Last Thursday evening I went to the pub with Hulk*, Iron Man* and a few others. On a non-quiz night! While this may be a shocking revelation, a man cannot live by beer and quizzes alone, as will become apparent. Leaving late, certainly approaching, if not officially, the wee small hours on Friday morning, myself and Iron Man decided to walk home (1 mile for me, 2 miles for him – but he’s both younger and fitter than me so don’t feel that sorry for him). The resulting conversation turned out to be one of these epiphany moments – and a drunken conversation that still made perfect reasoned sense the day after the night before (or technically, later that same day).
A few months back, the Tax Man* had spent an evening extolling the virtues of t’internet dating, and The Engineer* had chipped in with comments that essentially boiled down to he knew a bloke who’d done it and was now living life like a dog with two dicks. The Tax Man’s take on it was altogether more sensible. However, on that fateful evening, Iron Man also pointed out that this was the ‘modern way’ and that I was unlikely to meet Mrs Right at the quiz. So, over the course of the next few days, I signed up to two of the most popular sites of their type in the UK.
“What about Lucy?” I hear the regular reader(s) ask. I don’t really hear them asking this, it’s just for literary effect. In much the same way a Lucy is a literary device to weave a common non-quizzicle thread through my random ramblings. Let’s be honest, you didn’t really think that (a) I was living with one of the UK’s top glamour models, and (b) spent most of my life then ignoring her did you? You did? Your gullibility makes me feel all sort of warm and fuzzy inside. That and I know of a Nigerian lawyer who’s got a client that died leaving $8.4m and no will. All I need is £1,000 in cash (used notes, non-consecutive serial numbers please) to get it over here and you can have half of my share. Message me for full details and remember to include your credit card number with the associated security code and PIN.
The reason I signed up with two sites is that I wasn’t totally convinced about the honesty of the first one. It seems that within 48 hours the entire female population of Western Europe (not just the single ones, all of them – including the nuns) had expressed an interest in meeting me. However, to reply to the multitude of requests from all of these women (perhaps ‘a bevy of beauties’ is an appropriate phrase at this point), allowing them to get their sticky hands all over my body, all I have to do is opt for a paid subscription – a bargain at £150. Now while this may actually be the best thing since sliced bread, I get the feeling that my Nigerian lawyer friend may have a hand in this as well. (Impartiality statement: other nationalities of fraudsters are also available).
The second site seems much more reasonable in its approach, given that it’s possible to message potential dates without being fleeced by the site owners, and it turns out that I’m not actually having to beat them off with a shitty stick – therefore altogether a more realistic situation.
So, I messaged someone. This has come to more of a shock to me than to you, dear reader, believe me. However, I did go into neurosis overload before taking the plunge. I even got Penzance* to check out her profile and the results seemed positive. Her response (Penzance’s , not Mystery Woman #1) included quotes like “if she batted for the other side” and “if I wasn’t married”.Positive start. Penzance also checked out my (original, not many time refined and updated) profile, the only dodgy bit apparently being a passing reference to this song. And as a bonus we’re now going to have this also referred to song as Song of the Day in the near future.
The Seven Year Bitch* also gave me her experienced based views on internet dating. Not only does she consider the second site to be the Weatherspoons end of the spectrum, she has also told me to both widen my search and pay to advertise, especially on a more wine bar-esque site. Apparently my Scrooge like qualities are not an attractive feature, not even at Christmas (Bah! Humbug!).
Additionally, T-Mo* asked why I was bothering as she thought I’d given up on having sex. I was forced to explain that this was not an actual lifestyle choice, more of a circumstantial happening. She didn’t look convinced. She also checked out my profile and decided that my pictures made me look like a serial killer (she should know, as she’s obsessed by them – she didn’t say which one either!).
As a result, at the team night out this week (more on this in next week’s blog) T-Mo insisted that I wear my best shirt (which, apparently, did not mean my Spinal Tap t-shirt – it goes up to 11 – really). She then hijacked my phone in an attempt to produce more photogenic results so as to allow me to entice the single female population of The Black Country to at least not quite dismissing me out of hand. I really shouldn’t have chosen this week as one where I couldn’t be arsed to shave.
I now feel I must apologise to The Divine Mr M* for not mentioning any of this paradigm shift in my outlook on life to him during the many the hours of conversations we’ve had between event and publishing. He’ll have to do with a mention in the blog instead.
Anyway, almost a week later and no response from Mystery Woman #1. Internet dating: promised so much on one hand … spectacularly failed to deliver on the other. After reading this, it may not be a bad thing anyway.
Oh well, I’ll always have Lucy at home waiting for me.
Footnote: The spell check wanted me to change ‘message potential dates’ to ‘massage potential dates’. I’m sure that’s an entirely different type of “dating” site altogether, perhaps the one The Engineer and T-Mo were thinking of.
*see Cast List