dates

The Trader and The Sickness.

/ Alicia Sarah / Leave a comment

Before I start this post I should apologise for the excessive use of expletives. But we’re all adults here so I’m sure you can deal with it. If you’re not a grown up, then please stop browsing the internet and get on with your homework.

So after The Trader and I decided the whole texting thing was a misunderstanding and that we were equally as stubborn as each other we decided on date number two.  Date number two consisted of drinks opposed to dinner. Presumably he had decided he couldn’t deal with watching any more of my gluttonous eating habits.

In our textless break, The Trader had become lazy in his dating habits; gone was the gentleman waiting at the door, taking my coat etc and instead I got, “I’ll meet you in the bar underneath my office around 7.30. Greece is a f*****g nightmare and completely f*****g things up for us here. So I may have to f*****g stay late.”

Now as mentioned I am known for using the odd profanity but 4 in 10 seconds, with ‘f*****g’ being used as both an adjective and a verb in the same sentence is particularly impressive.

“Bad day?” I asked.

“F*****g dreadful.” He profaned in reply.

Drinks aren’t actually a bad date when you are getting taken to one of the nicest bars in London so I didn’t mind too much.

Arriving on time, having to wait 20 minutes and buy your own first drink at £15 a pop is not so great. Eventually around 8 O’Clock; sweary Sue Perkins arrived.

“What a bloody nightmare I’ve had today. F*****g Greece need to sort their f*****g act out.”

The conversation about Greece continued for 20 minutes. I sipped on my cocktail and pretended to listen. Although I knew very little about what he was talking about. I made a few ‘umm’ and ‘arr’ noises and said ‘oh no.’, ‘nightmare’ once or twice and he seemed to be content with the fact I was following what was being said. Whilst in fact I was clocking that there were a couple of footballers and a reality TV star in the corner and noticed we were sat next to an elderly Arab male who clearly was entertaining an escort for the evening.

“So how does one become a broker?” I asked when I was finally allowed a word in edgeways, “what was your degree in?” The look that clouded over The Trader’s face was that of absolute contempt. ”What did you just call me?” he asked.

I did wonder whether listening to all his sweariness for the last half an hour or so had made me subconsciously absorb and internalise his distinctive idiolect and rather than ask him the simple question about how he’d got into his chosen profession, I’d actually just declared he was an ‘f***ing C***’.

I tried again tentatively, “erm, I asked how you got to be a broker and what your degree was in?”

“I’m not a f*****g broker, I’m a trader. Brokers are like my bitches. I can’t believe you just called me that, do you know how much I earn compared to those c***s?”

And he proceeded to pull out his bank card, “Coutts sweetheart. Coutts” and waved it about at me, inches from my face.”

Right, for that violent outburst he was going to suffer a little. Dickhead.

“Speak to me that way again ‘Trader’ and I’m leaving and seeing that you earn so much I’ll have a bottle of champagne please.  The Rose not brut. Thanks” I said forcefully, staring him right in the eye. I made a mental note to spill some LPR, ‘accidentally on purpose’ on his tailored suit if his attitude didn’t improve.

Tonight was not going well at all. I wondered at what point over the last month the body snatchers had been in and replaced my lovely Sue Perkins lookalike  with a white Kanye West in training.

He backed down a little a looked a bit sheepish. I often find that with many of these cocky, arrogant men as soon as they are challenged they back down. Especially if they are challenged by someone half their size and weight.

The evening got a little better from that point onward (or maybe it didn’t and I was just happier after indulging in a few glasses of champagne). The Trader seemed more relaxed and the guy I had met on the first date slowly started to reappear. I wondered if he was actually a nice guy underneath it all and it was just working with fellow wankers that had made him into one.

In fact, I began to wonder if this was the case with everyone in London. That perhaps underneath, all of these swaggering traders, bankers and corporate types were in fact decent human beings just corrupted by the people they meet at work and that this cycle was continuous.

  1. Arrive in London a normal human.
  2. Meet dickheads and wankers on a daily basis.
  3. Slowly become a dickhead or wanker.
  4. Progress up the career path.
  5. Fresh meat from outside London arrives.
  6. Corrupt said fresh meat until they too become a dickhead or wanker.

Despite the evening getting better, I knew I had caught, ‘the sickness’, once the sickness has been caught it is near impossible to recover from. The sickness for those of you that don’t know is a dreadful dating/relationship illness were you start to notice irritating and annoying things about the other individual. The sickness, like most other diseases, starts off small but gets increasingly virulent with repeated exposure to the individual in question. The sickness is a tragic disease which has affected many a marriage, relationship and courtship. It is notoriously hard to shift (nigh on impossible) and whilst is probably best to call it a day if the sickness is caught, many couples will try to power through, like relationship martyrs hoping it will miraculously go away. FYI, it doesn’t, get a grip and get out now.

I continued dating The Trader for a while longer, but his sweariness, Coutts card flashing and cancelling and changing dates last minute because of, “arsehole clients” just made the sickness worse and there’s only so much that LPR and UberLuxs can do to help. Sigh.My Prince Charming had turned back into a frog (told you he didn’t exist). So it was time to call it a day on move on.

Next…

The Trader.

/ Alicia Sarah / 1 Comment

Last time, I talked about my list of desirable qualities and attributes for the men I date. Now whilst my list is relatively small compared to most of my girls I still find it near impossible to find one that is aptly and suitably qualified. I have been looking for quite a while and have not yet found one who fits the bill. On paper, The Trader seemed to be perfect…

The Trader was one of my Tinder finds. His profile read ‘Generic public schoolboy, 6’ 3’’ rugby playing Cambridge graduate working as a trader’. Some potential there I thought and despite the fact he looked a bit like Sue Perkins from The Great British Bake Off in his photographs I thought he was worth a try and took a gamble on a right swipe…

After a brief exchange of a few flirty messages and voice notes we arranged to meet for dinner. We went for 28-50 on Maddox Street; the place itself is a hidden gem. It’s got this intimate, cosy, warm vibe going on. The restaurant calls itself a ‘wine workshop’ and it has a choice of over 50 wines and champagnes and it had a special ‘truffle menu’. I’m honestly obsessed with truffle anything, the smell itself is amazing and it makes food taste like it has been made by the angels (opposed to the grumpy, sweary, sweaty chefs and their illegal immigrants helpers that you find in most of the kitchens in London ). I recon the Italian farmers should do away with using pigs to snuffle them out and just employ me instead. Although it is possible I’d eat more of the truffles than the pigs so it might be counterproductive and more cost effective to keep the pigs as the snufflers.

He met me on time, dressed in a tailored dark blue suit, kissed me on the cheek, held the door open and took my jacket. Oh, I was on to a winner here. I was already smitten.

We got on really well on the date itself; he was down to earth, funny, intelligent, charming, he joked about the Sue Perkins resemblance I’d picked up on. He even swore as much as me, which is fairly rare. The only over person to use the F and C words to the same extent I do is my sister, when we’re together you could be mistaken for it being a conversation between two sailors.

The accent was spot on, the marriage material one, posh with the London twang coming through. He explained that he was a scholarship boy at a public school and his normal East London accent had been refined over time. Although, I think he thought I was slightly disturbed when I asked him to read the slowly menu and deliberately whilst I closed my eyes, then sighed loudly at the end. I wondered to myself if this date went well and we progressed to relationship stage if I could get away with making him read me bedside stories or is that just fucked up on a whole new level?

The truffle menu was unreal and I proceeded to eat four courses, he did look a tad horrified about this as presumably other girls he had taken on dates had picked at salads. My ability to eat tends to shock most men and at times it even shocks myself. How I maintain my current weight and dress size I will never know because I eat as much as a very large man; I know this because my ex was 6’ 5’’ and 21 stone and I ate similar portions to him. On a recent bad hangover Sunday I consumed two double sausage and egg mcMuffins with hash browns for breakfast, a large dominos stuffed crust pizza with dough ball and chicken strip sides. Then tucked into a bag of Haribos, skittles and a giant bar of galaxy whilst I did a Netflix marathon. Then just to finish my night off had a couple of slices of toast… all in all about 8000kcal or about 5 days’ worth of food. Not that I’m complaining about my metabolism. I love food and would be buggered and clinically obese if I was built like a normal human and I suppose being a major stress head has to have some benefits attached.

But after 4 courses of the said truffle menu (oink) and 2 bottles of wine between us, I was ready to bear The Trader’s children. I was ready to have tiny, little Sue Perkins.

It he hadn’t nailed the first date already, he ordered me a taxi, (He splashed out the extra tenner for an Uber Lux as he obviously recognised I’m not the type of girl who can be sitting in back of a Yaris)* put me in it with another kiss on the cheek and text me half an hour later to say he’d had a lovely evening and check I’d got home ok. I honestly though that this guy had just popped out of a Disney film and  I wondered whether to rank him above or below Ryan Gosling on the guys’ list, just underneath Channing Tatum and Chuck Bass.

I couldn’t have written a better first date if I’d tried. I got home and raved to my housemates that I’d met the most perfect man, that I was in love and would be sadly have to move out soon as me and The Trader would certainly would be getting married in the very near future.

Over the next couple of days I waited for him to get in touch. Nothing. A week went by. Nothing. Two weeks. Nothing… I was mortified about it. How had I judged it so wrong? Do I look completely different in my pictures than I do in reality? Did he think I was a foul, greedy, truffle eating pig? Whatever the reason, the boy had not sent me a single message and I was too mortifieod by the whole ordeal to text first. Then out the blue, nearly three weeks later I got a text…

‘FFS what did I do wrong? Was our date really that shit?’…

*Uber is a London Taxi Company, your standard ones are little Toyota Yaris’,If you upgrade to a Lux you get a Mercedes, free bottle of water and the driver doesn’t huff and puff when you ask can you bluetooth your Spotify. These things all matter.

A few of my favourite things…

/ Alicia Sarah / 2 Comments

Once the move to London was complete I decided it was time to try and find myself a man. (Easier send than done) so Tinder, Happn, Plenty of Fish and various other dating APPs were downloaded and ready to run.

Note well girlies; I DO NOT recommend these dating apps if you are looking for a serious relationship or ‘The One’; they can be downloaded for free and far too easy to use. I mean, I play on them when I’m bored and have nothing else to do and I’m pretty sure it the same for the guys who use them. Because they are far too easy to use,they attract all manner of arseholes. But if you’re just looking to meet new people, have a few drinks and check out your neighbours then go for it!

If you really are looking for a future husband, I’d probably suggest that you hang around places where the nice boys congregate: the local pub on quiz night, art galleries, church etc

I’m a fairly bitter and twisted individual to start with; not in general (I’m lovely) just bitter and twisted when it comes to dating. As a child, my mother left me with Disney videos as my babysitter one too many times. I absorbed their saccharine sweet message which has meant that I have been trodden on by far too many beasts and kissed too many frogs; neither the beasts or the frogs have magically ever transformed into Prince Charming. Now I don’t even bother looking. Prince Charming is much like the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy: cute but imaginary. I’m Cruella De Ville these days and whilst I’m not yet at the puppy killing stage quite yet, given time I’m sure I’ll get there. I fully support Cruella’s outlook; give me a expensive fur coat over a man any day.  Despite me not believing that my dream guy is out there, it doesn’t stop me from having a list of qualities I’d like him to have. The list is not exhaustive and it’s prone to changing occasionally but as a rule, these are a few of my favourite things and I’m not talking about, ‘raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.’

1.My ideal man would be tall, well-built and masculine. (Ideally in proportion everywhere (aherm) please. Oh who am I kidding, you HAVE to be in proportion everywhere. Some women don’t mind: sorry but I’m not one of them). If you spray tan, wax your chest or spend more time doing your hair than me, I’m afraid we can’t be friends. If you go the gym in a low cut vest to show off a cleavage better than my own and then spend the entire session taking selfies of yourself in the mirror we definitely can’t be friends. If you have a sleeve tattoo with David Beckham clouds and turn up the sleeves of your t-shirt to show your tiny arm muscles of then, we definitely and most certainly can’t be friends. Please find a lady with fewer brain cells than I and date her instead.

I like my men large and a bit unrefined in their appearance. Now that doesn’t mean you can look like you’ve crawled out of a cave after living there for the last six months. Unrefined does not equate with looking homeless. Tailored suits, brogues, smelling good (Tom Ford: Neroli Portofino is like heaven for the nostrils) nice watches all are bonuses. Fake tan, waxing, using excessive hair products is just taking it too far. If you haven’t shaved for a day, that’s perfect. Or if you’ve got a bit of dirt under finger nails from rolling round with a rugby or football at the weekend that’s fine too; In fact it just makes that Mont Blanc pen you’re holding look better.

2. ‘Posh boy’ accents. If there’s a bit of a cockney twang in there as well, I’m sorry but we are getting married immediately. Both of these accents are in abundance in this fine city. Praise Jesus. Halleluiah. Maybe it’s my attraction to these accents which is one of the reasons which brought me to the capital.

3. Legs: men’s thighs and calves are massively underrated; give me a man with big, strong, muscular thighs over anyone with abs any day of the week. There is nothing worse when you see a guy whom you thought might have had potential in his shorts/pants/swimming trunks for the first time and his thighs are smaller than yours. It’s the man equivalent of ordering a fillet steak and champagne in a restaurant and then the waitress bringing you out a salad and a glass of water and telling you that’s all you’re getting. The thigh thing may also be due to the fact that mine own are fairly large and quite frankly, it’s depressing and heart-breaking being 5’1’’ and the one with the wider thighs. Guys please, please, please do not swerve leg day.

There was one fairly nondescript guy who I went on a date with last December who keep on telling me, I had, “beasty thighs and would make a good prop forward” whilst at the same time he kept groping my legs. Needless to say I didn’t see him again. Maybe I should have kicked him in the head then perhaps he would have got a real feel for how ‘beasty’ my thighs are. Arsehole.

4. Being a gentleman (well in public anyway if you get my drift) I want a man to come out of his way to pick me up, kiss me on the cheek, open doors, ask me what I’m drinking. And yes I know I sound like a spoilt bitch but I really do want you to pay on the first date, even if I offer to split it. I also want to be told what to do. ‘Give me your number’, ‘meet me at Hakkasan at eight on Friday, we have a table booked under George’. Order my food for me. Pour my wine. I know you might not be Prince Charming but I still want to be treated like a princess. OK? This may not be everyone’s cup of tea I know, some women may be screaming at their computer right now saying. ‘Pouring the wine and ordering for me is not being a gentleman it’s arrogance’. Perhaps it is but I couldn’t think of anything worse than a pushover. I like a degree of arrogance in my men, probably why I find people like Jonathan Ross and Gordon Ramsey sexy. I need and want an alpha.

5. Finally I enjoy being challenged intellectually. I know guys generally aren’t as smart as us girls. But you can get one or two who aren’t too ridiculously dumb, dense or ignorant. One time I was messaging a guy through a dating app, he made a comment to which I replied, ‘was that a euphemism?’. Only for him to ask what ‘a euphemism’ was. That’s just not going to work long term. Especially if we breed. With my genes our kids are going to be smarter than you by the time they are six, we might as well call it a day now. A sense of humour is also important. No good being intelligent if you’re like Dustin Hoffman out of ‘Rain Man’. So yeah I want one of those smart funny guys please. A bit of self-depreciating humour as well; not humour at my or others’ expense. Kind of like Chandler from friends or my man, Tyrion Lannister.

But there is the non-exhaustive list. The one I have in the back of my mind before any dates. Put them all together you probably end up with Daniel Craig as Bond and yes he’d be ideal if he (a) was real (b) placed slightly lower on the psychopathic spectrum.

Then after only a couple of weeks in London, swiping away on Tinder I found him…

Ex-Cambridge, rugby playing trader, 6’3’’, scholarship kid to a private school (so lacks the arrogance and lack of humanity of many of the ones brought up with money), funny, classy and THE accent. Honestly, thought I’d hit the man jackpot when he asked me out for a date after chatting online for a bit. So that brings me to, The Trader…