baddates

Mr Needy

/ Alicia Sarah / 4 Comments

After one too many dips in the pool of unsuccessful dates I felt it was time to climb out, dry myself off and try a different type of guy.

I decided it was time to ditch the handsome, swaggering, arrogant alphas and go for a more sensitive, compassionate, in touch with his feelings type of man.

After all, I’m a massive fan of sensitive souls like Ed Sheeran and I figured that dating a lovely emotional guy such as Ed could only be positive in outcome. Couldn’t it?

So I decided to target and try out a guy I’d met a few times through friends whom I shall call, ‘Mr Needy’.

Mr Needy was physically slighter and a little shorter than my typical choice of date. Whilst he still had a good 10 inches on me I had a few worrying thoughts that, if it ever came down to a physical fight between us, who would actually win and also if we happened to get attacked by crazed lunatics whilst out for dinner would he be able to fend them off. (I know the occurrence of being attacked by crazed lunatics is somewhat unlikely in Chelsea but you have to make plans for events like this and be secure in the knowledge that your man can go full Hulk mode if needed).

I also made a mental note to devise a contingency plan in case things went well and we had any bedroom ‘accidents’ were he put his back out trying to fufil my constant demands of being thrown about everywhere and piledrived through the wall.

Whenever these thoughts crept into my head, I’d push them aside, reminding myself that not everyone I date need be 6’3’’ and double my weight. And in his defence, Mr Needy had many good qualities. Firstly, he was handsome; maybe not in a tall, dark, square jaw kind of a way but he had an attractive, kind face; one you certainly wouldn’t complain about waking up to each morning. He had soft, sensuous lips, a head of thick mousey hair and lovely blue eyes that sparkled with kindness.

He was a doctor and therefore bright, intelligent and articulate. He specialised in oncology, so got major brownie points for being both caring and compassionate, his job was obviously a vocation and not simply a ‘job’ . In conversations with him he actively decided to go into medicine and work for the NHS rather than pursue more financially lucrative careers in finance etc because, ‘he wanted to make a difference’. (Cute hey) When he said things like this I wanted to grab his cheeks, smush them and give him a big cuddle… And that was also when the first seeds of doubt started to creep in. Shouldn’t I be wanted to rip his clothes off? Lock myself away with him for days on end away from the rest of the world. Surely I shouldn’t be wanting to smush his cheeks; that’s what you do with five year olds or puppies.

Mr Needy was probably everything you should pursue and go for in a man. Every thing my mum would pick for me if she ever got the opportunity. (I should mention that I feel horrendous calling this post ‘Mr Needy’ opposed to ‘The Doctor’ but there’s a meglomanic with a God complex for whom I’m saving the title of that blog).

The start of the relationship with Mr Needy went smoothly enough; he sent sweet texts were he declared I was ‘beautiful’ and to which I even said ‘thankyou’ (for once I actually believed someone meant it because he seemed interested in just more than getting into my pants) He even called me on the phone to have real life conversations with me, all within days us swopping numbers. Seed (of doubt) number two came when he wanted to be in touch allllll the time.

7am ‘ Good morning beautiful’

1pm ‘How’s your day going princess’

6pm ‘Hope you got home safely and work wasn’t too stressful. I’ll call you on my break.

I mean, dude. Give a girl a break. We didn’t need to be in touch every minute of every day.

However, despite this assault of overly vigorous texting it was a week later and there was still no offer of a date… hmmm. Odd.

This meant one of two things, either Mr Needy wasn’t interested in me or he was too worried about asking me to dinner. I made some Sherlock style deductions and concluded it wasn’t the latter as he had said I was ‘beautiful’ and was quite deliberately trying to keep in touch with me. I’ve been doing this dating thing a while and no straight man no matter how needy or sensitive they may be acts like that towards a woman without the end goal being to remove her knickers.

So I took matters into my own hands and asked him if he’d like to go for dinner (and prayed that me asking him wouldn’t mean I would have to pay).

‘Why certainly. Indeed. Wow. How exciting’, he tried to articulate in a very Hugh Grant- esque foppish way.

‘Righto dinner it is then Needy’ (BTW I didn’t call him ‘Needy’ to his face- I’m not that much of a bitch) and then decided to put the ball back in his court and tried to make him man up a little by telling him, ‘I’ll leave it to you to make reservations and tell me what were doing and when. OK?’

‘Um, errr, um’ he squirmed.

‘Ok, bye Needy… I’ll look forward to it.’ And with that I hung up; his hesitancy and unsurety made me uncomfortable.

For the few days leading up to our date, Needy and I exchanged text messages and had inane phone calls about his day, his journey to and from work, his lunch and one particularly strange and lengthy conversation about his laundry and how he is concerned that he doesn’t have enough time in his day to do it to his liking. (I mean do people really have a certain way they like to do their laundry? I’m lucky if I have anything clean at all most days. The number of times I’ve had to buy clean pants on the way to work is getting out of hand).

But during these mundane conversations about his dirty socks I began to consider, Is this what I want? Normality. Complacency and more importantly am I actually capable of normality for more than 10 minutes at a time?

Eventually came the night of our first official date: although I’d met Mr Needy once or twice through friends and we spoken on the phone we’d never been out together, alone. Tonight was the test.

Mr Needy promptly met me at my door, kissed me on the cheek told me I looked, ‘wonderfully elegant and beautiful’ before escorting me for nearby drinks along The King’s Road: perfect!

Needy’s dating etiquette was pretty much perfection in every way: he opened doors, moved me carefully out the way of people with a hand in the small of my back, ordered the wine after checking my tastes, refilled my glass before I needed to ask. Damn- the boy even stood up when I visited the bathroom. Swoon. Thud.

I’m pretty sure the reason he hadn’t had time to do his laundry that week was because he been on a Debrett’s dating course because he was unfaultable, charming and utterly adorable.

We moved on from drinks and got an Uber to a nearby restaurant in Knightsbridge; here the unfaultable behaviour continued… was this what non-dysfunctional dating looked like and if so why did I have a feeling in my gut that something was wrong or off?

Am I simply addicted to drama and the wrong men? Or is it that I’ve just come to expect that after a decade and a half of dating wronguns.

The date seemed to be going perfectly then somewhere between our dessert and digestif his phone rang. “Excuse me, do you mind if I take this?” he asked, his face colouring scarlet. As he was a doctor I made an allowance for this, believing it was a work emergency and the sick and poorly were in need of Mr Needy more than I was.

“Yeah, I’m good and I’m just out for dinner with her now” continued the phone conversation, “shall I put her on?”

This is odd I thought, why on earth would the hospital want to speak with me?

It was upon hearing a mature woman’s voice declaring, “Aliciaaaa darrrrrling, simply wonderful to speak with you. We’ve heard all about you.” Then shouting to someone in the background, ‘Jessica, it’s ‘Needy’s’ new girlfriend, Alicia on the phone. Come say hello.”

It was at that moment when I realised Needy and I would not be, ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ for much longer and after our evening was over I would have to make my excuses as not to see him again. It made also me realise that reverting from my usual ‘type’ wasn’t necessarily the solution to my dating problems and that whilst Needy would indeedy make someone a wonderful, sweet and perfect partner. Long term, I’d end up eating him alive, bullying him and generally making his life a living hell and I didn’t want that for either of us.

So with that I shot back my ameretto, said my goodbyes to Mummy Needy and Jessica, yawned loudly and complained of being ‘very tired’. Whilst I’m aware I probably broke Needy’s cute little heart and left him crying into his stethoscope, it alas was not to be. I need someone to put me in my place and tell me when I’m being an idiot. Needy did not seem like he was up to that particular task.

So once again it was time for me to call…

‘Next’
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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…’

The Weshman and being a Back Burner Bitch

/ Alicia Sarah / Leave a comment

The term Back Burner Bitch is an adaption of a term from a book called Nice is just a Place in France, recommended to me by my friend Amanda at one Bloody Mary brunch date  (I know, ridiculously Sex and The City of us). Amanda’s luck with men is similar to my own and she describes herself as ‘a lightning conductor for nutters’. We got talking about Back Burner Bros and how we all have at least two or three men at any given time whom we keep dangling and message when we’re bored or fancy a nice dinner.

“The Back Burner Bro is technically great: he’s perfect on paper so technically you should like him but for some reason you just don’t. Like most guys he’s into you, so you keep him around for the purposes of making the guy you actually like jealous or as someone to make out with whenever you are drunk or bored.”

Nice is Just a Place in France by The Betches

The conversation turned to whether we felt we were anyone’s Back Burner Bitch (BBB). Which leads me to the story of The Welshman…

Being Welsh, the Welshman lives over in the ‘varrlleeesss’ – the Land of My Fathers. Technically and sadly, he was never ‘a date’. We met up a couple of times, chat to one another and he sends me Snapchats of his beard and nope, that’s not a euphemism.

I’m actually surprised that I’ve allowed myself to become a BBB for the Welshman as I’m actually petrified of the whole race…let me explain.

I’m half Welsh myself, on my dad’s side. My dad was brought up somewhere in the middle, by that railway no-one outside of Wales can pronounce and I suspect that my poor father spent his formative years without any running water and electricity, eating leeks. It’s almost like a third world country out there; I mean even nowadays they don’t even have Pret, what’s that all about?

Well my dad being Welsh had Welsh parents. The memories I have of my Nan are terrifying. She was a very formidable lady who smelled of mothballs and would only ever converse with me in Welsh. I was a naughty child: I would do stuff like draw on all the walls, stab people with forks at dinner and hide under the table in restaurants. Memories of my Nan mainly consist of her shouting at me in Welsh and dragging me out from under tables by my little Scouse legs. Ever since, the whole lot of them have terrified me. This fear is reinforced annually around February when you see lots of them cheer their rugby team on in the Six Nations dressed up as giant human daffodils.

So, no-one was more surprised at my entertaining of The Welshman than me. I mean The Welshman is also quite terrifying to look at (terrifying in a Grrrrrr masculine way, as opposed to a Quasimodo-ugly, terrifying way). He’s 6’ 3’’, 19 stone of muscle and increasingly beardy by the day. When I first met him he had a face, now he’s just a beard. I actually quite like the beard: it’s sexy, manly and virile. It reminds me of Kahl Drago (Game of Thrones reference again). In fact, there’s a whole Kahl Drago thing going on with The Welshman. Sigh. In fact, I definitely think he should take up plaiting the beard, wearing a bit of eyeliner and riding round on horseback.

Anyway, this whole terrifying-to-look-at aspect was exaggerated by the fact his arm was in some sort of contraption when I first met him. Some metal brace thing with a dial on the front. It reminded me of the thing Bane from Batman has on his face, except it was on his arm. This strange arm apparatus added to the sex appeal: It was like a battle wound and he was a gladiator nursing his fighting injuries. I haven’t actually asked him how he did it (probably should have done – oops) but in my head it was by was saving kittens or babies from burning houses or something.

The first time I met him was at a house party and I had been drinking since two in the afternoon. There’s a fabulous monthly event in London called The Secret Brunch, which is more about champagne and dancing than it is about brunch and this Secret Brunch had been particularly champagne-y. By the time I got to this house party at 10pm, I was a little bit drunk; in fact more than a little bit drunk because I couldn’t actually detect that the Welshman had a Welsh accent. Probably for the best, as I’d have avoided him if I’d known. The only thing I’m scared of more than Welsh people is chickens (don’t ask, I’ll save that story for another time. With my luck, chickens are bound to turn up on a date sometime soon.)

The night went swimmingly, we chatted for hours which seemed like minutes and my fear of Welsh people was appeased to the extent I was now imagining having little, beardy, Welsh Daffodil babies called Yanto, Dai and Bryn. I text my friend who’d introduced us and asked him if he’d be Godfather to our future little Welsh-Scouse mongrels, which he unkindly labelled mini Orcs. Job offer withdrawn.  The dickhead would probably only try and make them support Everton anyway. Actually, said individual probably deserves an entry of his own in the future as he makes The Trader look modest and The Opera Singer look sane. (love him really).

Anyway, before the Welshman and I knew it, it was 11am the next morning. The night and near all the next morning, was over. I could have cried. Waterworks, however, would have meant I’d come across like a nuts, needy lunatic; not the cool, calm and breezy chick I was trying to portray. So I think I snuffled bit and pretended to be sound. I did stick Sam Smith’s ‘Stay’ on in the car deliberately to see if he’d catch on. Nah. Oblivious. Frigging men.

He was off, returning to his homeland, where puppies in burning buildings needed him more than me (note to self: he travelled by train, not horse). I had to be content with becoming a BBB, stalking his social media, harassing him on Whatsapp and Googling, ‘jobs in Wales’. I had dreams about stroking his beard and a topless, eyeliner version of him rescuing kittens. I said novenas to Our Lady (it’s a Catholic thing) that either (a) a super high speed London-Swansea train was developed or (b) someone invented that Star Trek transporter thing. It was sad times after The Welshman returned to Cymru.

I did see him again and we still chat and message one another but it’s clear to me that I’m one of his BBBs. It didn’t take Sherlock skills to work out that him taking at least 2-3 working days to respond to text messages, suggesting plans to meet up that never materialised and ringing me when drunk or a bit bored made me one of his BBBs.

It’s actually ridiculous how being a BBB can turn a perfectly normal human being like myself into a crazed lunatic. It’s not like I don’t get offers and dates; I get offers and dates from really nice guys. But it’s something about wanting the one that you can’t have that makes you want them more. And who wants a nice guy really? Nice is just a place in France after all. We BBBs start doing things we’d never dream of doing: liking their Instagram pictures, messaging back within 5 minutes, drunk texting, etc. The thing is, they pick up the scent of BBB lunacy. Instead of making him want you, like you assume your witty replies and pouty selfies uploaded only when he’s online do, these behaviours actually make him run for the hills (or Valleys, in my case). Being a BBB, we make up excuses for them not seeing us and getting back to us; ‘oh he’s really busy with work’, sound familiar? But deep down we know we’re just a BBB; we just don’t want to admit it to ourselves.

What’s sad about being a BBB is that you have to cut ties and get a grip. Even though you want to believe they’ll have a change of heart and eventually bird you up*. Nope. It never happens. Once placed in the BBB category, you’re in it for good. Or until you wise up, get some sense and move the f**k on. No-one has ever transitioned from BBB to girlfriend. No-one. Ever.

Being a BBB, you desperately hold out for the date he keeps promising.  I mean, I’d even slum it and go to Nando’s or something if need be. I’d rather not, but I have this cool, calm, breezy chick image to maintain and if he suggests Nando’s then the Agent Provocateur set and YSLs are going to just have to come along with me for the night.

Meanwhile, like all my fellow BBBs, I stalk social media and wait. The other week I was so deep into a Twitter stalk that I accidentally favourited a six month old tweet from a girl he followed. We’ve all been there ladies, let’s not pretend now.

Here’s hoping there will be a second Welsh Guy post… But if he finds out about this one it’s highly unlikely. I’d be much better saying, ‘to the left, to the left’ in the words of Queen Bey and calling ‘Next’…

*Scouse term for making one one’s girlfriend