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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

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…

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.