sexandthecity

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…

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.