Dating

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

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…

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…