to this so I asked him his own question in return. He spent the rest of the three minutes trying to think of an answer. He clearly hadn’t quite thought his conversation starter through...

The Fourth Bae of Christmas:

Awkward silences were not a problem for Connor, the slightly rotund, spotty Irishman sporting a blazer and bright pink jumper, who sat down next. I don’t think I said a word over the next three minutes: Connor works for the National Rheumatoid Arthritis Society and is the only person in his office who is male and under the age of fifty. Consequently, he is very clued up on Strictly Come Dancing. Talking of which, he met Ed Balls when he was eleven and Ed bought him a hot chocolate. He met him again last year and Ed Balls bought him a pint - apparent highlights of his life to date. Eventually Connor paused for breath and the bell went. He just had time to squeeze in what he felt was a vital and reassuring quality about himself, he hates Americans.

The Fifth Bae of Christmas:

Connor happily trotted off to the next table and over strutted Gaz. Gaz clearly saw the whole event as a primitive mating dance and was doing his best impression of the dominant male silverback gorilla. He strutted over with his arms clenched out in front of him and shrugged himself into his seat. His enormous arms must have been very heavy as he immediately had to rest one on the back of his chair. Gaz proudly stated he was a banker before announcing he was heading to Dubai on holiday and had to get his grooming done before he left. As he said this he winked and ran both hands down his chest. I was a little bit sick in my mouth.

The Sixth Bae of Christmas:

Thank God, it was Woody. We headed to the bar for a much-needed drink and debriefed on our dates so far. Woody didn’t seem to be having much more success than me, to the extent that when conversations were getting really dire he had taken to telling his dates that I was his girlfriend. When standing close to Woody one could also still smell the alcohol fumes, remnant of a large Saturday night and a factor that was arguably working against him with his potential baes. All too soon the bell went and I returned to my seat in the hope that a speed date still could change my life...

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Physio Bae

Another day, another date. I hate to boast, but as my hunt for love continues I am becoming a pretty competent Tinderer. I have learnt my lessons and now know to be wary of too many group shots, sunglasses and zoomed out pictures. I also tend to avoid pictures with tigers,  bathroom selfies and my pet peeve: car selfies. I just don’t understand this trend. Do you think your best lighting is in the car?  Are you trying to emphasise the fact that you can drive? Have you gone and sat in your car with the sole intention of taking a new Tinder picture? Or even more worrying, have you taken this photo whilst driving? There seems to be no answers to these questions that make the habit permissible. Maybe I am just narrow-minded and through my blanket rules I am missing out on a wealth of possible baes, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take. The longer I tinder (not sure if it can be used as a verb), the quicker my swiping gets and I can now juggle several conversations at once - I know, a CV-worthy skill.

This week bought me down a peg or two though. I was getting a little bit too cocky. Dates no longer made me nervous and I treated them with a rather blasé attitude. I would slap on some make up and a pair of heely boots and trundle off to that week’s bar. This week was like no other, I got dolled up and off I went to meet Matthew, a physiotherapist based in West Cumbria. As I walked into the bar and saw him sitting there, however, a terrible thing happened. I completely forgot his name.  I was about 70% sure it was Matthew but didn’t want to risk saying it incase it wasn’t, a faux pas from which I don’t think it would have been possible to rescue the date. I therefore just had to hedge my bets on this being the right guy: walk towards him, make eye contact, and go for a big ‘heyyy....’. His lack of total surprise in witnessing this greeting suggested that I had at least approached the right person. It got worse though, I hadn’t bothered to read back over our previous messages so not only did I have to avoid all use of proper nouns, but I had no idea what aspects of our lives our banal small-talk had already covered. Was this the guy who lived with his parents and their two spaniels or had this guy recently moved up to Cumbria and was living in a share house in Cockermouth? I was getting all my tinderees muddled up! I approached all conversational topics very tentatively.

My flippant approach to the date could just about be masked but my next blunder could not as we headed to the bar and ordered drinks. Back in ‘Hell and Below’, I was missing my Opihr but ordered a gin and tonic nonetheless. What came next should be music to any twenty-four year old’s ears: ‘Sure, can I see your ID please?’. Flattered, I opened my purse, only to realise I had taken my driver’s licence out earlier in the day to fill in a form and hadn’t put it back in. There was no wriggling out of this one. Whilst Matthew tucked into a pint I had to sheepishly sip away on my lime and soda.

In terms of my actual date; Physio Bae was friendly, polite and engaging. His keen interest in running and his rugby-playing background were clear in his impressive physique. I did notice that as he ordered drinks he pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket to do so before quickly replacing them. He was clearly embarrassed by his imperfect eye-sight, sweet!  I was  therefore somewhat surprised ten minutes later, when he started talking at great length about his lazy eye. I politely commented that I hadn’t noticed it to which he replied, ‘Oh, it get’s way worse when I’m drunk’. I wasn’t sure whether this was supposed to impress me, consolidate his story or evoke sympathy. It achieved none of the above. He was on a role now though, and having explained his lack of vision, moved on to show me how he could dislocate his thumb on demand and his scar from his shoulder operation. With a list of ailments as long as his arm, I’m sure he could easily relate to his patients!

He made the usual gag about the play on words between ‘physiotherapist’ and ‘physio-the-rapist’ to which I gave the required chuckle. This was followed by him saying how he likes to turn off his head-torch when running at night. An unfortunate progression of anecdotes on his part that I’m hoping was nothing more than coincidence. Luckily, no questionable exit strategies were needed on this occasion. Matthew clearly hadn’t had high hopes for the evening either as he had only put an hour and a half’s worth of money in the parking metre so had to leave before his time was up.

I was wondering if I had been too quick to judge Matthew. But then he got up to go and donned his anorak. This seemed to summarise him to a tee - practical, outdoorsy and sensible but lacking slightly in imagination. Matthew clearly loved his exercise, but I think I can safely say he will not be getting physical with me! 

[thedateranalyst-blog]

PG Bae

The progression of ‘No Sex, No City’ has thus far led to a few unexpected consequences. The first of these is that people have now started coming to me for dating advice. I would have thought that the briefest of skim-reads of any of my posts would very quickly emphasise just how unqualified I am to provide any sort of insight into successful dating. The only advice I have been able to offer so far is that under no circumstances should anyone follow my lead! The second consequence has been far more enjoyable: people now feel the need to empathise by sharing the tales of their own terrible dates with me. This is not only reassuring, suggesting that my amazing ability to attract dire dates is no reflection of something intrinsically wrong with me, but it also provides some variation and diversity for the blog. 

This week marks a first as we delve into first dates from the male perspective. A good friend of mine, whom we shall call Tom, is currently in a similar predicament to mine. Based in rural Derbyshire, both date locations and companions are rather thin on the ground. In an attempt to rectify their bachelor status, twelve guys decided to organise a BYOG dinner - Bring Your Own Girl. When the evening came, only three of them had actually managed to source members of the opposite sex. Tom had failed altogether but was pleasantly surprised  when he recognised one of the three girls. In a by-gone age, Tom had once spent a rapturous evening in Emily’s warm embrace. This romantic encounter had taken place under the canopy of a twenty quid tent, accompanied by the haunting, yet ironically relatable melodies of Scouting for Girls during a post-GCSE trip to V Festival.

Tom held back as his fellow singletons preened and peacocked in front of their female guest. He chuckled to himself as not one but three of his comrades were rebuffed upon their tentative attempts to ask Emily out. His patience paid off and the following day he was rewarded with a message. It was only once the time and place of the date had been set that I received a phone call. The date was half an hour away from home: did that mean he couldn’t drink? Was it rude not to drink on a date? Could he even make it through a date without drinking? Apparently the answer to that final question was no, so Tom arranged to stay with a nearby friend - thus avoiding both the drinking conundrum and having to explain where he was actually going to his parents.

As it transpired, Tom’s well-laid plans were not required. In fact, as the evening progressed, it looked like it was more than just plans that were going to get laid...Emily asked Tom if he would like to stay at her’s. WOOHOO! BINGO! SUCCESS! CONVERSION! Alas, sailing was not as plain as Tom had hoped. Emily still lives with her parents. Going back to her’s therefore also meant being introduced to Mum, Dad, and their plethora of pets. In the early hours of the morning, when Tom had rather hoped things would be well under way with his lucky lady, he was instead drinking prosecco and eating stilton with his prospective mother-in-law. I suppose the plus side is that if this relationship does progress, the awkward parent meeting moment has been dealt with early doors.

Doors: that was the next issue, bedroom doors to be precise. When Tom finally managed to escape the parental inquisition, he headed upstairs with Emily. He was now faced with a choice: to the left stood a door to the exile that was the spare room, to the right: the entrance to the chamber of secrets (i.e. Emily’s bedroom). Having made it this far in the Derbyshire equivalent of Takeshi’s Castle, Tom rated his chances and took a running jump at the right hand door. Success! He made it in. His trials were not over, however. Emily had a camp bed. I can proudly report that Tom was not going to admit defeat that easily and as the lights went out he could be found gallantly playing the bigger role in the metaphorical cutlery draw that was Emily’s bed.

Alas, this is where young Tom’s luck ran out and he was unable to get as much as a smooch out of Emily. I tried to argue that this could only be seen as a good thing. No one introduces a guy to their parents on a first date but refuses to snog him unless they are in it for the long run. In the short run though, Tom had to make it through breakfast. It was admittedly rather unfortunate that Tom bumped into PG Bae’s father on the landing as he tried to skulk out of her room unnoticed. To add insult injury; not only had Tom failed to make it onto, let alone passed first base, he then had to speed-eat under Father-of-Bae’s stare which was far more frosty than the cereal in front of him. Father-of-Bae was under the misconception that Tom had raced past first base and scored a home run. If only! Tom bade his farewells as quickly as he could and ran for a home of his own!

Although he may have fallen at the last hurdle, I have high hopes for Tom (who I now consider a sort of prodigy of mine). He is planning on inviting Emily over for dinner, not only will this reciprocate the compliment/challenge of introducing her to the parents, but will also remove the drink-driving issue from the equation completely. Good luck, young Tom. Watch this space...

[thedateranalyst-blog]

Elusive Bae

My evening, or rather, my forty-five minutes with Barely Worthy of the Name Bae had done nothing to elevate my opinion of Cumbrian men. I was beginning to remove the hope of any romantic connection from my Baewatch. It was less depressing if I thought of the Cumbrian dating pool purely as a source of entertaining anecdotes and blog inspiration. Thus resigned to my fate as a crazy cat lady, but dedicated to my faithful readers, I returned once more to Tinder.

I am now running out of original ways to document the swiping and messaging part of the process. Inevitably, I underwent that whole rigmarole once again and eventually managed to score another date. Learning from my mistakes, I did not allow myself to get too excited about Josh whose profile revealed he is trained as a ski instructor, enjoys travelling, and looks pretty damn fly in a pair of swimming trunks. I even refused to be impressed when he offered to drive over forty-five minutes from Hexham to meet me (when pickings are slim a wide Tinder radius is essential). Although still scarred from my last encounter, the enticement of Opihr proved too strong so I suggested we meet at ‘Eaten by Monsters’, praying that history wouldn’t repeat itself.

From the offset, Elusive Bae was leagues ahead of my previous Monstrous encounter, both in appearance and greeting technique. His dark features and designer stubble were not dissimilar to Dominic Cooper and his obvious nerves were rather endearing as he admitted that this was his first Tinder date. Yeah, erm, mine too....Things then began to fall into place. Josh’s mum had recently moved up here so having just graduated from uni, he had moved in with her until he found a job. I thought he had seemed way too normal to be a real Northerner! 

The successful start to the date led into territory that had thus far been unchartered on my adventure. Firstly, I suggested we had dinner. I felt that if he had driven all the way from Northumberland he deserved more than a drink. Secondly, unaccustomed to actually fancying my date, I realised I had no idea how to behave or, more importantly, how to flirt. I became the gibbering crackpot who came out with the sort of comments I have spent the last two months poking fun at unsuspecting victims for making. I quickly learnt that aged twenty-four, I should no longer refer to catching up with friends as ‘play dates’ and that describing your hangover coping scheme as ‘rotting’ does not evoke sexy mental images. Excitedly explaining ‘Hermit’, a game that involves a group of you sitting in a room together in the pitch black, drinking in silence for half an hour, did little to further promote a suave and sophisticated persona (trust me on the game though, funner than it sounds). 

My real winner came at the end of the evening when, having openly called me a weirdo, Josh said how much he had enjoyed his first Tinder date. Somewhat caught off guard, I replied, ‘Yeah, I really enjoyed it too. Have you got any more lined up?’. Handy hint: if you fancy someone it probably isn’t a good idea to ask him or her when they are planning on dating someone else. Given my multiple slip-ups I was pleasantly surprised when Elusive Bae messaged me later that evening. We chatted for the next couple of days but when he stopped replying I assumed that these messages had been purely courteous and that I was now getting a taste of my own medicine as Josh let me down gently.

Skip forward four days and I suddenly received a Facebook add. This came with an accompanying message: ‘Hey! Sorry I didn’t reply to your last message, my phone broke. I remember you saying that your birthday is today though, hope you’re having a great day! x’. Wow, major brownie points to Elusive Bae - even with Facebook reminders I rarely remember people’s birthdays. Having made sure all blog references were hidden from him, I accepted Josh and replied.

This is when things started to head South. I waited a week and heard nothing back. Why go to the effort of 1) adding someone on Facebook and 2) remembering their birthday if you aren’t going to speak to them? The new blog-writing-serial-dating me decided Elusive Bae needed a little bit of sass. I messaged him again: ‘I think you need to take your new phone back to the shop, the Facebook doesn’t seem to be working’. It worked better than I expected and I got a reply apologising and asking if I would like to go out sometime that week. Sass - 1, playing it cool - 0.

I let him know what nights I was free and then, just like that, Elusive Bae disappeared back into the cybersphere. He’s read the message but I haven’t heard from him since - and men say women are confusing! A quick summary: he stopped replying to messages, then added me on Facebook, then stopped replying again, then asked me on a date, then stopped replying again! Maybe this was karma’s way of coming back to bite me for my scathing review of Barely Worthy of the Name Bae. Part of me hopes that my technological efforts have failed and that Josh can still see this on my Facebook. If this is the case: Hello, welcome to No Sex, No City. For future Tinder experiences, do better!