sarcastic

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.

/ 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.

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…