advice

Politics Guy

/ Alicia Sarah / 2 Comments

I randomly met Politics Guy on Facebook, he added me as a friend and started to message me. Despite the fact he had be-friended a perfect stranger, with whom he had no mutual friends, on social media. He appeared to be relatively normal so I thought that I would at least give him a chance.

One of my pet hates is meeting a guy online and becoming his penpal for weeks and months afterwards. Look mate; I have a life, I have friends, I have people to see and places to be. I really can’t be doing with inane conversations about your day. If you’re hot I might tolerate your behaviour for a tad longer than I probably should. But, after a few days you really should be asking me out on a date or swerving the messages.

The politics guy was very direct and I like that. Direct, to the point. You know where you stand…

He seemed to be my type: tall, intelligent, the posh boy accent I like, a few rugby pictures- legs looked decent. And after a day or so, he asked me for drinks and dinner.

“Alicia. I’m unexpectedly at a loose end this evening. If you are, too would you like to join me for some food or drinks?”

“Sure. Why not Politics Guy, I’m at a loose end myself.  What were you thinking?”

“Well, I’m a member of the RAC club in Pall Mall. Do you know it? We could head there for around 7.30?”

Half an hour later I received another phonecall…

“Alicia I think I should just explain how you should be dressed this evening.”

Oh bloody hell, I thought. It’s either fancy dress or some swingers’ party where I need to be dressed in latex or leather. Typical bloody politician. The dirty dog, my grandma always said the guys at Westminster were kinky. I don’t even mind, he doesn’t even know me and I don’t even own any latex outfits…

“The RAC club is very conservative and you need to dress appropriately. What did you have in mind to wear?”

“Well I was thinking PVC catsuit 30 seconds ago until you told me that it was conservative. Guess I’ll just go with a pencil dress.” I joked.

Him, completely missing the joke, “I think the pencil dress would be suitable.” Wear that.

After hanging up, I fumed for a little while about the audacity of him telling me how to dress for a date. Like I was some sort of idiot. I always dress well for dinner dates and felt quite patronised that he would feel the need to double check on my attire for the evening.

I arrived at Green Park tube station, ravenous, having missed lunch. A little Marks and Spencers trip was in order so I didn’t make the same mistake I did with the Trader and eat half my body weight in food at dinner.

So I bought myself, a sandwich, some Percy Pigs and was going to go for a can of coke until I spied some Mojitos in cans. Can of coke or a mojito for Dutch courage? Mojito it was…

By the time I arrived at the RAC club, I had finished the sandwich and was happily munching on my Percies and finishing off my mojito. I stuffed a couple (six) more sweets in my mouth whilst I delved into my bag to send a message telling politics guy I was here. When I heard…

‘Alicia?’

‘wweloo’,  I tried to say with a mouth full of Percies, cocktail can in hand. (pure class me). He laughed and I tried to make it better with offerings of jelly sweets, ‘wanfpt a Wercy Wig?’ Gulp. Swallow. Whilst I stuffed the remainder of the packet along with my empty can of mojito into my Chanel. (I’d never normally do this with a nice handbag, but mortification made me panic and I didn’t know what else to do with them). He looked at me like I was simple and asked, ‘Shall I dispose of the rubbish rather than you having to put it in your handbag?’

I nodded and handed over the Percies and mojito can (which had drenched my handbag). Oh I am so special needs at times.

“Let’s we go inside shall we? I should warn you my friend has expectantly turned up with a date. So there are four of us eating. Is that ok?’

I thought, ‘it’ll have to be wont it’. But after the Percy Pig/Cocktail Can introduction I thought I had better be more polite and told him, ‘of course’.

My Chanel continued to leak mojito as we as we traversed through the numerous empty rooms in the RAC club; It was like a little alcoholic Hansel and Gretel trail. “There’s lots of rooms, what are at they all used for?” I asked as we wandered.

‘Well, this is the drawing room and over there is the knitting room.’ He explained.

‘Pardon. The what room?’

‘Knitting room’, he said for a second time.

‘Knitting room?’ I screeched in a very loud, very scouse voice.

I tend to get more Scouse if I am angry, surprised or had a drink. The disbelief of institutions still having knitting rooms in 2016 took me by such surprise that I sounded like a female Jamie Carragher.  “Well if you’d let me know I would have brought my yarn. Is that even legal nowadays. Knitting rooms?” I asked as a portrait of Winston Churchill gazed down on me angrily and disapprovingly from the wall.

“Well of course. Where are the ladies going to congregate to do their girl talk? There’s also bedrooms upstairs for the guests to use if they wish.” And he gave me a sly little wink. Urghhh. Pervert, I’d just met him. Just my luck to find a sexist pervert.

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? I just gave him a foul look and hoped he’d got the message.

We arrived at the lounge and politics guy introduced me to his friend and his friend’s date. Politics Guys’ friend was a drunker, posher version of him. His friends’ ‘date’ was a very pretty, 6 foot, 19 Year Old, Eastern European girl who couldn’t speak English. Who  the friend claimed was ‘a student’. (blatantly an escort).

Champagne and food were ordered. Yay! Have to say I was disappointed they ordered ‘nibbles’ opposed to proper food. Thank God, I’d got that sandwich and Percy Pigs. Politics Guys’ friend, who worked in The City (Natch!), had finished work at 3.30 and was already off his barnet and it definitely wasn’t just alcohol from which he was intoxicated.

Checklist for City Workers

  1. Be a wanker or dickhead
  2. Be arrogant
  3. Think you’re much smarter/better looking than you actually are.
  4. Flash cash about distastefully, it has to be salmons though. No 20s or 10s and definitely and certainly no 5s.
  5. Be loud, Be brash
  6. Have a 22 year old, blonde PA from Essex who doesn’t mind her bottom being groped on a daily basis.
  7. Generally be off your barnet for at least 12 hours of every day.

Conversation throughout the evening was mainly had between the two men: the Eastern European girl gazed on mutely whilst pushing a lettuce leaf and a tomato around her plate. And about an hour in, I became the focus of the conversation; to which there was a distinct mocking tone.

The two public schoolboys were most certainly bullies. I am not the type of person to allow myself to be bullied by anyone. I was given a tongue in my mouth and a brain in my head and I was not going to let these two talk to me like I was inferior.

“Oh Liverpool, how unfortunate.”  Declared the friend.

“What do you know of Liverpool? When was the last time you visited?” I asked.

“Oh I’ve never been North of Oxford unless you count Edinburgh.” he proudly declared.

“That’s the type of thing I find unfortunate, you’re missing so much of our beautiful country by being so narrow minded about ‘up North’. I pity you.” I snidely said.

To this comment, politics guy scoffed. “ ‘Tis rather grim up North though. I lived there for a few years when I was at Durham Uni.”

Now I know Durham, I lived there myself for years, the place is absolutely beautiful. It has centuries of history and the most magnificent architecture that people across the world go to visit. So I felt I had to defend my little, old Duzza and put Politics Guy in his place.

“Oh, Durham is the OxBridge reject University isn’t it? And you’re in Politics. Sad how someone who is a representative for the political party in control of the country feels that way. What policies does your party how in place to distribute wealth in the UK, lower unemployment levels ‘up north’  and make life generally ‘less grim’ for us?’

Politics Guys’ face was most unhappy and I knew I was NOT impressing at the RAC club. Presumably going to an all boys’ boarding school, working in Westminster (ladies only make up 29% of parliament) and socialising in clubs were woman were sent to a ‘knitting room’ had left him unable to converse with the fairer sex .

I think it was time that I made my excuses and tried to leave, “I’m awfully tired Politics Guy and I’m up terribly early tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go home.”

“How about we get one of those bedrooms upstairs?” he ventured with a sleezeball stroke of my arm.

“We shan’t be doing that. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that I waved goodbye to my escort friend, picked up my drippy, Chanel handbag, blew a kiss to Winston as I walked past the knitting room and searched for my Hansel and Gretel mojito trail out of the building.

When I got off the tube, I had a message awaiting from Politics Guy.

“I want to get you naked.”

Wow. What a gentleman he was. He was promptly blocked on everything and I was left shouting

‘Next…’

Knightsbridge Opera Guy.

/ Alicia Sarah / 6 Comments

The morning after I’d been stopped in the street by Hugo (The Knightsbridge Opera dude) I got a text message…

‘So my Liverpudlian princess, how are you fixed for the opera tomorrow evening? X’

Bugger, I had flat viewings.

“It’s a no-go tomorrow I’m afraid.”

Opera Guy was keen because 10 seconds later I got another message. ‘Well the day after then. No opera but let’s do The Tate. I like art and get bored with dinner dates. Meet me at 6pm outside the entrance.”

Forceful, direct… I liked it. And after all it had to be better than sitting round the bar getting mistaken for being a prostitute again.

“Plan.” I text back, “I will see you then. X”

And that’s how I ended up going on a date with Knightsbridge Opera Guy.

The day of the date arrived and as usual I wore five inch heels. Completely inappropriate for a date traipsing around The Tate Gallery but I was hoping it would make Opera Guy slightly frustrated and he would decide to call the gallery time short and he take me to my spiritual home (a bar) instead.

Opera Guy arrived, floppy haired and over coated. We must have looked like a right odd couple; typical Chelsea boy and a girl who looked like she could be on the next series of TOWIE, opposites attract hey?

Except for me there was no attraction. Physically he was so far removed from my normal type it was unreal and I suspect, for him, I was simply an experiment with ‘slumming it’ ( after being in London for over nine months I’ve since discovered that many London posh boys like to slum it with us Scouse birds. I’ve been on dates with men from Eton, Harrow as well as half of Cambridge University circa 2004-2010) But there we were; looking  like cast members for some surreal Made in Chelsea/ Desperate Scousewives hybrid TV show.

It was October time, the weather was dismal, Opera Guy had brought along what he referred to as ‘a brolly’. Suddenly, he launched into a dramatic Rendition of the ‘Singing in the Rain’ song and dance. Tap dancing his way into the entrance of the gallery. Whilst at the same time he was belting out a bit of Gene Kelly in a ridiculously loud baritone.

Men, women and children stared in our direction. Pigeons scattered and flew away and a nearby boat sailing along the Thames honked back in reply; presumably believing my date’s singing voice was in fact some sort of warning horn or alarm from another ship.

I cringed so badly that my face resembled the little emoji with the teeth clenched. I think Opera Guy spied this and stopped his dramatics.

“So, the voice?”  I asked him once inside the gallery.

“I’m an opera singer darling. I thought I had told you that.”

Damn it, he hadn’t. I had just assumed he was an opera goer opposed to an opera singer. I certainly did not think he was such a fan of opera that he would launch into public recitals.

“Oh how interesting, an opera singer. Do you often rehearse publically?”

“Hahahaha” he bellowed, “I’m notorious for it darlinggg.”

I didn’t know whether to run, cry or leap head first into the Thames and swim for St Paul’s and claim sanctuary.

As it turns out I did none of the above, I stayed on the date with opera guy. The next 90 minutes of my life consisted of an unbearably embarrassing ordeal of listening to Opera Guy sing at full blast about what he thought of the various exhibitions.

There is a toss up for the worst part of the date. It may have been when we arrived in the ‘nude’ room (a room full of paintings and sculptures of the female form.) Where Opera Guy suddenly made up his own lyrics to Nessum Dorma and sung them, very loudly, to the tourists observing the art.

“Huge great big tittiesss,

Everywhere I seeee

Huge great big tittiessss

Never looked so lovelyyyy…”

Or it may have been the time when we were in a pitch black room observing a light instillation.

The room, pitch black, apart from some LCD lights which faded on and off allowed Opera Guy a new found anonymity which he used to his advantage. He decided that he would creep up behind the other gallery goers and make a series of hisses, whistles and growls millimeters away from their ears whilst stroking their arm. In his mind his behaviour was hilarious; the type of behaviour that would certainly impress his date. To the outside world he appeared like a lunatic who had just escaped Bedlam. I smiled apologetically, in the darkness, at the gallery goers whilst secretly thanking God no-one could see my face.

To make matters worse Opera guy must have thought I was amenable to his behaviour. “Oh, you are so much fun to be around. It’s rare to get a girl who gets you and likes to be silly.”

He obviously hadn’t picked up on my non-verbal clues that I was not having fun in the slightest and that idea about jumping into the Thames and swimming for safety was becoming more and more plausible by the second.

After perusing the installations for over an hour and a half (possible the most uncomfortable 90 minutes of my life) Opera Guy decided to call time on the art gallery.

“So cocktails?”

Now everyone I have ever met will tell you I’m not the type of girl to turn down a cocktail, so it left me in torn: drinks with the lunatic or make my excuses and leave. Surely one drink with the lunatic wouldn’t hurt, would it? After all it’s not every day that you meet someone who is genuinely deranged.

The drink itself was quite scenic; we went to Duck and Waffle which has spectacular views over East London and The City. Opera Guy had decided he was sick of his RP accent and was now pretending he was Russell Brand; he had even started imitating Russell’s distinctive, verbose speaking style and Russell’s camp mannerisms were also beginning to creep in. Now Russell Brand for me is The One, and I just couldn’t bear to hear this idiot imitating him (Imitating him badly, embarrassingly and loudly may I add). So I had to politely decline his offer of a second round with the excuse of, ‘up early to view flats’.

Opera Guy did send a few text messages over the next few weeks; one even asked what he did wrong. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he was a complete and utter freakazoid and the date had almost caused me to have public anxiety attacks because of the shame of being associated with him. (Thought honesty to that extent was a bit harsh and mean). So I told him I had started dating someone else; which technically was true as I was, just the ‘someone else’ was ‘someone else (s)’

Only very recently I got another message from Opera Guy ‘Ciao Bella, greetings from Roma’. My Italian is quite poor but Ciao means ‘goodbye’ as well as ‘hello’ and the latter meaning sat with me much better than the first. ‘Ciao Opera guy’ I replied and blocked his number. Next…

Touchdown in London Town: Knightsbridge Adventure

/ Alicia Sarah / Leave a comment

I hadn’t been in London very long before I experienced what it was like to date in the city. In fact, I hadn’t yet moved to London at all; I was down to view houses and visit my sister.

My sister and I where sharing a rather lovely room in The Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge; fabulous place but soft girl kept leaving me by myself whilst she went off on various fashion and magazine shoots and meetings.

I tend to get cabin fever if I’m left by myself for too long and as opulent and well-furnished the rooms in The Mandarin are I just felt the need to be around people. So I decided to take a trip to the downstairs bar (did I mention I may have slightly alcoholic tendencies) where I ordered myself a glass of fizz and some nibbles. Thirty minutes and one glass of champagne down there was still no sign of the sis so proceeded to order glass number two.

Now being from Liverpool, I’m not the type of girl who leaves the house looking anything less than perfect. My hair is always blow dried; my makeup and fake tan applied; I like to dress well and being a short arse I always ensure I have on my highest heels.  Also, being a single girl and in a nice hotel, I thought I should dress particularly well because Mr Right might have been kicking about in reception or hiding behind some of the orchids in the bar.

Also, when I was little, My nan told me never to leave the house without some clean knickers and a matching bra on in case I get hit by a bus and had to go to hospital. I heeded her advice, whilst maybe not in case I got hit by a bus (although with my Green Cross Code skills that is an extremely likely prospect. I’ve had various near death experiences with buses mainly because I’m constantly glued to my phone and I have little concept of what is going on outside of  IWorld).

The point I’m trying to make here is: I was dressed to the nines.

The bar was busy. Various staff and guests were hustling and bustling about their daily business. I played on my Ipad, drank my champagne and reapplied my lipstick a couple of times. It was on delivery of the second glass of champagne that I realized the waitress who had been attending to me had been looking me up and down and trying to figure out my ‘business’ in the hotel. She handed me the glass with a smug smile plastered on her face. “So are you here for a meeting with one of our guests today?” She asked politely but the emphasis on ‘meeting’ and the self-righteous,  ‘I’m better than you are’ grin spread across her mug made me realize she was implying something.

The penny dropped: she thought I was an escort! To be honest I looked like an escort! Sat in a five star hotel in Knightsbridge; drinking champagne alone and applying lip-gloss like it was going out of fashion as I pouted at myself in the mirror. Never have I felt so embarrassed (well that’s a lie but you get the jist of just how mortified I was at her insinuation). Needless to say I necked my glass of champagne, paid up and was away quicker than, well, an escort who is late for her next client.

One of the benefits of being dressed to the nines means that you attract male attention; walking through Knightsbridge I could see I was turning one or two heads. Until suddenly, a slim,dark haired English man in his mid-twenties grabbed my hand as I walked by…

He was not my usual type but he was dressed well and he had one of those RP, Queen’s English accents that make me go weak at the knees.

“Do men stop you in the street a lot my dear? You simply must already be off the market looking as glorious as you do.”

The combination of the accent, the compliments  and the two glasses of champagne ensured my head was feeling a little fuzzy and I pushed aside the fact that ‘Hugo’ (a) wasn’t physically my usual type and (b) had called me ‘my dear’ in the same way someone’s posh, great aunt would.

“N-n-no, no. Single” I stammered.

“Then you simply must let me take you the opera. Do you enjoy the opera?”

“The opera sounds fabulous.”

Expertly, Hugo (let’s just call him Opera Guy) thrust me his number, extracted mine and declared I was his, ‘Liverpudlian angel’ and then vanished back into the ether of Knightsbridge. Whilst I stood there dumbfounded and confused as to what had just happened.

Dating (and getting a date) was very different in London than it was up north. I felt the need to take myself to Harrods to lust over some handbags and maybe indulge in another glass of champagne to celebrate my Pretty Woman moment.  I wonder if Opera Guy will bring diamonds for me to wear on our opera date like Richard Gere did for Julia? One can dream…