London

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 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…