Stop press

The adage 'a fool and his money are soon parted' is often applicable to me, as readers of one of my other blogs would readily testify. This time, I think my investment was worth it, despite my growing antipathy towards dating websites.

As an ex-member of Match.com, twice weekly I receive an email from the website featuring women who meet my requirements. As they send me 12 profiles a week, most of them are entirely unsuitable. In fact, I probably click on only one in 10 to read more.

But on Christmas Eve, the email I received featured a profile that caught my attention. On investigation, I was blown away (metaphorically, not literally). The woman ticked pretty much every box: short hair, curvy, 5ft 4ins, subtle tattoo, sporty, university educated and well travelled. She was even a freelance journalist! Talk about Christmas coming early.

There was no option but to stump up £30 for a month's membership. Taking onboard advice that, although witty, my emails can sometimes be construed as sarcastic, I sent her a friendly email without a single word to which she could have taken offence. That was three weeks ago. Like Diana Ross, I'm still waiting....

To cap it all, I've just heard a woman on 'Celebrity' Big Brother bereft of any personality just say that the longest period for which she has been single is two weeks.

I did it my way

It is said that, sometimes, a still tongue keeps a wise head. So – and some might say about time – perhaps I am getting a little wiser.

The only woman I have ‘pulled’ since I have been writing this blog found out the address and read the entries about herself. She was, understandably, upset by what I wrote. This in turn upset me because it is not my intention to hurt anyone. My disappointment was matched by my anger that someone I regarded as a friend had told her where to look. I’m not sure what they hoped this would achieve.

This event has made me question why I started this blog. The main reason was to entertain my friends and to save me having to bore them with the minutiae of my love (or, more accurately, the lack of it) life when we met up. I suppose it was also to unburden myself of the despair I feel on the subject. Reaching the age of 39 and having spent only 11 months in relationships (and wishing you were single for most of that time) creates insecurities that most people can’t even imagine. Lastly, I suppose that it might help me get more writing work, rather than spending my life correcting other people’s grammar.

Maybe I was conceited to think that anyone would be interested in reading about me. Most of my friends have only a very superficial interest in my life (which is why I thought that this blog might appeal to them). I spent eight weeks in China and Indochina this summer – and most people didn’t even enquire as to whether I’d had a nice time (and only one person asked me more than a single question). So asking them to bother accessing a blog was always going to be a big ask.

But even given this state of affairs, the lack of support has been demoralising. People say that they love reading my musings, but when I ask them why they never leave a comment, they say they can’t be bothered to register (I set up a fake username myself – it took 60 seconds). Quiz them as to when they last logged on, and the stock answer is ‘a few weeks ago’, despite the fact that they spend 40 hours a week at their computer screen, and could surely spend a few minutes reading my blog. Some even ask me to remind them of the address. If only someone at Google or Microsoft could devise a way of bookmarking websites that you visit regularly.

Conversely, while friends have shown little interest (Debbie and Sooty excused), the blog has, anecdotally at least, found a reasonable readership among friends of friends. Perhaps people who don’t know me can just enjoy it for its entertainment value, while friends are uncomfortable with my despondency.

And that despair is in danger of spiralling out of control. I feel that I’m living my life to a Joe Jackson song – ‘is she really going out with him?’ Everywhere I go, I see attractive and vivacious women with average-looking, unexceptional men. Even my mum has taken to pointing out such ‘odd couples’ when we’re out together. It makes me more despondent when I think about the handful of single men whom I know. It is patently obvious why every one of them is single – two are in their mid-40s and still live with their parents – and most of them have given up hope. Is that how people regard me?

Two close female friends (one in a long-term relationship, the other long-term single) recently told me that a sense of humour is the most important quality that a man can possess. I did one of those subtle coughs to suggest that I fitted the bill (my ex-girlfriend said that I had made her laugh so often, that if we were together for six months, she would be incontinent), but neither took the hint.

Writing this blog used to be enjoyable. Now it just reminds me how lonely I am. A rare wink that I received on Match.com last week was the final nail in the coffin. The sender was a woman in a shockingly old-fashioned floral dress, whose profile headline read 'haven't got any' (answers on a postcard). Her one-sentence answers revealed that her only interest is 'eating in Pizza Hut' and that she lives with her mum (not really something to shout about at the age of 35) and has 'lots off friends'. She was also the owner of the first profile that I have ever read in which the subject describes their daily diet as 'fast food'.

I know that I’m fussy, but I’ve not waited this long to compromise to such an extent. Ideally, I’m looking for a 5ft 2ins Sagittarian in her early-30s with short hair and curves, who is university educated and has her foot on the property ladder, is well travelled, doesn’t look as if Stevie Wonder is her fashion advisor and knows what the inside of a gym looks like. But in reality, someone who is a decent person and is up for a bit of banter is all it takes to spark my interest. Tandy, whom I met in Vietnam, for example, ticked very few of the aforementioned boxes, but I really enjoyed her company and felt that there was a lot of chemistry. True to form though, she blanked me when I told her how I felt.

As I hurtle towards 40 (a landmark that I am dreading), I’m going to have to hold my hands up and admit defeat. Despite having had many very close female friends over the past 15 years, whatever it is that women are looking for in a boyfriend (and it isn’t just a sense of humour), I haven’t got it. It’s time to mothball this site, accept that the only two women in my life will remain my mum and my niece, and to channel my energies into areas of my life that don’t make me so miserable. It’s been fun.

Once bitten, twice shy

My best mate has said this blog isn’t as good as it used to be, as it is becoming repetitive. Sorry if you think it’s boring reading about my turgid love life. But imagine what it’s like having had to live with it 24/7 for the past 20 years?

So with my subscription to Dating Direct having lapsed, my only remaining option was Mavis (see 22/10). We’re still in sporadic contact, and I’m pretty confident that if I suggested meeting again, and then behaved impeccably, I could pull her. But I can’t be bothered, and given the option of arranging to see Mavis, I have hooked up with other friends for the past three weekends.

Last Saturday, I went to the pub part-owned by Guy Ritchie, in Mayfair. While all of the other pubs in the area were deserted, the Punchbowl was absolutely packed. Moreover, the clientele was predominantly groups of women. I think I have only once in my life been in a pub with a higher percentage of female customers.

Some of the women were absolutely stunning. Dressed up in their finest little black dresses, they clearly had their mind set on becoming a plastic-gangster’s moll. But apart from a group of four thirtysomething blokes, who were quite happy bawling anecdotes at each other, before leaving at 22.00, the only blokes in the pub were in couples – apart from my mate and I.

Now before I go any further, I’d better just introduce my ‘pulling partner’. He’s a 46-year-old, overweight builder who has cut down his drinking to 12 pints a night. He still lives with his parents and has had one relationship in the 16 years that I have known him. He’s a lovely bloke, but doesn’t have a lot of conversation topics. And his presentation leaves a lot to be desired.

So there we were, propping up the bar. My mate has given up on finding a woman, so was focusing intently on his beer. I was, surreptitiously, checking out the amazing-looking women (if you can be surreptitious when your eyes are on stalks).

After a while, the model-standard women were outnumbered by more approachable ones. I tried for ages to make eye contact with a buxom Aussie who was sitting next to us. But I failed miserably. Her small group left, to be replaced by two women in their late twenties. The one who sat facing me immediately gave me half a smile. For the next hour, I tried to catch her eye again, while listening to my mate’s tedious theory about how the best horse doesn’t always win the Grand National. But she wouldn’t play ball.

Her friend went to the toilet and the woman was immediately besieged by a bearded bloke in his mid-40s, who was clearly trying to pull her. Within 30 seconds he has his hand on her arm, and although she was clearly quite amused by his conversation, it soon transpired that his attention was unwelcome and over-tactile. He vainly battled on after her friend had returned, but after they declined an invitation to join him outside for a cigarette, he realised he was fighting a lost cause.

I weighed up what to do. This would probably be my last night out for months with a single male friend, particularly in a pub in which a woman had smiled at me (which is a rare event). But she had failed to follow up the initial eye contact. My friend would have proved an embarrassing hindrance. I wasn’t looking particularly good (I was wearing my glasses because of a recurrence of a serious eye problem, which had also left me severely bloodshot). My confidence was at rock-bottom after a spectacularly unsuccessful year both online and in the flesh. And I didn’t particularly fancy the woman. No prizes for guessing what I did.

I was having a conversation recently with an attractive 28-year-old single woman who said she finds it impossible to even smile at men. I don’t have such a problem doing that (although I tend to smile at women), but speaking to a stranger fills me with dread. Bearing in mind that I’ve jumped out of a plane at 13,000 feet, thrown myself off a bridge with a rubber cord tied around my feet and been to half-a-dozen West Ham v Millwall matches, it’s a difficult phobia to understand. The bearded bloke may have got short shrift, but he least he made an effort. After all, if you don’t buy a ticket, you can’t win the raffle.

My best mate does have a point, though. My Groundhog Day-style whitterings are becoming boring. Perhaps I should shut up and enjoy the freedom about which most of my friends can only dream.

From feast to famine

After things went pear-shaped with Mavis, Matilda was my main iron in the fire (see 10/10/09).

You may remember that she had said that she would like to go out with me on the basis that I didn’t write about her on here. I decided that wasn’t an option though, but when Matilda found out, she said she had no interest in being ‘blog fodder’. I admired the fact that she had stuck to her guns, but as a man of principle, and a passionate advocate of the freedom of the press, I wasn’t prepared to back down. So it was over before it had even started.

The point of this blog is not too embarrass people (I’m sure that I embarrass myself more than anyone else), but to give an insight into how hard is to be single in your late-30s while, hopefully, providing a little entertainment.

There are three pertinent points to make with regard to Matilda. First, without exception, the entries about real-life dates (as few and far between as they are) are written with a time delay of a couple of weeks. This gives me the opportunity to weigh up how the date went and, if it was a success, to see the woman again before I have written anything. This ‘buffer zone’ means that if things are going well, out of respect for a flourishing relationship, the most I will do on here is allude to it.

Second, I write favourably about most women that I meet. Despite all having rejected me, I have never said a word against Tandy (see 1/7), my immediate ex, the Doctor (see 23/09/08) or Gemma (see 8/8/08). I go to town only about some of the less interesting women who I meet online (sorry Mavis).

Third, it’s a pretty anonymous medium. The readership is hardly comparable with The Sun’s and Matilda is obviously not her real name – only about six people know her genuine identity.

Matilda saying that she wasn’t interested in being blog fodder didn’t make a lot of sense, as it was her who asked me out. I’ve got far better things to do with my time and money than to go out with people in the hope that they provide me with some decent material, particularly when I already know that they are ‘normal’.

Since Matilda declared that she didn’t want to go on a date, I have questioned myself (and been questioned by others) as to why I didn’t acquiesce to what, after all, is a pretty reasonable request. It’s hard enough to secure a date, so was I just being pig-headed to turn one down? The truth is that I would irrefutably have shown some self-censorship had Matilda ticked a few more boxes, other than being great company. But she didn’t, so I didn’t.

Wedding march

My only remaining unmarried ex-girlfriend got hitched at the weekend. I must admit that I was going through all the pictures on Facebook within 24 hours.

She looked incredible and it made me quite wistful. We were together for only three months and there were so many things about her that, from my point of view, weren’t ‘right’ (her teenage son, her financial situation, her religious beliefs, where she lived and her age, to name only a few). But she was such a lovely, warm, thoughtful person and I loved her company. She was one of the five most amazing women I have ever met – and the only one I ever went out with.

As I scour the net looking for someone to ignore my emails, or hang around bars where most of the women are 15 years my junior, it’s hard not to think that letting her go was the biggest mistake that I have ever made.

Equally as worrying is the fact that all three of my exes whom I’m still in touch married the next bloke they went out with after me. I hope it’s not a case of them realising that if it’s only blokes such as me still on the market, they had better hang on tightly to the next decent one they find.

Scott free

The fact that it has taken me almost a fortnight to tell you about how my date with Mavis went should provide a big clue. With hindsight, I’d have rather gone out with Coronation Street’s Mavis Riley.

It didn’t bode too well when I texted Mavis the day before the date with the name and address of the venue I had chosen – a cocktail bar next to the London Transport Museum in Covent Garden. She was soon sending messages asking whether she would be able to find it (the museum is fairly well known and the bar has a website), would we be able to get a seat (my crystal ball is out of action) and would we be able to hear each other talk (that’s the point of going on a date; otherwise, we may as well just continue our virtual relationship)?

Anyway, I arrived at the bar at 17.50, so that I could bag one of the few seats. Unfortunately, the tables were available only until 19.30. Mavis arrived a few minutes late. She wasn’t very well dressed, but looked pretty much like she did in her picture – and was showing an incredible amount of cleavage. I got the drinks in and we settled down for a chat. I had soon filled in many of the blanks (remember that Mavis still thought I was a graffiti artist who lived in a tree-house – bizarrely, even after googling my name). The conversation was fine, the cocktails going down well and the body language positive.

But after I had told Mavis a few things about myself, the date followed the same pattern as every other date I have ever been on: me asking a not particularly interesting woman about all aspects of her life, while she showed no interest in reciprocating.

By 19.30, we had finished three strong cocktails, and I was already tiddly. We moved on to another bar. Now I don’t know whether it was down to the drink, because I was bored hearing about the minutiae of a clinical psychologist’s day or because I had exchanged so many messages with Mavis (and therefore felt that I knew her pretty well), but I suddenly zoned out of first-date mode. Rather than playing the respectful and interested man, I became a bit cheeky and tactile. I made a throwaway joke about Scotland that she clearly didn’t like (I think it was ‘I went to Scotland once – it was closed’). I then gave her a kiss. Although she didn’t seem to object to the idea, Mavis told me off for ‘sucking her lip’.

I was getting a bit fed up by now. Mavis, on the other hand, seemed very happy. It was hardly surprising, as she had said that her social life didn’t extend much beyond her local sports bar and Harvester in Brentwood. She was enjoying the novelty of a Saturday night out and was knocking back the drinks (even drinking one of mine when I started lagging).

We moved on to a much quieter bar (it wasn’t to spite her, honestly). Mavis had still failed to ask me anything about my life and I was bored firing questions at her. But we were still sitting in a very intimate fashion. So I gave her another kiss. ‘Don’t peck me,’ she said. I stormed off to the toilet. When I returned, I sat a few feet away from Mavis. She moved across and put her arms round me, inviting me to kiss her again. ‘Don’t use your tongue.’

I decided that it was time to call it a night and we got the Central Line back to Liverpool Street, where we went our separate ways. We exchanged a couple of texts, telling each other we had got home safely – and Mavis said that she was looking forward to seeing me again.

But over the next couple of days, it was clear that our relationship had changed significantly. Mavis was no longer interested in flirting (‘flirting is more serious after you’ve met’) and kept saying that she hardly knew me (that’s because you didn’t ask me anything). So we spent a few days swapping dull ‘how was your day’-style messages.

I eventually snapped, telling her that I was bored sending such mundane messages. She sent me a long, over-analytical email saying that she couldn’t believe how much we had ‘bickered’ during the date (we hadn’t; she told me off about how I tried to kiss her and clearly didn’t like my comment about Scotland), that she was bored with me continually implying that she is stupid (I don’t know what she means by that; I don’t suffer fools and certainly wouldn’t spend three weeks emailing/texting someone I didn’t think was intelligent) and that there had been a strange dynamic on our date (I agree with that – but only because it was more like a job interview). She finally joked that our ‘kissing techniques’ weren’t compatible. I was lost for words. Her ‘technique’ was to keep her mouth tightly shut, keep her lips unpuckered and sit there motionless waiting for me. There must be corpses that are better kissers. I could suddenly understand why Mavis’s previous boyfriend had slept with her only three times during their two-year relationship.

She left the door to another date open. I must admit that I emailed her back saying that we should meet again. Then another email arrived analysing other aspects of the date. This one gave me the wake-up call I needed. The only reason I wanted to see Mavis again was because I was keen for one internet ‘relationship’ to progress beyond a first date (particularly as it was so rare for anybody to reply to my emails). And because she had short hair and big knockers.

I certainly didn’t find Mavis very interesting company (she had no hobbies and has hardly travelled) and I regarded her as one of life’s plodders. I may be four years older than her, but I’ve been to nearly 60 countries; studied at two universities; had more than a dozen jobs; edited a fanzine; completed marathons, triathlons and 50-mile walks; been sky-diving, bungee-jumping, white-water rafting, cage-diving with sharks, canyoning, climbing, coasteering, skiing, snowboarding, abseiling, climbing, zip-wiring and microlighting; and paid off my mortgage. In the meantime, Mavis has been in a ‘not very good’ relationship for seven years and a ‘rubbish’ one for two. She is now renting a flat in a back-street Essex town.

No wonder Derek Wilton and Emily Bishop gave up on her years ago.

The grass is always greener

I generally forget that I am fast approaching 40 (although I’m probably ageing at the same speed as everybody else on the planet).

It is only when I return from a weekend away and my mum asks whether I met anyone ‘nice’, because she wants to see me settled before she ‘pops off’, that I start worrying about it.

But last weekend, I suddenly felt very old. The catalyst for this state of mind was an impromptu school reunion. There were nine lads from my year there, six of whom I hadn’t set eyes on for more than 20 years. It transpired that eight of the nine were married and had 12 children between them, with another on the way.

Realistically, it is not surprising that in a group of 10 39-year-old men, eight are fathers. It’s just that most of the people I hang around with (some of whom are older than me) are still childless and unmarried.

As the evening wore on, I heard countless ‘funny’ stories about kids’ behaviour, while I ‘regaled’ people with my numerous trips around the globe. Some of them openly expressed envy when I told them that I am semi-retired, take a two-month holiday every summer and head off on trips across the UK whenever I fancy.

One by one, the fathers made their excuses and left. Some had longer journeys than others, but two left because they ‘didn’t want to miss the last Tube home’ – despite the fact that myself and the other single man needed to catch that very same train. It was more the case of them not wanting a hangover when their toddlers woke them at 07.00 on Saturday morning.

On the journey home (and we didn’t even run the risk and catch the last Tube – we are almost 40, after all), the other single lad told me how he was registered with a couple of dating websites based in Colombia and the Philippines. I listened incredulously as he rhapsodised about how stunning the women he was in contact with are. When he told me that none of them speak any English, I asked what he wrote in his emails. ‘I just tell them that I love them,’ he said. Anyway, he’s off to Colombia at Christmas for the second time this year. Perhaps that’s where I’m going wrong – contacting women who speak the same language as me.

But if that was the depths to which most single men in their late-30s have sunk, the idea of a couple of toddlers jumping up and down on my bed in six hours’ time, and a wife nagging me as to why I was out so late, suddenly held a certain appeal.