baddates

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

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…