Dating

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…

A Little About My Blogspiration.

/ Alicia Sarah / 3 Comments

This Christmas, I bought my mum the Game of Thrones box set. After watching them, she rang me to tell me how much she had enjoyed them and continued, ” you don’t half remind me of one of the characters.”

Being a petite blonde, I mistakenly second guessed her next comment. “Really? Wow! I love Daenerys, she’s gorgeous.”

“Not the Khalessi babe; the dwarf-Tyrion.”

Now I’ll admit that at 5′ 1”, I’m a little on the short side but I hardly expected my own mother to be so damning of my stature. “Thanks Mum. So, basically you see me as a sarcastic, alcoholic, sex mad, midget?”

She laughed and didn’t reply. So that much sums me up; the female Tyrion Lannister of the London dating scene. The more I actually consider my mum’s statement, the more it is an accurate surmise of me. Like Tyrion, my family is frigging gorgeous, my sister (who towers above me) makes her living as a professional model and as previously explained, my ‘dwarf like’ proportions, mean I sadly don’t make my money by standing around pouting like she does.

Tyrion, also like me, is a disappointment to his family… On another occasion, attending at a party with her riding friends, my mother introduced me and my sister in the following way, “this is Amy, she’s a successful model and actress and this is Alicia, my other daughter: she’s very sarcastic.”

So, what can you expect from this blog? Well imagine if Tyrion was: real, female, single and went on dates in London. Went on dates in London with every freak, player, cad and lunatic in the city. That kind of gives you a flavour of what to expect from me. I’m in my late twenties now and I’ve probably had more dating experience than most. I like to think of dating as one of my hobbies. It may not necessarily be a hobby I’d put down on my CV, but it’s definitely a past time of mine. I don’t know whether it is me or the guys I date but I’d say that about 90% of the dates I actually go on end up a disaster (hence the title of the blog). I’d like to share with you details of my dates with men from various walks of life. There’s been: The Opera Singer, The Trader, The Footballer, The Westminster Political Consultant, The Solicitor, The Reality TV star, The Personal Trainer, The Rugby Player, The Property Developer (AKA the Drug Dealer), The Model, The Wine Buyer, The Club Promoter, The Doctor and that’s just for starters.

I’m also going to be sharing some of my dating advice and tips (for what it’s worth, you may want to swerve those entries, I really don’t know how useful they will be to people ) I’ll be answering any questions you may have about the modern dating scene. I’m going to get some of my girlies to write some guest blogs as their experience of the dating world is often as bad as my own. As my friend Jen put it, ‘between us we are a smorgasbord of dating disasters’. But each and every entry will be told through a wry, sardonic set of eyes. So sit back, grab that chocolate and glass of wine and enjoy ‘Dating Dinner and Disasters’.

Alicia xx

Disclaimer

Every good reality TV show has a disclaimer, here is my disclaimer for my reality blog…

I should point out that much of this blog is written as satire with a heavy sprinkling of sarcasm and hyperbole. I’ve always been fond of dramatics. I’m not actually as crazy as I appear to be in my stories. Most of the men, however, are.

I’m also prone to expressing poetic licence; let’s just pretend the people in the entries are fictitious. If I’ve dated you, you are reading this and recognise yourself as one of the ‘characters’ it’s all in your imagination but, you know, if the shoe fits and all that.