dates

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…

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…