Mr #20 - The BFG

The preamble:

I initially replied to a message from Mr #20 because, and I'll be brutally honest here, he was a giant. Regular readers of 52 First Dates will know my feelings towards gentlemen of the diminutive stature, so I thought fair's fair, let's give a giant a go! And by giant, I mean 6'6", which is a good 16 inches taller than me. Let's face it, the wedding photos would look bloody hilarious! However, after replying to the first couple of messages, I appear to have unleashed something scary. 

Every day, without fail and without reply from me, he would send me a very long message rambling on about all sorts of random stuff and usually trying to force more methods of communication upon me, email addresses, phone numbers, Facebook links. After a very hectic work schedule rendering me pretty useless at responding, and the fifth unanswered message in a row, he sent me a very pitiful email bemoaning my lack of contact and that he wished me all the best for the future. Dammit, you're needy! I eventually responded, because you can't get away with messaging people like that in online dating, no wonder you're single! Normally I would have not bothered, but I won't lie, I felt I needed a giant on my dating CV so I swallowed my instinct and replied apologising for being unavailable, but that I'd been busy. He was rather shocked by my honesty, and rapidly started back-peddling, apologising for his innate clinginess. Although this was then totally negated by enquiring as to what I was doing for a certain date in late December. Easy sunshine! 

Eventually I caved in and arranged a date, but after that sort of preamble, I wasn't really looking forward to it...

The man:

Age: 35

Profession: Social worker

Random factoid: I think the fact that he is 6'6" tall definitely has to go in this box.

The day of the date:

Today has been a weird day. Anyone familiar with previous posts will be aware that there has been a third party wafting around my romantic periphery for some time now. To explain, he was a boy I met online last December. He was a musician slash actor slash owner of indescribable hair, we went on a date, rescheduled for after Christmas, and then he vanished into the ether. But back in June, out of the blue, he appeared again through the same dating site, and we'd been messaging constantly ever since. This is a boy with major commitment issues, who's been buggering me around by being as intense as you can get, then falling off the radar. This has gone on for 4 months, and despite numerous attempts on my behalf to arrange a meeting, today I finally decided to pull the plug.  And not a day too soon, since a fortnight ago he confessed to meeting another girl, randomly booking a holiday to Vegas with her as a 'joke', insisting he didn't like her, but that he was going away with her anyway. Seriously, what planet are you on??? I'm just not cut out for that sort of game-playing. But truth be told it has made me really rather sad, mainly because it would've been so easy for us to meet up and see if we really got on as I thought we did, but his eternal embuggerations made it totally impossible. But I'm fed up of being dropped, picked up, dropped, picked up, dropped picked up, and so with great sadness, I told him no more. So that's that, 52 First Dates is no longer at risk of being thwarted. And when you read the rest of this entry, you'll see that's still the case.

The date:

So, it's a Monday, it's Hallowe'en, I'm feeling miserable, so what better way to spend such an evening than with a giant. A great big needy giant. And he wasn't lying about his height either, as many men do online, he really was the tallest man I've even met in my entire life (even taller than my friend Katy's dad - he's a giant too). 

He was also a bit of a man mountain too, clad in double denim no less. Hmm. He also had a substantial amount of facial piercings which were not evident in his profile pictures, including a blue sparkly rhinestone in his nose. 

He was jolly enough in person, although not green enough to be in a sweetcorn ad, but I thought he'd be pleasant enough company for the evening. Conversation kicked off, he spoke at great length about his 5 year old son who he clearly adores, his curiosity about my working schedule that had made me so unavailable, the fact he'd not had a girlfriend until he was 21 (although not intimately apparently, thanks for that Mr TMI dot com!), his MOT, an affair he had with an older married woman, the London riots, insurance claims and modern manners. 

What I liked about his was after our second drink, he called it a night as he was aware how hard I was working. But not before spending the last ten minutes asking me over to his for dinner this Friday, offering to drive me round London, seeing if I could take a day off next week or if he could come over to see me for an hour one evening. Christ, give a girl a break! 

After the bitter sting of rejection recently, don't get me wrong, it's all very flattering and it's lovely to know I'm not totally repulsive to the male race, but this is just too much. Seriously too much. I've only just met you, I'm not coming over to your house or getting in your car. No way. Especially when you see the event of note...!

Memorable Quotes:

'I'm fixing up a remote controlled car I bought from a kid in care...'

'I went for a beer with my mate Neville. He's 71, but he was good to me when I was homeless...'

'I used to really want to show Old English Sheep Dogs at Crufts. But all the men who show dogs at Crufts are gay. And I'm not gay. But I don't like how they poof up the dogs tails. It looks stupid.'

Events of note:

The subtle production of this from his jacket in front of the entire pub...oh wait, have I woken up in the fifties?

Yup, it's a single red rose. I've been promised a lot more in the future. Dear Jesus...

The verdict:

Considering my dread before the event, it was a surprisingly nice evening. But the long and short of it is, I didn't remotely fancy a man with a face like a sieve, bigger boobs than I have, who could probably hospitalised me if I accidentally got in between him and the sofa. 

He also called me 'babe' like it was going out of fashion. Plus anyone who uses LOL in a non-ironic sense is more than enough to grate on me, but someone who uses LOLOLOL as if it actually means something (laugh out loud out loud out loud? Seriously???) is someone automatically red-carded from my romantic playing field. 

On a more serious note, he was also the first parent I'd met out dating, and although I absolutely adore children, I'm not sure how I'd feel about getting involved with a parent at this stage. Maybe if the right man came along. But sadly, the Double Denim Big Friendly Giant isn't him...

Mr #19 - Rum, Forrest, Rum!

The preamble:

Mr #19 and I had exchanged messages on and off for a while now, and my reason for agreeing to meet him was mainly because he called himself a poet, and expressed the sort of enthusiasm for meeting me that I had not quite encountered before. And by enthusiasm, I mean sending me reams and reams of his own poetry, links to his band's music, and unfortunately after I'd agreed to meet him, wedges of text telling me how beautiful he thought I was, something I'm neither that used to nor am that comfortable with from a virtual stranger. He was very generous in his emotional outpourings on the whole, as I would expect poets to do. But the over-riding impression from our messages was that he was oh so very 'umble, had severe self esteem issues, and on the whole was quite possibly the most pessimistic person on the planet. I wouldn't be surprised if he ate bowls of nihilism for breakfast. Oh. This will be fun...

The man:

Age: 26

Profession: Poet (although technically and more prominently, a lawyer)

Random factoid: Only moved to England from Bangladesh 4 years ago. His English is rather beautiful, and currently far better than most you'd hear in your average secondary school, however, his morals remain firmly and unbudgingly at home with his parents.

The date:

We were due to meet week ago, but thanks to work flogging the near soul out of me, I had to reschedule. And when I did eventually reschedule, Mr #19 was incredibly surprised that I wasn't just standing him up. Well I didn't, but after being sat for half an hour on my tod outside Barbican station, he nearly found himself that way. 

Eventually, after a text about something about a red light obscuring our romantic intervention, he turned up. He was another 52 First Dates first - he was actually shorter than me. I was also later to find out, his hands were also smaller than mine, a most unnerving quality, feeling like you have giant man hands!

He also, and I need to work on a pencil sketch to ilustrate quite how weird this was, had a bizarre third tooth somewhat like a fang slap bang between his two regular top front teeth. I'll be honest, I couldn't keep my eyes off it, and I'm pretty sure it spent the night watching me too! 

I was also aware that he also had a lot of hair, but on meeting him, it was obvious he was self conscious about is, so he had not-so-subtly tucked it under his shirt, creating the impression of a modern-day Quasimodo, an analogy on which he rather embarrassingly drew on a number of occasions. But fear not, I wasn't to miss out on this hirsutiary delight - over the course of the evening he gradually released his barnet in full until I had the full hairy effect! I think you're getting a picture of him by now. 

We headed off to the nearest pub, and I was chuffed that he'd remembered I was a Sailor Jerry's fan. Initially this was thoughtful, even when he brought me slices of lime by hand, until he said 'what does it take to get you drunk', and it rapidly emerged he thought he could have his wicked way with the frequent supply of such a spirit. Even on insisting I bought a round, he said 'where I come from, there is no woman's round'. Unfortunately for him, as he was soon to discover, I could hold my liquor. He, however, couldn't.  

I won't lie, my date with Mr #19 was more than enlightening. He spent most of the night telling me how by Bangladeshi standards, I was very pale and therefore very beautiful. But also the fact that all of his friends from home felt that by definition I would be a shit wife. Easy now, we've only just met! 

After a couple of drinks, the true Mr #19 soon came out, as he was determined to convince me that in his own artistic way that life was meaningless, a mantra that it'd take a hell of a lot to persuade me of.

He also became rapidly possessive about any time I mentioned another man's name: 'I see you like Eddie Izzard...', 'yes I think he's a genius', 'oh so you love him then?'...'so you wrote your dissertation on David Cronenberg, do you fancy him?'...'er no, I was studying him for literary theory!'. He even asked if I was married, as I was wearing a ring. Costume jewelry. On the wrong finger too. 

To cut a very long story short, our chat was nothing short of hilarious. Despite his nihilistic view on anything and everything, he was paradoxically jolly. And despite me insisting on offering drinks, he pulled the culture card out time and time again and bought all the drinks. Unfortunately for him, he had no prior benchmark of my alcoholic stamina. 

We soon moved on to his proper venue of choice, a club where his 'band' were due to play. And let me tell you now, there is nothing more embarrassing than meeting all of someone's band mates and their accompanying friends on a first date. Nothing. 'So how do you know Mr #19?' 'Oh. you know...er, help?'.  Fortunately their own taste for narcotics spoke on my behalf otherwise that'd be REALLY awkward! 

Once in the venue, the fun really began. Throughout the bands, Mr #19 deemed it appropriate to have a hand firmly gripped around me at all times and at all costs, and insisted on playing air guitar on me throughout, even though I knew he couldn't play guitar as he was 'strictly front man only'. He literally, wouldn't let me go, not even to walk to the bar or the loo, I was on a weird arm-bungee at all times! 

It also got a lot funnier when he insisted on buying even more rums that he clearly couldn't handle and he thought that I wouldn't notice him taking big handfuls of my hair and sniffing it behind my back. But I did. Hell I did!!!! 

By the end of the evening, he kept asking me and asking me and asking me to tell him how great his poetry and his band were, because he was a self-confessed narcissist. I told him they were great, but in truth, had no idea, I was drunk, he was sniffing my hair, but l'll wager they were pretty shit.

Memorable Quotes:

'Where I come from, pale European women are very beautiful'

'Are they now?'

'If I were to ask your parents why you were so beautiful, what would they say?'

'She doesn't go out to play in the sun much???'

'Do you know, I think you're what Americans may call 'the One'...

'I think our signs are sexually compatible. what sign are you? Cancer? Pisces? Gemini? Taurus?' Just keep guessing sunshine, you'll get there eventually...well, not THERE there...!

Events of note:

Mr #19 bringing over more rums, dropping his specs on the floor, and then promptly face-planting it. It literally took me a good 2 minutes to pull myself together enough to peel him off the floor, before he sat dripping his rum-sodden long hair all over me and trying to recover the situation. I didn't have the heart to tell him there was no metaphorical AA man for whatever had just happened. None whatsoever.

The verdict:

I don't think I've ever been on a date so eventful, ever. Nor have I ever felt so guilty that someone insisted on plying me with rum and telling me I was beautiful. Not that I blame the rum, but no doubt it helped a hell of a lot. But no amount of booze was going to claw back the fact he was shorter than me, hairier than me, that evil extra denture, and the fact  he was trying to get me drunk, a plan which back-fired because he just couldn't handle his booze. 

And let's not mention the fact he rang me the moment I walked in the door to try and arrange a rematch and to try and convince me to join his band, as long as I promised to take any attention away from him. Seriously Snaggle-tooth, give me a fucking break! You are most definitely not my future husband. But I do think you'd make a rather interesting pet...? Perhaps we should discuss further. Over a rum... 

Update:
It is precisely 24 hours since I left Mr #19 staggering around the station, and he's tried calling me three times. I can also see him looking at my dating profile, and I feel a little bit sick. He's just left me a five minute long voicemail saying he has absolutely no recollection of the latter half of the date, but that he would like to prove to me that he can be the perfect gentleman. I think I'll wait until later before I text him to put him out of his misery, and then I shall be switching my phone very much off. Why is it the guys I really don't want to see are so keen on me, and yet the very few people I want to see again are just never interested. 

This, my friends, is life. 

And it sucks.

Mr #18 - Who's Your Daddy?

The preamble:

Mr #18 and I had experienced the very briefest of email exchanges over a month or so ago. I have to say, I thought he was a bit of a pest. His technique of trying to get my attention was to randomly bombard me with messages when I'd not even had time to reply calling me such names as 'stinky poo face'. Quite why I actually gave him my number is still beyond me, because quite frankly, he was really rather annoying. And I was pretty convinced before meeting him that he would be duller than dish water's wit. That said, I'm glad I did agree to meet him, because boy did he prove me wrong...

The man:

Age: 30

Profession: Currently unemployed

Random factoid: Was expelled by school after a catalogue of adolescent errors including refusing to bring stationary to school, setting up his own book-maker's and employing the school bullies to do his bidding, giving himself a very serious fictional disease and threatening to piss on a teacher. You couldn't make this shit up...

The date:

I met the illustrious Mr #18 in Covent Garden. He was 20 minutes late. I was contemplating calling it a day, until a quiet little voice whispered the immortal words 'stinky poo face' in my ea and I knew my date had arrived. 

My first thoughts were...my how short you are, my what tiny child-like hands you have and dear lord, are you sure you're interested in girls??? My initial concern is something that later to be enforced by quite the most bizarre thing anyone has ever said to me on a date. But more about that later, stick with me, it's worth it. 

He had also arrived in the freezing October evening in just a t-shirt, and although he insisted he didn't feel any of the cold, his nipples spoke otherwise. We pottered off to the nearest pub, procured a pair of pints, and the interrogation began. 

It was hard not to keep my eyes off Mr #18#s dinky hands, as throughout the entire course of the date he just couldn't leave himself alone...scratching his arms, lifting his t-shirt, and conducting some sort of fruitful excavation of his ear which was really rather distracting. 

It rapidly occurred to me that I had been so preoccupied by his infernal childish nagging for a date, that I knew absolutely bugger all about him. So I asked. And what  got was nothing short of extraordinary. You will have already read about his school days, a lengthy anecdote that literally had me weeping. For such a quaint, quiet, camp chap, he clearly was quite the criminal mastermind. Not only had he concocted a very serious illness to get out of school, he'd also later done the same to get out of a job. He'd also bought a motorbike aged 15 and decided to run away from home. 5 miles into his great escape, he was picked up by the police for not wearing a helmet. 

Aside from his outpourings as a felon, we covered sharks, racism, Family Guy and a rather embarrassing observation he'd made about the fact that on my dating profile, I seem incapable of doing a nice face. And it's true, I AM incapable of doing a nice face. 

He referred to himself on no less than three occasions as a 'hunk', with a finely-tuned sense of irony and a laugh that was a text book comedy 'tee hee'. He knew all the words to the Lion Man theme tune, a talent he demonstrated not once, but twice and also confessed to having an ongoing bladder problem, which I can retrospectively verify, as he went to the toilet five times over the course of our 2 hour date.

It soon came time for me to call it a night, despite him insisting we went for another, but I just couldn't cope with laughing at this bizarre boy any more. We said a cheery goodbye, and I chuckled all the way to the station. And this is why...

Memorable Quotes:

Mr #18: 'So you're a forces child are you?'

Me: 'Yes, my dad was a fighter pilot'

'Are you being serious?'

'Yes'

'Is he single?'

'Er...what?'

'Is he single? I think I might love him'

'Er, no he's not'

'Do you think he'd go for someone like me?'

'Maybe. You do look a lot like my mother...'

This may all be very funny now, but this went on sporadically all night. I've never had to feel protective over a parent in such a way before, so tonight was a real eye-opening first.

Events of note:

Mr #18 recreating the famous 'you can be my wingman anytime' scene from Top Gun, inserting both his name and my father's instead of Maverick and Ice Man...

The verdict:

Mr #18, I am absolutely convinced, is some sort of comedy genius, whether he knows it or not. But his tiny child hands, his frightening nipples, his camp demeanour and the fact that I am now adamant that he would only be using me to get to my father are reasons enough that I don't think I will be pursuing our relationship any further. But genuinely, I have not chuckled so much on a date in a long time as I have tonight, so for that, in an unintentional way, thank you.

Update:
Since writing this blog entry, I've informed my father of Mr #18's interest, to which he replied 'he obviously has exceptional taste. Perhaps I should meet him'. My mother has also given her blessing on this peculiar union. I shall of course keep you posted. I, however, may have done a little sick in my mouth...

Mr #17 - Good Will Munting

The preamble:

Mr #17 and I had exchanged a few odd messages via t'interweb and then t'ext, and although he's quite a bit younger (and I'm thinking I should have learned my lesson on this a while back), he seemed articulate and intelligent beyond his years, so I thought why the devil not!

The man:

Age:24

Profession: Recently unemployed media sales person turned creative writing student

Random factoid: He'd not only just packed in his job as a media sales person in favour of impending studentry, he'd also managed to make himself homeless due to fallings out with his housemates. Clever boy.

The date:

Mr #17 and I met on the glorious Brick Lane, which automatically scored brownie points with me as it was close to home. Win. Sadly, that was about as good as the date got. 

When Mr #17 arrived, I was struck by how much like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting he looked...if Matt Damon was uglier, spottier and gingerer. Someone been doing some Photoshopping! 

Pretty swiftly my impression of Mr #17 was cemented. Within 15 minutes he told me I wasn't much of a flirt, probably because I wasn't perched on his lap pawing him already, although I just couldn't bring myself to tell him it was because I didn't fancy him remotely. Shortly after, he then enquired whether I had self-esteem issues, and then proceeded to flex his intellectual muscles by trying to psychoanalyse the fuck out of me. Er...what??? I've neglected to mention the fact that we were drinking spirits and mixers, although it rapidly became evident that he was on the doubles, whilst I was trying to keep a clearer head on singles. And I, it seemed, had to buy most of the drinks, on account of his recent unemployment. 

Conversation was driven by him, and was essentially a tool for him to crowbar in as much of his knowledge of Freud, Nietsche, Marx, Lacan and other such heavyweights as he could. Thank god I paid enough attention at university, and how pleased I am that my £10,000 student loan was well spent on being able to stand my conversational ground on a first date. 

It all came to a head when he used the immortal line 'I think all charities are evil' at which point I could stomach no more. He may have described what ensued as a heated debate, but I would put it more as a full on argument. Even after my insisting that if his nearest and dearest were struck down with something hideous and life-threatening, that he'd want to know some compassionate souls had donated money into medical research and support. But he still persisted with his whiskey-fuelled belligerence. That's it! Enough! I'm off! 

We headed off back down Brick Lane, in silence, apart from the random clinking as he ricocheted off inanimate objects. Knowing I lived locally, he drunkenly offered to walk me home, but no way on god's earth was Twat Damon knowing my residence. Instead, I insisted on waiting at the bus stop, at which point he decided to ram his tongue down my throat. If ever the number 25 bus has ever saved my life, it was now. I literally impaled myself on the bus driver in my desperation to get away from HMS Thunder Tongue, wished the doors would close faster than the speed of light, and that was that.

Memorable Quotes:

'I don't talk to my parents much. My mum is fucking stupid and my dad is a pretentious twat'. Nice, really nice.

Events of note:

Seeking solace chatting to the rather lovely bar staff who noticed my relief at being able to get away from him for five minutes. Oh, and the nice girls in the toilet that I spoke to in order to further prolong my absence.

The verdict:

No no no no no no no no no no no and no. 

Did I say no? 

NO!  

Seriously, he gives Mr #6 a run for his money! He texted whilst I was still on the bus trying to arrange a repeat meet, and I had to pull out the 'thanks but no thanks' card. His response? 'Oh! Why is that?' he asked, because he thought we were getting on so very well. Let me count the ways: you belittled me, you psychoanalysed me, you waved your intellect around like some great big wanky weapon, you're plug ugly AND you insisted I bought you doubles! But I've got news for you Sonny Jim...the last one I bought for you was a single, a single I tell you. Victory, albeit a small one, is mine. The hangover, however, is yours.

Mr #16 - Size Does Matter

The preamble:

I was originally due to meet Mr #16 a month or so ago, but on the day of our date, he cancelled for 'financial reasons'. Never good. He also had an old man's name which was somewhat off putting...you know the sort I mean, the kind of name you couldn't imagine calling a baby, and you certainly wouldn't dream of shouting out in the throes of passion. But as Juliet once rightly said, what's in a name? Anyway, a week ago, out of the blue, he got in touch again, saying that his foreign bank had sorted his money, and needed some sort of muck-spreading attack as payback. Foreign bank account eh? Also never good. But since being freshly stood up by a stand up comedian, an irony that is still not lost on me, I decided I'd honour my original word and go on a date with him.

The man:

Age: 34

Profession: Works for a company that install security systems.

Random factoid: Can identify any Dr Who episode at random from very few details. Yup, my thoughts exactly...

The date:

Late, snotty, knackered...from the off, this had all the making of a bad date. Not him, however, but me. I felt absolutely shocking and in no way enthused about this particular date. But since the poor bugger had travelled all the way in from Brighton for the occasion, I didn't cancel. 

We met at a location of his choice...WH Smith. The first thing that struck me about him was his sheer size, and not, I'm afraid, in a good way. I've been on dates where they've lied about their height and age, but this was the first weighty issue I'd encountered, if you catch my drift. In retrospect, the fact that all of his head shots on the site were rather tight should've been a warning sign. But he was rather cheery and incredibly forgiving of my shambolic state, and within no time we pottered off to a pub of his choice, although not before I'd managed to add to my every-increasing shambles by doing a Marilyn Monroe in the middle of the street thanks to the prevailing autumnal winds. Thanks wind. Thanks a lot.

The pub was quite a kooky choice, there was camouflage netting on the ceiling, and although my date did nothing for me looks-wise, the bar staff were hot so the evening was not without eye candy. He was a chatty man and conversation was interesting. We covered everything from  exploding pigeons, men who put their willies in hoovers, why Scouting For Girls should die, the bodily hazards of sandy beaches, bizarre ways people have died and why some companies install security systems to monitor staff toilet use. Take note loo-time skivers! 

He also had an impressive yet slightly unattractive talent of turning every subject round to sci fi, be it Dr Who, Star Wars, Star Trek the Next Generation or the Terminator. He was also a little too gleeful when I showed him my portable mobile phone charger and let him use it to pep up his flat battery. 

Tried as I might to be sociable through the lurg, three vodkas in and I had to make my excuses and go. At the station, amid an awkward adieu, he did plant the sloppiest of kisses on my cheek, one which I actually had to employ a sleeve to remove, but not until out of eyeshot. And then I was home.

Memorable Quotes:

'For some reason I bought a gas mask...'

I've seen a seagull as big as a domestic cat. You've got to respect them.

Events of note:

Seeing my date head off towards his platform, and then as soon as he thought I'd disappeared, he retreated and scampered off into Burger King. 

The verdict:

I think Mr #16 was genuinely a nice guy, but he was sadly a textbook example of the sort of man I often imagine hiding behind his computer more and more. I didn't find him particularly, and although he was pleasant enough, but not enough to make me want to pursue our correspondence any further. I know there's some sci-fi loving, seagull-respecting, gas mask-sporting lass out there to make him a very happy boy. But she ain't me. 

Five minutes after I left him at the station, he texted asking about meeting again. I suppose I only have myself to blame, I showed him my ass and let him plug his phone into my charger on a first date - no wonder he wanted to see me, and my snotty chops, again. But for now, I should gently and kindly put him out of his misery, and try and sort out a potential Mr #17. Note to self...fully body photos essential.

Update:
Oh dear. Since gently replying to Mr #16 saying thank you but no thank you to his offer of meeting again, it seems I may have unleashed something a little sad. He started up a conversation asking what it was that he'd done wrong, and when I said it was simply nothing more than chemistry and that he was all in all a nice chap, I ended up with a number of pitiful messages saying the chemistry line has been used on him an awful lot recently as he'd been on a number of dates, and that no-one seemed to fancy him. Sadly, I'm another one to add to the list. Once again, the pity returned, an awful feeling to have, but you can't see someone again just because you feel sorry for them can you? That's just cruel on both parts. I just couldn't bring myself to tell him that. I do sincerely hope he finds someone who's a little more his way inclined chemically. But once again, I can't stress enough, that person is not me. Nor am I going to be your dating agony aunt, so please stop texting me. Please?

The Stories So Far...

I thought maybe it might be time to do a little round up of my dates so far, a little potted version if you will, just in case you were wondering what happened after we'd said our respective goodbyes on the illustrious first dates. So here we go...


Mr #1 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_06_05_archive.html


Not long after we'd said goodbye that night, well, 50 minutes to be precise, Mr #1 texted to ask me out again. I politely declined, and Mr #1 was rather surprised, but didn't push any further.

Mr #2 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_06_12_archive.html


Since this is the most covered story of the entire 52 First Dates challenge I think you probably know the outcome of this more than any other. But rest assured there is still work being done in the background, and as and when this is resolved, I'll be able to update accordingly.


Mr #3 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_06_19_archive.html

Mr #3 texted me within around 5 minutes of our parting to suggest a second date. Although I'd had a surprisingly pleasant evening, I just didn't think there was an awful lot there romantically. When I replied saying that perhaps it'd just be 'just friends', Mr #3 was incredibly sweet about everything, and just thanked me for being his first ever online date, and for not being a total fuckwit. Bless.

Mr #4 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_06_26_archive.html

The update for Mr #4 is the simplest yet - I never heard from him again. And I am in no way disappointed.

Mr #5 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/07/5.html

Ah, Mr #5, what a sweetie! He was actually my first ever second date. We finally met again,went for a rather lovely Italian dinner. He insisted on paying, so I took him for dessert at my favourite ice cream parlour, and we sat outside drinking wine until the wee hours. I had a delightful time with him, we got on really really well, but I just didn't detect any sniff of romance there. There was a suggestion of a third date, but for whatever reason it just hasn't really emerged, and I think it's probably too late now. Nevermind. He was reassurance that there were nice boys out there, I just had to rootle them out a little bit.

Mr #6 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/07/6.html

I think it goes without saying that I never saw Mr #6 again. Since he knew about the blog and that he'd be written up, once I'd given him the suitable character assassination, I tweeted him to let him know it was coming up. After reading it, he simply replied 'that's more like it'. This guy reinforces my overriding decision not to alert my dates about the write ups beforehand, as not only does it mean the date isn't genuine, but it also leaves great potential for being a hellish date.

Mr #7 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/07/7.html

As expected, after he literally sprinted off for the bus, I heard nothing from him ever again. And not a day has gone by since that I've not lost sleep over this missed opportunity. Or not.

Mr #8 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_08_07_archive.html

Mr #8 messaged me the same night to ask for a second date, and I did have to gracefully decline. He did say he was genuinely surprised that I didn't fancy him, because we had got on so well, and it occurred to me that I do tend to get on with pretty much anyone, whether they fancy me or not, and I think maybe sometimes it does give the wrong impressions. Which is really odd, as I'm the worst flirt known to man (or woman), but perhaps some men think that asking questions, showing interest and being able to bullshit about most subjects means I fancy them. Hmm, perhaps my technique needs honing somewhat.

Mr #9 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/08/9.html

It goes without saying that I never heard from Mr #9 again. It seems our inconsolable differences over Marley and Me were too much for him to overcome. I can't say I'm terribly gutted...

Mr #10 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/08/10.html

Mr #10 did actually text me the same night to meet up again, and once again seemed genuinely surprised that I didn't feel the same. And the temptation to tell him the myriad of reasons why he did nothing for me was almost overwhelming. There's always a chance he might know by now mind, since an hour after updating my blog, a friend messaged me on Facebook saying she thought she knew him from his description, and it turned out he did - he was her husband's cousin! I didn't feel remotely bad however, as it turns out she was entirely unsurprised by his behaviour, and said he really could be quite the knob...interesting!

Mr #11 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/08/11.html

Ah, Captain Coriander! He was a nice, fun guy. And initially I thought I may see him again. But in retrospect, he was clearly only after one thing. Once we'd said goodbye at the bus stop, he messaged me all the way home saying how cold he was. He knew he'd have to go past my flat en route home, and I knew he was hankering for an intimate invite. He didn't get one. And I haven't heard from him since. Just goes to show that there are lots of guys out there only after one thing. I'll be more aware of that in the future.

Mr #12 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_08_28_archive.html

Oh god, the brownest man in town! He's messaged a couple of times since to strike up conversation, and I just can't bring myself to reply. I just can't. And I know it's mean, but I just can't do it, I can feel small bits of my soul seeping away whenever he pops up in my inbox...

Mr #13 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_09_11_archive.html

Ah Mr #13. Really lovely guy, and had I not had this other crap playing on my mind, I'd have been a lot more keen to arrange a second date. But I can't see that happening now, especially since through some presumably thorough Google-work, he found my blog after the write up. I have to say, I was a bit shocked he'd managed to find it, but I wasn't surprised, and it was only a matter of time before someone discovered what I'd been writing. And I'm pleased that it was Mr #13 of all the write ups, as it had for the most part been a flattering one. We messaged quite a bit after, and he's been incredibly encouraging with the project and said some very nice things about my writing. I have offered him the chance to turn the tables and write his version of events of the date, as I think it'd be fascinating to see and post up here. He's frighteningly busy at the moment so I don't think it's likely, but I've left the option open to him. I hope he takes me up on it, as I think it'd be brilliant. 

Mr #14 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011_09_18_archive.html

Okay, now we're getting back on more recent territory. Mr #14 and I have been messaging regularly, and he's been really helpful and encouraging in my making over of 52 First Dates. And he is still determined to get me out for a glass of wine to work his Lithuanian charms on me again. But the jury is still out on this one at the moment...

Mr #15 - http://www.52firstdates.com/2011/09/15.html

I've not heard a peep from Mr #15 since the date, and the 'three day rule' that boys often play by elapses today, so I suspect I won't. I'm not very disappointed truth be told, it saves me from another awkward email.


Mr #16

The position of Mr #16 is still to be filled, as the current contender has just cancelled on me. So I guess I'd better get back to work!