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.

Freedom fighter

I have been asked to compromise on my journalistic principles to secure a date. And it wasn't a hard decision.

Let me explain. My best mate runs an outdoors-adventure company (will4adventure.com), and last Saturday, I found myself walking through the Peak District with 20 other people. The group was predominantly single women, none of whom I had met before.

So there I was, trying not to get blown over by the gale-force wind, when someone asked me what I did for a living. When I told her was a journalist, she asked: 'You don't write that infamous blog, do you?'

A little taken aback (but more than a tad proud, at the same time), I said that I write four blogs. It was quickly established that the 'infamous' blog is what you are reading at the moment, and that at least two other members of the group were also regular readers.

Anyway, that evening in the pub, with so many single people in their 30s and early-40s, and the drink flowing, the conversation inevitably turned to dating. It transpired that two of the three couples round the table had met online and that Matilda (the woman who had mentioned the blog) and myself were regular internet daters.

Our experiences of cyberdating were very different. Matilda had been on a few dates that had not really worked out, whereas I can't even get to that stage. Having net never met a woman who dated online (apart from on a date), I was keen to find out how many emails she received, in an attempt to understand why I couldn't elicit a reply.

There was nothing for it but to give an example. So I detailed the email I had sent to Lynsey (see 30/09), whose profile started that short-haired women have more fun and that she was looking for someone with whom to share her hair products. I began my email to her: 'I thought I'd drop you a line because I can't believe the price of L'Oréal Fibre Paste these days and am desperately looking for someone to share the cost.' The rest of the email was fairly straight, with a couple of cheeky bits thrown in.

No sooner had I finished telling the story than Matilda's mate (an attractive woman who said she had never tried internet dating) snapped: 'W***er!' I was taken aback at the vehemence of her comment. 'If I had received that email, I'd have said you were taking the piss,' she said. I tried to explain that I was just reacting to the first line of Lynsey's profile. She had tried to make her profile stand out from the norm, while I had done the same with my reply. Lynsey had said she was looking for a cheeky bloke and I think my email proved that I was. It also proved that I had read her profile, rather than sending out a formulaic email that could apply to any woman on the website.

The other four people in the conversation were spilt 50:50. My best mate and his wife (who had met online) didn't think the email was appropriate, although they failed to give a reason. A single bloke in his mid-40s and Matilda thought it was perfect. Matilda's mate calmed down slightly, but was adamant that I was taking the mickey. I just couldn't see her point, although it's obviously a valid one, because 90% of my emails are ignored. The fact is that I'm a cheeky bloke and my sense of humour is my USP. Might as well start as I mean to go on, rather than pretend to be somebody that I'm not.

Matilda's mate went to bed, leaving Matilda and I to have a good chat. Other members of the group gradually retired to their various B&Bs and campsites, leaving just the two of us. We moved from the restaurant table to the bar - ironically to the seat where I last pulled (see 04/12/08). The conversation was easy and I had Matilda in stitches - she really 'got' me. And she was quite cheeky, which I like.

At 23.20, I had a big decision to make. I was staying at the youth hostel, which shut for the night at 23.30. I knew I would have huge problems getting in if I broke this curfew. But sitting there having a laugh with Matilda, it was a no-brainer, even if he body language was alternating between flirtatious to arms tightly crossed. Last orders came and went and we left. By now my mind was on whether I would be sleeping on the hostel doorstep, so I failed to suggest going for a drink elsewhere.

I said goodnight to Matilda (with hindsight, I should have walked her right to the door of her B&B and given her a little peck) and walked to the hostel. I banged on the door for about 20 minutes, but it was evident that nobody was going to answer. It then began to rain. After exploring the outside of the large building, I eventually located an open window. Fortunately, it was only about four feet off the ground. Unfortunately, it was about the size of my hips and there was an eight foot drop on the other side. But needs must, so I stripped off my sweater and shirt, threw them inside and hoisted myself up and head first through the aperture. I lay horizontal for ages, with my torso in the dry and my legs in the rain, looking for a way to avoid crashing to the concrete floor. But thanks to a wide windowsill, a conveniently placed wall and a flexibility and strength that belied my age, I managed to secure a safe passage to the floor. I walked back to my room, pretty pleased with myself on all fronts.

The next day, apart from recounting the story of my hostel break-in, I never said a word to Matilda. We said goodbye, parting with a comment that we would probably bump into each other again one day. So imagine my surprise (and pleasure) when I logged on to my computer the following evening, to find a very sweet email from Matilda saying that she had really enjoyed meeting me and suggesting we meet up in town one evening - on the condition that I didn't write about her.

So that's the story so far. It may be the end of the story, if Matilda is true to her word. But I believe that maintaining the freedom of the press in Britain is far more important than me getting my leg over.

Going belly up

I've had a bit of a fall-out with Mavis. I know it's bizarre, considering that we've never met, but the intensity of our communications was going to end in tears sooner or later.

Mavis kept mentioning the fact that her body isn't as good as it used to be and that she has a bit of a belly on her. This didn't particularly bother me. After all, a 35-year-old Scot probably weaned on Irn Bru and deep-fried Mars Bars is unlikely to have a washboard stomach.

But when she mentioned it for a fourth time, I started getting a bit fed-up. I didn't contact her for a few hours (which is an age in our 'relationship'), so Mavis asked me what was wrong. I emailed her, explaining that nobody's perfect (particularly on Dating Direct) and that I'll take her as I find her.

A few hours later, I received a reply. It was quite a rant, telling me off for lecturing her. She said that she was just preparing me, as she had been on 12 dates with blokes she had met on the site, and that within a few minutes of meeting, every one had commented that she didn't look like her photos. I doubted the veracity of this, as I wouldn't consider saying such a thing on a first date. But if it was true, I could see their point: Mavis looks lovely in the main picture on her profile, but the other photos of her bear very little resemblance.

I was disappointed by the ferocity of her email and, I suppose, what it said about her perception of me. I've probably spent 20 hours texting, instant messaging and emailing Mavis over the past 12 days. We're obviously getting on very well and I've told her that she ticks all of the boxes. So to think that I'm going to be put off by a flabby stomach (and it can't be worse than one of my ex's, who used to sit with her arms across her 'mummy tummy' because she was so conscious of it) is insulting.

In a fit of pique, I decided to justify the last week of my membership and email some other women. First up was Lynsey, from Bury St Edmunds. She was exactly the sort of woman I am looking for, but I've never emailed her in the past because of where she lives. In her (not particularly interesting) profile, she went on about how she was prepared to share hair products (she's got very short hair), how she liked country walks and arts and culture, and how she travelled around East Anglia writing about historical places. I began my email: 'Thought I'd drop you a line because I can't believe the price of L'Oréal Fibre Paste these days and am desperately looking for someone to share the cost.' I went on to highlight how much we had in common by saying that I'm a journalist who works for Museums Journal, and that I'm going walking in the Peak District this weekend.

My second email was to Daisychain, an attractive (short-haired, of course) Kiwi girl living in Richmond. Her profile was rambling and provided me with little to get my teeth into. The only line I could really pick up on (without resorting to: 'So you like going out? So do I. You like good food? Me too. You enjoy music? What a coincidence, I do too') was when she said that she like a range of books, including biographies of 'anyone who has done anything amazing/inspirational - and that doesn't include Jordan.' My email drew parallels between our interests, and concluded: 'I agree with you about Jordan’s book. I don’t know how anyone could prefer it to Kerry Katona’s - now she’s an inspiration.'

My final email was to Explorergirl, who lived in Southampton. Her profile was non-descript, but revealed that she was a journalist with a passion for travel. As a journalist who has been to nearly 60 countries, that surely gives us a good starting point. My email was chatty but, hard as it is to believe, sarcasm free. I also pointed out that I've got no ties to Essex (my profile states this as well).

Before I reveal the outcome (as if it's even in doubt), I should reiterate that, as usual, I fulfilled all three women's basic criteria (age, height, education, ethnicity etc). Although none of them were new members, they hadn't received an awful lot of winks or views. Lynsey, probably because of her Suffolk location, had received only 100 winks, which is ridiculously low for a woman (Mavis is approaching 200 and has been on the site only a fortnight). As men are far more likely to wink than email, I would confidently assert that she has had fewer than 10 emails, most of which will have been from nutters (Mavis was telling me that random blokes send her pictures of their dicks).

So, drum roll...... All three women read their emails within six hours of me sending them. Explorergirl and Daisychain at least had the courtesy to look at my profile. But none of them considered me worthy of a reply.

Mavis is still keen to pursue things and has sent me a couple of emails since her rant. I will meet her, even though I have recently found out she is a smoker, which is a huge turn-off. And that she's an only child (I'm looking for some surrogate bothers and sisters). And that she lives out in the Essex sticks (and I'm looking for someone to explore London with). But I'm angry that I don't get a choice in who I go out with. I have to meet the only women that will reply to my emails. And I deserve better than that.

Too much information

Mavis has very quickly developed into my most successful internet dalliance. In the 12 days since my first email, we must have exchanged 400 texts, emails and instant chat messages. Almost every evening that we have both been at home, we have been 'talking' all night and well into the early hours.

Last Wednesday was the day things started to get particularly intense. I returned from a night out at about 01.15 and logged on to Dating Direct to see whether Mavis had been in touch. She had sent me a couple of emails earlier in the evening. I read them and decided to send her my mobile number. Within 10 minutes, Mavis had emailed and texted me. She had been clearly waiting for me to get home.

The following night, we exchanged probably 80 messages. Mavis told me that she had recently come out of a two-year relationship during which they had only slept together three times. She said she was dying for some physical intimacy (in her profile, she had said said that she was looking to do some 'cavorting'; I have probably looked at 1,000 online profiles over the past two years and have never seen such a blunt assertion). Mavis was growing on me all the time.

On Thursday night, she went home to Scotland to attend a friend's wedding. We exchanged a few messages during the evening. When I woke up on Friday morning, I had three messages on my phone from Mavis. On reading them, I discovered that her father was suffering from terminal cancer and that Mavis and her mum were, quite understandably, emotional wrecks whenever she went home.

It is often said that I am a good listener and that I am able to extract information that people had no intention of divulging - but that's generally face to face. Mavis admitted that she had no intention of telling me about her father - it had just slipped out. But she's more than happy to talk about every other apect of her life. I once woke up to find an email containing a stream of consciousness, from what school plays she appeared in to the fact that she once shook Pete Tong's hand. I know exactly where and what her tattoo is. I even know that - and excuse me for being so frank, but I'm trying to illustrate a point - that Mavis finds it easy to reach orgasm when she's on top (no, I didn't ask).

Mavis, meanwhile, thinks that I'm a graffiti artist called Dweezil, who lives in a treehouse in Epping Forest. She obviously doesn't believe it (at least I hope she doesn't), but I have revealed very little about myself beyond which she can read in my online profile.

The internet confers a level of intimacy and openness that would take months to build in the real world. As a consequence, it takes a lot of the fun out of getting to know someone new. It also takes away the air of mystique (which, unlike Mavis, I am keen to retain). I have arranged to meet Mavis on Saturday week. But I'm not looking forward to it as much as I was a few days ago. Familiarity does not necessarily breed content, but it certainly removes the frisson.

Direct hit

I didn’t feel that getting ignored by four women and then exchanging half-a-dozen emails with a woman I didn’t fancy was value for my £4.95 subscription to Dating Direct. So I bit the bullet and dipped my toe back in the water.

As none of the existing two million women on the website held any interest for me, I started searching through the new members. Suddenly I came across a short-haired woman who, on a superficial level, certainly caught my eye. As I read further, it transpired that Sisterbliss was ticking all of the boxes. She had a degree, was 35, had no children, was quite sporty and was shorter (and weighed less) than me. She even lived in Essex (although she was at pains to point out that she had relocated there).

The problem was that her profile was bland. It started: 'I'm quite straightforward really. I love music, I love the outdoors, I love gigs and I love food and wine.' Not only that, but it was full of things that she wanted to do: 'I really want to travel more and I’m frustrated that I’ve not got back into running as much as I’d like.' Such comments frustrate me – just do it. And as for starting your profile – the first line that any bloke will read – 'I’m quite straightforward really' beggared belief. If you can’t think of anything more original, at least say: 'I’m amazing, really.'

Anyway, I cobbled together a reasonable email and sent it early on Friday evening. Three hours later, I got the following response: 'I’m just heading out for 20 minutes but your banter’s definitely worth a reply. Will email in a bit. M' Despite the fact that she was the first woman I had ever emailed who didn’t harp on about looking for someone with a great sense of humour and how she loved cheekiness and banter, she was the almost the first recipient of one of my emails to appreciate my style (and I hadn’t even started).

An hour later, M (let’s call her Mavis) sent me a long rambling stream of consciousness. It wasn’t particularly interesting, but she revealed that she was Scottish (which is my favourite accent). In the absence of anyone else to email (and I did fancy her picture), we exchanged a couple of emails over the course of Saturday.

On Sunday, I decided to subject Mavis to by multiple choice quiz (see 15/09). She played along gamely – and even got most of the answers right. Although all the banter and humour was from my side, she was certainly enjoying herself, as illustrated by this exchange (punctuation corrected).

Me: 'I’m slightly concerned about that hand-shaped protuberance on your chin [in her profile picture, Mavis is resting her head on one hand].'
Mavis: 'The hand-shaped protuberance (good word!) comes and goes as it pleases. I have no influence over the little monkey. My lexicon is expanding on a minute-by-minute basis tonight. D’you reckon I could get "protuberance" into a psychology report tomorrow?'
Me: 'There is a type of ant in Papua New Guinea called a "tuber ant". Now like most insect colonies, they are ranked and named according to their function (queen bee, drone bee, worker bee etc). The leaders of the colony are called the "prominent tuber ants", which is often abbreviated to "pro tuber ants". Not sure how you can work that into a psychology report, but good luck anyway.'
Mavis: 'Lol. You make me chuckle.'

Perhaps not quite on a par with Edmund Blackadder’s 'great booze-up' explanation – but a more challenging ask.

During the course of the evening, we exchanged 22 emails – and it probably would have gone on longer had I not called it a night at 23.30. Mavis signed off: 'Night hon. Good speaking to you. You’ve brightened up an otherwise uneventful night in on my own. You make me laugh and you don't creep me out in the slightest (which is a lot to be said given a lot of the men on this website!). And you've sparked more than a bit of interest. Sleep well. Speak soon x'

So it looks as if within a couple of weeks, I’ll be going on my first date of the year. Unless, of course, Mavis gets the hump when I tell her I’m in the Swiss navy.

Hitting the Dec

I have already cancelled my subscription to Dating Direct. As predicted, none of the women whom I emailed ‘cold’ have replied.

Of course, SELondonlass (Claire) was keen to chat. We exchanged a couple of emails a day for a few days, but by Friday afternoon, I realised that we were going nowhere. I had established that she ticked very few of the boxes that I want ticked: she hasn’t travelled, hasn’t been to university, doesn’t have her own place, doesn’t have a great job and isn’t sporty (yes I know, I’m too fussy). Now while none of these is a deal-breaker in isolation, when combined with my previous, even more shallow, reservation (see 10/09), I realised that the most I wanted from Claire was friendship (she might have a nice mate, after all).

Claire’s replies to my’psychometric profiling test’ were the final straw. It’s something I’ve tried a few times, and the women with whom I am really connecting, lap it up (Stan, with whom I had amazing online chemistry, even sent me her own set of questions). Basically, I just send 10 random questions (such as ‘ketchup or brown sauce?’ and ‘Ant or Dec?’) and ask the woman to pick one. There are no right or wrong answers. It’s just a bit of fun – and the reasons are often entertaining. Anyway, not only did Claire answer either ‘both’ or give an option not provided (‘mayonnaise’ to the sauce question, for example), but she revealed a hatred for the royal family (which I can just about accept, although I find it highly objectionable), but also for Ant and Dec (which I find equally objectionable and can’t accept). When she ended her email by asking me my ‘porn name’ (one of the least amusing and most pointless diversions I have ever heard – it’s Goldie Jackson, by the way), I decided that I had wasted enough time on Claire.

Slipping through the net

It hardly ranks alongside the prophecies of Nostradamus or gypsy Rosie Lee, who turned up annually with Billy Smart's Circus on Wanstead Flats to con the gullible out of a couple of quid to tell them that they were going to meet a 'mysterious stranger', but I was right. My prediction that I would be ignored by every woman that I decided to email on Dating Direct was spot on. Well, almost.

First up was Willow, a 33-year-old from south London. Her profile was, truth be told, pretentious. The first three words were: 'Cuneiform self-advertisement.' Later on, she claimed that she likes 'impeccable grammar and cheekiness'. Now that's a challenge, if ever I've heard one. My email began: 'How could I possibly resist emailing the writer of a profile that starts with a word I had to look up?' A couple of sentences later, I wrote: 'Anyway, impeccable grammar is equally important to me. So as you proclaim to love cheekiness, perhaps I may point out a couple of solecisms in your profile – and even a spelling mistake.' The rest of the email was quite witty and well crafted (and I would confidently state that the grammar was impeccable).

Next was Cheeky Sunflower, a 33-year-old from Baker Street (must be one of Gerry Rafferty's neighbours). She was the first woman that I had ever emailed who didn't have a picture on her profile (although she did when I first put her in my 'favourites', so I knew what she looked like). Her profile was nothing special and gave me no opportunities to be creative. So I just dropped her a line making reference to the many things we had in common. It wasn't a particularly great email, but women without pictures get very little interest, so I imagined that she would be glad of some attention. And if it's the sarcasm (I like to call it banter) that is putting people off (rather than the shiny-faced, toothy-grinned pictures), there was no excuse this time (apart from the fact that I mentioned Will4Adventure ­– that’s another t-shirt you owe me, Legon ­– in reference to the fact that she liked hiking).

Third was Trisha, a 31-year-old from south London. Her profile started: 'I'm fun, caring and cute blah blah blah (who is going to say they are dull, inconsiderate and ugly?) and never sarcastic. Much.' A woman after my own heart. She also said she was looking for 'downright cheekiness'. So I started my email: 'Seeing as I'm struggling to find a dull, inconsiderate and ugly woman, thought I might as well email you.' It was a perfectly good email ­– clever, without being too sarcastic.

Next up was BongoBongo. She had winked at me in May (see 13/05) and when I emailed her, she seemed pretty keen (despite having had lots of winks, she said that she was ‘really glad that I had contacted her’). We exchanged a couple of messages, but as my subscription was about to run out, I gave her my personal email address. But I never heard from her again. Anyway, I sent her a cheeky one-line email about how I told four months ago that you can’t be ‘slightly obsessed’ (it was something we had previously shared a joke about).

Finally, it was the turn of SELondonlass. I would never have stumbled across her profile because she had left so many of the questions unanswered. But she had winked at me a couple of weeks ago. Her profile was one of the best I had read – well written and irreverent – and because it was so rare for me to receive any interest from a London-based, British woman with a picture on her profile, I felt duty bound to contact her. The problem was that not only was she based in an area of town that I wouldn’t travel to even to watch Kelly Brook and Gemma Atkinson in a naked mud-wrestling bout, but (and I’m donning my flak-jacket here, in anticipation of the ‘shallow’ and ‘too choosy’ accusations that are set to be hurled my way), but I didn’t fancy her. I know that thumbnail pictures are never particularly flattering, but you can still get an inkling of what somebody looks like (and bear in mind that people obviously put up their most flattering photos). And although I much prefer curvy women (give me Kate Winslet over Kate Moss every time), SELondonlass looked as if she would tip the scales at twice my weight. Anyway, the email I sent was quite cheeky.

Within 24 hours, all five women had read my emails. They all checked out my profile, with the exception of Willow. As usual, I had contacted women from whom I could realistically expect a response (I live in the right part of the country, am the right age etc). But four days later, I have received only one reply ­­– and it you can guess whom from.

Now don’t get me wrong, SELondonlass (her name is Claire) is a pleasant enough person. She writes pretty decent emails, and although there hasn’t been any banter, in the five irreverent emails to have so far passed between us, we have discussed Miami Vice’s Crockett and Tubbs’ dress sense, car accidents that we have had and the colour of her sofa. All quite entertaining. But in only her second email, Claire managed to reinforce all my earlier fears: ‘Nicole Kidman appears both see-through in acting and physical being (sic). She has become intolerably thin, presenting a completely ridiculous idea of beauty that most young girls cannot begin to emulate in any healthy way.’

I’m laughing about the situation, but in reality, I am beginning to despair. It really pees me off when women who saying they are looking for ‘cheekiness’ don’t even have the courtesy to reply to reply to a tongue-in-cheek email. There is nobody else on the site that I have got the slightest interest in emailing. And nobody in the UK, with a picture on their profile and no children, seems to have any interest in me. I even rewrote my profile to allude to the fact that I am financially secure and that I look younger than I am. But nothing has changed.

Park and ride?

Against my better judgement, I signed up for another month on Dating Direct this morning. But only because I was offered a 75% discount. I think £4.95 for a month's heartache, as every woman I email fails to reply, is reasonable value. At least it gives me something to moan about on here.

Going out last night cemented in my mind that I needed to dip another toe into the cyberdating pool. I went to Wembley to watch the England match with my closest female friend (who is also single). We then travelled across London to a not-particularly-close-friend-of-her's birthday do. She knew two people there and I knew nobody. After she had said hello to the birthday boys (they were twins), we just spent the evening talking to each other. It seemed such a waste. I don't think I've ever been to a pub with so many attractive twenty- and thirtysomething women (how I wish there was such a venue within walking distance of my flat, rather than a 90-minute Tube ride away). But neither of us had the inclination (or enough alcohol inside of us) to go and speak to anyone.

As I typed in my credit card details this morning, I thought back to a Sunday morning six weeks ago. I was in Shanghai, and wandered into the People's Park. I was greeted by the bizarre sight of hundreds of pieces of A4 paper pinned wherever they could be - on fences, hedges, trees and park benches. Some were even stuck to handbags placed on the ground. Around some of the pieces were large groups of elderly people. Around others just a couple. Others had nobody near them. Some of the larger groups of people were animated, clearly deep in some serious negotiations.

I walked round transfixed, trying to get close enough to read what was on the paper. Of course, it was all in Chinese. But some had a picture on of either a man or woman in their twenties or thirties. Suddenly, someone came up to me and asked whether I knew what was going on. She explained that it was parents 'advertising' their single children to other parents with offspring they were looking to marry off. I was told that as a result of China's one-child policy, the country had a huge surplus of bachelors (my experiences would suggest that it's the same in London). It was a cross between speed-dating for parents and an arranged marriage.

I walked on further and found a couple of profiles with some English on. Among the featured information was age, height, weight and income. I stumbled upon a particularly heated discussion and started to take some pictures. A woman rushed over to stop me. How did she know that I wasn't looking for a bride, and was just taking a picture, so that I could take it away for someone to translate? I found it a fascinating experience, even more so because none of the people being 'offered' was present. They must all have been sitting at home, too embarrassed by their parents' actions.

As I walked away, I imagined a similar scenario taking place in Epping Forest. I couldn't suppress a wry smile as I thought about the sort of woman my parents would try to set me up with (my mum always talks about she would me to get together with my downstairs neighbour, who although very friendly and personable, is very Essex). My strategy may not be bearing a lot of fruit at the moment, but I'm the only one who knows what I'm looking for.

Always look on the bright side of life

Two weeks to the minute that I had been hiking along the Great Wall of China, I was standing in the cabaret bar at a caravan park in Norfolk trying to give a drunk single mum of three the eye.

I had joined my family for the last couple of days of their holiday, but they had all gone to bed at the same time as my nephew and niece. So I had headed up to Neptune's Palace to enjoy the least appropriately named act I have ever had the misfortune to have wasted an hour of my life watching - Laughing Legends.

The act comprised three men taking off everyone from Britney Spears to Elvis. Their 'hilarious' pastiche of George Michael, for example, involved one of them singing a serious version of Careless Whisper, while one of the others dressed as a policeman and sneaked up behind him waving a truncheon. When it came to Bob Marley, the dreadlock wig kept falling in the comic impressario's eyes, so he kept stumbling.

Strangely, I was the only one in the 600-strong audience who wasn't rolling around with laughter (mind you, I was also the only one without a pushchair and almost the only one without a dozen tasteless tattoos and who wasn't morbidly obese).

Anyway, I had been standing at the bar when I noticed this woman sitting at the nearest table. She had a great pair of legs and a striking tattoo, which extended from her foot, all the way up her leg and into her mini-skirt. She was clearly proud of her body art because she was giving anyone interested a perfect view. She came to the other end of the bar to buy a drink and I heard her tell someone (very loudly) that it went all the way up to her neck.

After the cabaret had finished and the venue had started to empty out, I started to pay the woman more attention. She was about my age and wasn't wearing a ring. She had three children with her of between six and 10. Each had a yard of fizzy drink in front of them, which they guzzled in between dashes to the amusement arcade. She sat there playing with her mobile, in between regular visits to the bar (where she ordered a drink to take back to the table and knocked back a shot).

When she wasn't on the phone, she kept looking round in my direction. But despite being the only single person in the room, she wasn't looking at me. Perhaps it was one of the bar staff. Surely not. They were all pasty-faced teenagers.

The woman headed off to the toilet, leaving her handbag, purse and mobile on her table (her kids were all in the arcade). As she staggered past me, for some reason I suddenly felt very protective towards her, so sat at the table next to hers and kept an eye on her belongings (although I probably just wanted a better look at her legs).

By the time she had returned, all her children were at the table. I tried to make eye contact - but she just looked through me. I was weighing up whether to practise my chatting-up skills (which, without a keyboard to hide behind, are non-existent) - the tattoo gave me an easy way in - when she grabbed one of her children, who had been trying to sleep sprawled across two chairs (it was well after midnight), and dragged him to the dance floor. For the next 15 minutes, they proceeded to stumble round the almost empty dancefloor together, one trying not to doze off, the other trying not to let the night's alcohol get the better of her.

At 01.00, the lights came on and it was time for the 60 or so revellers (40 of whom were staff from the camp's restaurants, arcades and other bars) to head back to their caravans (or chalets for the wealthy ones). I cast a final look over to the woman, who was suddenly looking her age under the harsh spotlights. She had one of her children supporting her under each armpit. It was going to be a long journey.

As I walked back, I realised how lucky I am. I've just returned from eight weeks in Asia. Getting paralytic in a tacky nightclub on a Norfolk caravan park is the highlight of some people's year. I may not be able to find a woman - but my life is pretty damn good in every other way.

Thanks for nothing

It's one thing getting knock-backs from the likes of Tandy (see 1/7), the Doctor (see 23/9/08) or Gemma (see 8/8/08). They are so special that the 99.9% likelihood of them turning me down/ignoring me and never speaking to me again is worth it for the minuscule chance that they might take pity and give me an opportunity to prove to them that a date with me is a better way of spending an evening than curled up in front of Coronation Street with a microwave dinner for one.

But getting blown out by someone who I don't regard as good enough for me and who kisses like I imagine Roy Hattersley would (9/12/08 & 12/12/08) is altogether harder to take. I should have taken the hint when Sarah ignored a text message I sent her in January (see 10/2). But I was heading down to Bristol (where she lives) on my own over the bank holiday weekend to see the Banksy exhibition, so I emailed Sarah to see whether she fancied meeting up at any time.

The following day, she replied. I arrogantly thought that she would be up for meeting for at least a drink, as it was highly unlikely that she was seeing anyone. But Sarah said that she 'was busy all three days'. How much morris dancing, Scrabble and embroidery can one woman do in a weekend? Still, at least I got a reply.

Keeping mum

'Did you have a nice time?' 'It was great, thanks.' 'Did you meet anyone?'
This exchange took place immediately after my mum had hugged me to welcome me home form an eight-week trip to China, Vietnam and Cambodia. If it seems as if I am obsessed with my love life, it pales into insignificance compared with my her desire to see her eldest son settle down.

I told her very briefly about Tandy (see 1/7). 'That's the trouble when you go to the other side of the world - you're not going to meet a local girl.' The fact that the closest I have had to a relationship with a local girl was more than 20 years ago - and she was from Deptford (and a Millwall fan) - seems to have escaped my mum's notice.

Talking about Tandy started me thinking. I'd like to say that I thought long and hard. But I didn't. Emailing her just seemed the natural thing to do. What did I have to lose? I didn't pledge undying love and I certainly wasn't creepy or inappropriate. But I did tell her that she was very special and that I was amazed she was still single.

Of course, I never heard back. I can't say I was surprised. But I was disappointed. If someone who I spent a couple of very pleasurable evenings (and she clearly enjoyed my company) with sent me such an email, even if I didn't fancy them, I would still reply (not that it has ever happened). I'd thank them for their kind words, express a similar sentiment and then, perhaps, tell a little white lie that things had progressed with someone I had met just before I had overseas.

It was almost a year to the day that exactly the same thing happened with Gemma, whom I had met in Costa Rica (see 8/8/08). There had been a lot stronger chemistry with Gemma (she was far more my 'type'), but Tandy was probably a better catch. Yet for whatever reason, neither thought that I even merited a reply.

Without trying to sound arrogant, when I finished my month-long trip across China, I received fonder farewells from my companions than anyone else. One chap said I was the funniest bloke he had ever met (if I had a quid for every time I'd heard that - and that's suppose to be the way to a woman's heart) and everyone clearly liked me. Yet the closest I got to any action - and people's morals are less stringent when they are on holiday - was a pinch on the bum by a 61-year-old gay bloke.

Chinese puzzle

So there I was, sitting in a bar on the final night of my holiday. I was sprawled out on some sofas with two of the gay lads (when I say 'sprawled out', I mean on separate sofas). Suddenly a couple of young Chinese girls who had been perched on bar stools when we arrived, asked if the could join us because it was 'uncomfortable' where they were sitting (but the sofas had been free when we entered the bar).

We invited them to sit down (the only space was next to me) and one of them said that the British accent was 'so sexy'. She started telling us that she was studying in the Netherlands, but she had interrupted an important conversation, so the three of us were soon back to chatting among ourselves.

A few minutes later, the lads decided that they were going to bed. As I still had most of a pint left (and anyone who has drunk with me knows that can take a couple of hours to imbibe), they said they would 'leave me to it'.
Immediately, the girl next to me, who introduced herself as Sarah, started chatting away (I once saw a sub-editor go into a rant for people using the world 'girl' for females over the age of 16 - but this was a close call).

Sarah did all the talking because her friend, who was studying journalism, didn't speak any English. It wasn't a particularly interesting conversation. There was no flirting or chemistry between us (the cultural and language barriers, as well as an age difference of two decades, saw to that) and Sarah didn't have a very endearing personality. Her friend was a lot sweeter (well, she looked sweeter) and more attractive.

After about 30 minutes, when the conversation had ground to a halt and I had begun looking around at a couple of western women, Sarah declared that they were going to their hotel - and what was I doing. Now if someone with English as a first language said that to me, I would take that as an invitation to join them.

But in such a situation, I was far more circumspect. Were these two Chinese women, who were 22 at most, really inviting me back to their hotel room? Would it be wise to go with them, particularly as one didn't speak any English? What if I got into a situation I couldn't handle - 24 hours before flying home?

Perhaps I'm getting old and unwilling to take a gamble (although reading a single entry of A Change For The Bettor should soon dispel that theory), but I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and said I was staying where I was. I know that I moan continually about not getting any attention from women. But when I do, it's either ambiguous or unappealing.

Rare birds

We had been quizzing our tour leader for a week as to who would be joining the group in Shanghai. We knew that the Canadian girls and one of the couples were leaving. So that meant we would be getting five new companions. The gay lads were hoping for a fit gay man, hardly surprisingly. I was hoping for a fit woman. Well, any woman over the age of 23 who wasn't travelling with a wheeled suitcase (as the Canadians were).

The news finally came from head office that we were being joined by three men and two women (a 34-year-old New Zealander and a 27-year-old American). Antipodeans are among my favourite women because they are always up for some banter and are usually very sporty. And after the fun I'd had with the Kiwi girls in Vietnam, I had high hopes for the New Zealander.

A few days later, the seven old hands arrived early for the welcome meeting. But only four of our new buddies had turned up. No need to tell you that the missing person was one of the women. 'Your reputation precedes you,' shouted one of the gay lads, to much hilarity. At least the Kiwi girl was there.

The following morning, the American girl turned up. She was very personable and very attractive - and took about 30 seconds before she mentioned her fiance. So that left four single men and one single woman in the group - and an overall ratio of nine men to three women (one of whom was 60).

The tour leader said she had never heard of a group with so many men. Hearing that was difficult enough, but my pain was exacerbated when I discovered that the five people who left our group to join another tour were now travelling in a group of 10 women and two men. Four of the women were Irish (my favourite nationality) - and one of them was so stunning that she made the Corrs look plain. A couple of nights later, we bumped into another tour leader in a lift, who was complaining that he was fed up with the lack of male company - his group comprised nine women.

Unfortunately, the Kiwi girl soon struck up a very close friendship with one of the gay blokes. Whether she was a regular fag-hag I didn't know because I didn't have an in-depth conversation with her until three days from the end of the trip. When I did get to know her, I really liked her. But listening to two weeks of sexual innuendo about me 'turning' and continual jokes about what a failure I was with women was hardly going to make me appear a decent catch.

To cap what had been a miserable month on the woman front (but perhaps one of my best-ever trips), the group leader seduced one of the other blokes (who had serenaded her with a schmaltzy rendition of I Can't Help Falling In Love With You).

Gay times

I walked slowly to the door. Everything that could be crossed was. I turned the handle and entered the room. 'Is this the Intrepid group?' 'It's one of them,' a man who looked like one of the Chuckle Brothers replied.

My eyes flitted around the faces. There were more men than women. What was going on? There are ALWAYS more women than men on organised tours because they enjoy the security that such a mode of travel confers. I did a quick count up. There were seven men and five women, although the group leader was also female.

Two of the women were clearly with their partners. So that left three. And what a three they were. Early twenties, shocking North American dress sense and a look of panic on their faces that suggested that it might be a close call with me as to who was going to burst into tears first. I won, so I excused myself from the room, feigning a nose bleed, and went for a drink.

Over the next two weeks, it transpired that the three girls were Canadian bible bashers on their first trip overseas. They were pleasant enough, but had nothing to say for themselves. Given the choice of an evening in their company or a night clipping my toenails, the latter option would have won every time.

So that left the 25-year-old Chinese tour leader. She was attractive and had a bubbly personality. But like so many Chinese women, she was young for her age, as exemplified by her Hello Kitty handbag. Not that immaturity was a deal-breaker. But when I saw her tucking into chickens' feet, and realised that she carried a vacuum-packed duck's neck in her rucksack, I lost all interest.

It was just my luck. The make-up of the group meant that I had a single room for the Hong Kong to Shanghai leg. And apart from the two couples and three Canadians, the other four were gay men. So I didn't even have any competition. But there are so few westerners travelling in China that you don't meet anybody outside the group.

Over the course of the two weeks, I became the butt of all jokes, thanks to my unsuccessful quest for love. It was just as well there were no suitable women in the group because I was one minute being portrayed as 'desperate' and the next on the point of 'going over to the dark side'. I like to think that both opinions were well wide of the mark. But one of them probably wasn't.

No laying Angkor

Needless to say, Marie didn't show up. I wandered up and down Bar Street (what is the world coming to when the gateway to one of the world's most iconic temple complexes, Angkor Wat, has a street by such a name?) half a dozen times, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had assured me that she would be sitting outside one of the dozen drinking establishments. But she wasn't. I walked back and forth so many times that the touts offering 'personal services' must have thought that I was just trying to pluck up the courage to strike a deal.

I did, however, bump into Zoe, with whom I had spent the previous evening (I said 'evening'  not 'night'). I don't know what came over me, but I was walking back to my hotel, when I saw this beautiful woman sitting alone outside a bar. So I went in, ordered a beer and, after a couple of minutes of shilly-shallying, asked if I could join her. I was so pleased with myself for getting that far, that I forgot to say anything. Eventually, she broke the ice. Zoe was an Australian in her mid-twenties who was at the start of her first trip into the less developed world. And I know this is going to sound corny, after saying that Stella was the sexiest woman I have ever met, but I would have to say that Zoe was the most attractive. She had an understated beauty (unlike most backpackers, she wasn't wearing as little clothing as is just about considered socially acceptable) that I found mesmerising, as well as a very attractive air of confidence.

We had a couple of drinks, then she suggested going to another bar. So we did. After a third beer, I was contemplating my next move. A fourth beer may have given me the Dutch courage to make a move on her. After all, she hadn't mentioned a boyfriend. And as a first-timer, she did need showing the ropes. Suddenly, she asked whether I wanted to come to the night market. I couldn't think of anything I wanted to do less. So I racked my brains for potential hidden meanings in her suggestion. Did she want to 'do the business'? Was I being offered the chance to 'sample her wares'? But an 04.15 alarm call, so that I could make it to Angkor Wat for sunrise, was never far from my thoughts and, against my better judgement, I declined her invitation.

So I went over to Zoe and asked how she had enjoyed the night market. She said she had met a local who had offered to take her to a Cambodian nightclub. After making it clear that she wasn't interested in him, she went to the techno club, where she had been the only Westerner. Then at 03.30, he had driven her 10 miles to Angkor Wat, where he had given Zoe her first-ever motorbike lesson - in the pitch black. She had got back to her hotel at 05.00. Now Zoe was waiting for him to pick her up and take her back to the club. I bade her goodnight. That girl is going to have a lot of fun. But she could find herself in a lot of trouble, too.

I had a final look for Marie's Croydon facelift before heading back to the hotel. Another country, another notchless bed-post.

Things are looking up

OK, it might be something only a teenage virgin would brag about, but you have to be thankful for small mercies. So, after longer than I care to admit, I have shared a room with a woman. Just the two of us.

OK, it wasn't by choice - well, certainly not on her part. I was on a two-night trip around the Mekong delta, when the group was joined by five new people. As we checked into the hotel, it transpired that all but two of us were in couples. This left me and a twentysomething woman. As neither of us wanted to pay the $3 single supplement, the solution was obvious. 'All right with you?' 'Yes.''All right with you?' 'Yeeeeeeeeeesss!!!! I mean yes.' I found out her name as I put the key into the lock.

I imagine this is how it sometimes works with one-night stands. I was in a bar in Costa Rica last year with a group including a statuesque and stunning Danish girl. Suddenly, a short American with a Brian Blessed beard and skateboard shorts round his ankles went up to her and after about two two minutes of chat over the deafening europop, they left hand in hand. She didn't reappear till the following lunchtime - and they had never bet before.

Needless to say, Stellar and I didn't become so well acquainted. But waking up four feet away from probably the sexiest woman I have ever met (who also happened to be nearly naked), certainly put a smile on my face.

It might not be time to get those party poppers out yet. But one step at a time. Particularly as I am meeting Marie tonight (see 2/7/09), after bumping into her at Angkor Wat at 05.30 this morning (as you do).

Age can be a barrier

As one of very few men travelling on his own (and the only one with a certain level of 'maturity'), I should have the over-30s market sewn up. The trouble is that almost every woman over the age of 25 is travelling with her partner.

Two weeks into my trip, I have met only three women into their fourth decade: Tandy, Mel and Marie. I have written enough about Tandy. Mel was one of the Kiwi girls, who I would definitely have been interested in had she not just met someone at home. One night, we were discussing what makes a good kiss and the fact that with the exception of my ex, I haven't had a decent one for years. Mel got quite passionate on the subject and offered to demonstrate on me what she likes - in front of a bar full of people. I must need my head tested, cos I turned her down.

So that leaves Marie, a fortysomething Yorkshire woman now living in the Cape Verde Islands. I was introduced to Marie on about my fourth day in Vietnam. She had been sitting alone in a bar, when a group of people that I knew joined her. To cut a long story short, everyone else (all couples) left, leaving Marie and I alone in the bar. We were getting a bit tactile and there was definitely interest from both sides. She looked really good for her age, although she was a bit northern (dyed hair, cleavage out, tattoo, too much jewellery - like an Essex girl, come to think of it).

We drank till the bar closed. I then put her in a taxi. She gave me her email address, and with a look in her eye that I recognised from about 20 years ago, she told me to drop her message.

Unfortunately, I lost the all-important beer mat on which I had scrawled the address. So now I have left the Kiwi girls and Tandy behind, every evening I trawl the bars in the hope of seeing her. Marie is on a group tour (which apparently comprises nine women and three men) travelling exactly the same route as me, but is a day behind. But Marie is no Tandy, so I'm not wasting another day waiting around for her.

I doubt I'll catch up with Marie. But the three-to-one sex ratio of her trip (I'm starting a one-month tour of China with the same company next Monday) was music to my ears.

I should have known better

I was so down the following morning. Tandy is one of the 10 nicest women I have ever met. But like eight of the other nine, she wasn't interested in anything other than friendship (and I had to beg the other one, my ex, for weeks before she agreed to a date). A New Edition to an ever-growing list (gedditt??).

I emailed Tandy to apologise for my behaviour, saying that I had enjoyed her company so much in Hue, I was disappointed that things had not continued in the same vain. She eventually replied, wishing me happy travels. I was indignant. It seemed stupid that she would be sitting alone in her hotel room for the next few nights, while I would be sitting alone in a bar. She may have got an inkling that I fancied her, but I haven't acted in any way inappropriately.

The cavalry arrived in the form of the Kiwi girls, Bex and Mel, who had just turned up in Hoi An. They agreed to join me in a drowning-my-sorrows session (until the Antipodean witching hour of 22.00, of course). When they left the Britpop bar, their seats were pounced on by two stunning Danes in their early twenties. They tried to engage me in conversation, but I was more interested in watching Any Murray's Wimbledon quarter-final. When I say 'more interested', what I meant was that I was just being realistic. As I looked around the bar, all I could see was countless tall and tanned English lads, 20 years my junior. If I can't pull someone my age, who understands the nuances of my humour, what chance have I got with women who say 'pardon' why I tell them from England?

In the end, I sought salvation in the arms (figuratively, not literally) of a 15-stone Welsh journalist more plain than a bar of Bournville, who asked me for a light. Despite having little in common, we chatted for an hour, until she mentioned she was a huge rugby fan (I could see that for myself). I made my excuses and left.

Jim Diamond hit the nail on the head (although I didn't lie to anyone beautiful – I even told Tandy my real age). I was just stupid enough to think that someone without more stubble than me or any psychiatric issues, who was willing to pay her own way, could fancy me. Or even just enjoy a little holiday snog with someone she clearly really liked. Am I really asking too much?

It never happens to me

The morning after I had been out with Tandy, we were both catching the 08.00 bus to Hoi An (fate?). Unfortunately, we weren't on the same bus. But it wasn't a problem because I had taken her email address.

So I sent Tandy a message suggesting meeting at 19.00 in a particular bar. I was so excited all day. As the big moment approached, I put on my second-least-creased shirt and my lucky pants (the only semi-clean ones).

As I set off for the bar, I was 90 per cent confident of pulling. Only once in my life have I ever gone out with such a level of bravado before (in fact, a confidence factor of more than 10 per cent): to one of Nicola Evans' parties in the late-1980s - and I failed.

When I arrived at the venue, I was shocked to find it had shut down. Now unlike Hue, Hoi An has dozens of bars and clubs dotted all over the town. So the chance of us meeting had suddenly severely diminished. I wandered round in an increasing sense of desperation - and after 20 minutes bumped into Tandy.

She certainly hadn't made as much as an effort as the previous evening and I immediately felt that there was something wrong. Almost the first thing she said that she was so tired. We found a restaurant and sat down to order. Tandy opted for water. As deep and personal as the conversation had been the previous evening, tonight it was perfunctory and serious. Her lack of interest in being there rubbed off on me and rather than trying to win her round with my gift of the gab, I turned into a sulky schoolboy. At one stage, she asked why I was fed up. I just said that I had a lot on my mind.

We finished our meal, paid the bill and I walked her in the direction of her hotel. She said it was well out of my way and that she could do the last part on her own. I didn't even try to kiss her.

Feargal Sharkey, I know where you're coming from.

Tandy girl - you are my world

So there I was, in a bar on my first night in Hanoi. I was still shattered from the 31-hour journey and was quite happy sitting alone watching the world go by.

I had almost finished my beer and was contemplating going in search of something to eat, when a woman with long blonde hair walked in and sat opposite me. She was carrying a huge day-sack and was more glam than your average backpacker.

She experienced some language problems when she tried to order a drink. As I looked over, she gave me a beaming smile. I decided to order another beer. A few minutes later, we made eye contact again.

I wanted to go and sit with her. But I didn't want it to look as if I was on the pull (although I obviously was/am). A few minutes later, she came over and asked if she could join me. As I can't remember a woman ever having done this before, I was hardly going to say no.

Tandy was a 36-year-old from Adelaide, who was travelling around Thailand and Vietnam on her own. She was heading in the same direction as me, although she had slightly more time. We had a really interesting conversation that went beyond the usual travellers' gambits of 'where are you from/where are you going/where have you been?'. Two hours had soon passed, but to my disappointment, at 22.00 on the dot, she said she was going to bed (as most Antipodean girls seem to). We never swapped email addresses, but I was fairly confident that we would catch up with each other again.

Over the next couple of days, I found myself thinking about Tandy quite regularly (and I don't mean the eletrical retailer). Although not particularly my type, and there hadn't been the chemistry I'd had with the Doctor (see 23/9/08), for example, she was a really nice person. And unlike almost every single thitysomething I encounter, she had no obvious flaws (she was attractive, intelligent, fun, successful and had no baggage).

A week later, I had moved on to Hue. I was pretty sure that Tandy had arrived in town the previous evening, and as there were only two bars in town that travellers frequented, I was confident that I would bump into her. So I had a shave and put on the least-creased shirt in my duffle bag.

I walked into the first bar and there was a hot-looking (in every sense - the humidity here is unbearable) woman sitting by the pool table. I thought it was Tandy, but she looked so different, I couldn't be sure. As I went to walk out, she called my name.

We sat down and the conversation flowed as freely as the beers. Tandy looked absolutely stunning. We were joined briefly by a couple of Kiwi girls who I had been spending time with (and whose ears I had been bending about Tandy) and they agreed that she was lovely. They left us to it. By 22.00, we were both quite tiddly, and decided to head for some food. We found a restaurant where the only free table had chairs side by side, so we rearranged the furniture so that we could sit opposite each other.

Although there was no overt flirting, there was a little bit of 'accidental' touching. A waitress came over and asked if we were married. We put her straight, but she kept on about what a lovley couple we would make. Although it sounds a cringeworthy situation, it didn't embarrass either of us.

We walked home very closely. When we reached her hotel, I leaned forward to give Tandy a peck in the 'corridor of uncertainty' (about an inch from the corner of her mouth) and she swivelled her head and puckered up, so that our lips met. Perhaps I should have pushed it, but ever the gentleman, I knew that we potentially had another five days together. I walked back to my hotel very happy with the world.

Holiday romance?

If anyone is still reading this blog – and I’d be surprised if there is, as there isn’t a lot going on – I’m going to make a bold pronouncement and say that I am expecting a change of luck over the next couple of months.

‘Expecting’ might be a tad optimistic, but I’ve been ‘hoping’ for too long. And perhaps a more positive attitude will reap its rewards. I’m off on holiday to Indochina tomorrow for eight weeks. I’ll be spending three weeks travelling through Vietnam and Cambodia on my own, before joining 11 others for a four-week trip around China.

The two most amazing women I have ever met came into my life while I was on my travels: Jill in New Zealand (1993) and Mel on a flight back from Los Angeles (2001). I also met my last girlfriend in Kenya (2007) and someone very special in Costa Rica last year (see 8/8/08).

Group travel is always a bit of a gamble. After all, you could end up with 11 male members of a Japanese chess club. I’ve never been a big fan of organised trips, but I've found that as I get older, and most people travelling independently are 20 years my junior, I've become less sociable. I also increasingly prefer the peace of a cheap hotel, rather than a dorm where your drunken room-mates are staggering in at all hours of the night.

When I did an organised trip a couple of years ago in Africa, it started really well. There were lots of people around my age and it was great fun. Unfortunately, they all went back to their jobs after two weeks (proving my mum right, as she says that only students, retired people and crusty old hippies take holidays as long as I do - and I'm not looking to meet any of those), leaving me in the company of a bunch of 20-year-olds. Not a lot of fun, let me tell you.

I figure that out of my 11 companions, seven will be women (females are always more likely to travel in a group). Two of those will be in couples, while three will be two old or too young. Which leaves two. Surely one of those will be a professional, London-based, thirtysomething with short hair, a degree in banter and curves in all the right places. Hmmm....

The closest I’ve been to a woman this year was moon-stomping into one at The Specials gig – and I bet it was her who nicked my phone. This year has been a complete non-event as far as women are concerned. I haven’t had a single smile. I haven't flirted with anyone. It has been like winding the clock back 12 years, when women weren’t even on the periphery of my life. But back then I loved West Ham. Now I don’t.

I was packing my bag last night and found that all my condoms had expired 15 months ago. A friend advised to buy some new ones, as I don't want to catch anything. I told him that I am in no danger of catching bird flu - because birds run a mile when they see me. With my track record and the pigs that I have to make do with, I'm in far more danger of catching swine flu.

A nod's as good as a wink

My three-month subscription to Dating Direct ended at the weekend. In an attempt to make me waste another £45, the website embarked on its usual trick of promoting me to its female members in every possible way. But not only did it fail to entice me into prolonging my tenure on the site, but I would imagine that female members quit in their droves, after the indignity of having my profile emailed to them ‘as a good match’ or having to continually endure the sight of my profile on the homepage.

Of course, such a tactic garnered me far more ‘views’ (up from a couple a day to about 20), but none of these elicited a ‘wink’ or an email. That was until the penultimate day, when I received a wink from someone and an email from someone else. The woman who emailed me was a better bet than most of my previous correspondents, but her message was dull and made little sense.

The woman who winked, although not ostensibly my type, had a reasonable profile. So I sent her a message. She replied a couple of hours later, saying that she was really glad that I had emailed her. I explained that it was my last day on the site, so I gave her my Googlemail address. A few minutes later, a ‘chat’ request appeared on my laptop – from her. Unfortunately, I can’t reply to chat requests. So I emailed her to this effect, reiterating that she should drop me an email.

Five days later, I’m still waiting to hear. I know you will be thinking that I should resubscribe, but I’m loth to do that for several reasons. First, I didn’t intend to subscribe for the last thee moths. It’s just that Dating Direct has a sneaky way to make you think that you have cancelled when you haven’t (after several questions, you are asked whether you still want to cancel – but clicking on the ‘cancel’ button, cancels the cancellation process, rather than your subscription). Second, there is no one on the site that I want contact, who hasn’t already ignored me. Over the past three months, I have sent no emails and winked at nobody. Third, the woman in question has received more than 1,000 winks and is undoubtedly emailing other people. Fourth, she will lose interest before we meet as a result of misunderstanding my sarcasm. Five, I’m skint (see A Change for the Bettor for the sickening reason why).

I don’t know why she won’t send me an email. I can understand that she doesn’t want to reveal her identity so soon, but it takes two minutes to set up an account under a pseudonym (and most people on dating websites already have one). It’s not as if I gave her my Hotmail address.

And I haven’t heard a word from Susan Boyle.

Boyle prerogative

Remember me? You'll have to excuse my absence. It's not that I can't be bothered to update this blog. It's just that there is nothing to say. My love life is as bare as Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard, as empty as one of Gordon Brown's promises.

Not only has my social life plumbed new depths (my only night out in the past three weeks has been dinner with a female friend), but I am now 'working' from home (I am using the word in its loosest sense). And despite being logged on to Dating Direct pretty much 24/7 (which should create interest, as the most common way to search is to look at people 'currently online'), I have had no winks, no emails and only a single 'view' (she had no picture) in the past fortnight.

If things don't pick up soon, I'm going challenge Piers Morgan to a duel, with the winner getting to take out Susan Boyle, from Britain's Got Talent.

Mum's the word

I had only my second Saturday night out of the year a couple of weeks ago. The previous one had been on my own in a deserted village pub in rural Cornwall, in January. No wonder I’m single.

This time, the venue was a Chinese restaurant in deepest Essex for my cousin’s 30th birthday celebrations. I knew only a handful of the 30 or so people in the party and was consequently sat on a table with my parents, my sister-in-law, my cousin and her boyfriend, my aunt and uncle, and four of their friends (two couples). I was, as always , the only single person in the group over the age of 30.

The venue was packed with hen parties. Women must have outnumbered men by about four to one. Although the food was appalling and overpriced, the restaurant’s attraction was the fact that it had a dance floor, which belted out cheesy classics to the gaggle of underdressed and overtanned Essex girls.

I had rarely been anywhere like it – and certainly not for 15 years. All of the women were dressed up to the nines, with acres (literally, in some acres) of flesh haging out everywhere you looked. I thought back to my last big night out, New Year’s Eve, when the female friend I went out with turned up in jeans and trainers. One of my cousin’s friends was absolutely stunning. I felt like a kid in a sweet shop. But one without any money.

My aunt came over to ask me to dance, accompanied by one of my cousin’s single friends. I declined, on the basis that I was sober and had a sore leg (trying to train for a marathon from scratch in nine weeks is not advisable). But the friend was insistent. I looked at her bleached blonde hair, glowing tan and ample curves and was more than a little tempted. But then her grating accent, state of inebriation and the age gap brought me back to reality – and I held firm.

As she wandered off, my mum said: ‘She likes you.’ Thanks for the vote of confidence, mum, but it would probably have been a very different story if she had been sober.  

There is only one thing worse than trying to pulling someone 10 years your junior in front of your parents. And that is failing to pull someone 10 years your junior in front of your parents. With a wistful look at the dance floor, I got my coat.

My bloody Valentine

I’ve received two Valentine’s cards in my entire life. The first was from the woman who, to this day, is the most amazing I have ever met, in 1994. The feeling wasn’t mutual though, as her message made clear: ‘Boyfriends come and go – friends last for life.’ An admirable sentiment, but one that was sadly well wide of the mark; we lost touch within three months because she didn’t envisage our relationship developing in the direction in which I hoped it would. The last thing I heard, she was going out with a pig farmer called Norman (I kid you not).

The second was in 2004, from my girlfriend at the time. The relationship was going nowhere and I don’t remember anything about the card (although I’ve undoubtedly still got it somewhere) or whether we bought each other presents. But it did mark the only occasion that I have spent Valentine’s Day with a woman with whom I am not related.

As the mathematical laws of arithmetic progression dictate, my postman isn’t go to have anything to deliver on February 14 till 2014. The theory proved right this year, as I spent Saturday night shopping in Tesco and then sitting on my own with an Indian takeaway.

Before anyone feels too sorry for me, though, I would like to point out that I have sent only one Valentine’s card ever. So I have received twice as many cards as I have bought. Not a bad record, I think you’ll agree.

Is there anybody there?

For the past six years, I’ve revelled in my disastrous love life, regaling people with tales of dodgy dates and weird emails from online dating sites. But I’m starting to think that unless I lower my standards significantly, I'm going to spend the rest of my days alone.

In a moment of weakness, I texted Sarah (see 9/12/08 & 12/12/08). I was passing though Bristol station on the way back from Cornwall and it just seemed the obvious thing to do. She ignored me. A couple of weeks later, I went to a leaving do for an ex-colleague. As someone who doesn't have the confidence to approach someone 'cold', such a night (and they're few and far between, these days) is the best opportunity of meeting a woman. But despite there being several nice women in the room, I spent all night talking to people whom I already knew.

There was no option but to head back online. I managed to secure a free three-day trial on Match and a week for £1 on Dating Direct (I'm not coughing up full price to get countless rejections). I'd had a wink from Tinkerbell, a woman in south London the previous week, so I dropped her an email. She was a 29-year-old teacher, Scottish (one of my favourite accents) and my type physically (petite with short hair). We exchanged several emails over the course of 48 hours. It was going OK, although the quality of her spelling and grammar were frightening (if I ever have children, I wouldn't want her teaching them). Then she asked me what I did. I thought it was time to up the stakes a little, to see whether she had a sense of humour. So I told her that I'd had trained as a shepherd, but was thinking of joining the Swiss Navy (think about it). I never heard back.

In the meantime, I trawled both sites looking for suitable 'victims'. The number of profiles that interested me either superficially or intellectually (I mean by their words, rather than their picture) was tiny, but I eventually found a half-a-dozen women worthy of emailing.

1) Girlfriday: a 33-year-old woman from south-west London, on Match, who worked in the 'gaming industry' and loved having a bet on the horses and footie. I didn't really fancy her, but she said she was also looking for new friends. Me too, particularly ones I can bore with my betting stories, so I sent her a message. It was nothing special, but made it obvious that we had lots in common.

2) Bexterboogiddy: a 37-year-old woman, on Match, from Tunbridge Wells, who was a passionate traveller. Her profile featured the following line: 'Would like to find someone willing to go coast to coast with me in the USA in a shapley (sic) 50's convertible cadillac listening to Elvis in Memphis and The Beach Boys in California!' So in my email, I wrote: 'If I agree to join you on your road trip across the US (it's one I've done before - but non-stop on a Greyhound bus), would we have to sit in silence between Memphis and California? Hmmm? Think you need to Google "famous musicians from Arkansas/Texas/New Mexico and Arizona" and get back to me. Alternatively, we could discuss our mutual love of adventure travel (I've skydived, white-water rafted, bungeed, cage dived, quad biked etc), nephews and sport (I'm doing a triathlon and marathon this year, and hike and climb regularly).' In my opinion, that's an original and eye-catching message - a little cheeky, but at least it was tailored to her profile.

3) Pinkthings: a 29-year-old from Kent, on Match. Her profile was succinct, but she was clearly quite witty - and she had short hair. My message wasn't one of my best, but still had a couple of funny lines in it.

4) Suzy: a 32-year-old woman from Swiss Cottage, on Dating Direct. Her profile was quite standard, but was well written and said her two main passions were travelling and keeping in shape. She signed off: 'Overall though, I do believe that chemistry is the most important thing so please get in touch and let's see if we spark!' My email was nothing amazing, but certainly merited a reply, ' to see if we spark'.

5) Littlemiss: a 32-year-old from Kensington on Dating Direct. Probably the most attractive woman I contacted, she had another well-written profile. Whether she was knew to the site, I don't know, but she'd had very few winks or views of her profile. I would imagine that I was one of the first (if not the first) to send her a serious email. My message was complimentary (her punctuation was faultless), with one funny line in it.

6) Becs: a 38-year-old woman from Surrey on Dating Direct. Her profile was exceptionally average and she hadn't answered most of the questions. But she said she was up for some banter and that: 'I’d love to hear from you if you’re sport orientated, and you’re an intelligent, honest and sociable guy.' So I sent her a message saying: 'I reckon I fulfil all your criteria: I play darts every Christmas, I got two answers on The Sun crossword the other day, I was the 27th man on the moon and I’m social secretary for my local trainspotters’ club. And I’m prepared to take you to the cleaners (metaphorically - I don’t think a launderette is a good venue for a first date) on the banter front.'

It was then a question of sitting back and waiting. So I waited. And I waited. And two weeks later, I'm still waiting. On Match, you can't tell whether someone has read your email or viewed your profile. But Bexterboogiddy, Girlfriday and Pinkthings have all been regularly on the site in the past fortnight. Of the three on Dating Direct, all read my email - but only Suzy and Becs looked at my profile. And Tinkerbell obviously didn't like my sarcasm (although how does she know that I'm not a shepherd?).

I can't remember the exact figures offhand, but of about 18 women whom I've emailed over the past year, only Tinkerbell replied (and she'd winked at me first). It's not as though I'm contacting women that are out of my league or whose criteria I don't fulfil (they're looking for someone younger or taller). The reason has got to be my pictures - and however much profiles drone on about chemistry, we are all judged on our looks, initially. So I can't even get to the chemistry stage cos I've had a few hefty clouts with the ugly stick.

And it really frustrates me that nobody has the courtesy to reply, to at least give me some feedback. I received a sweet email from a 20-year-old (with no picture) on Dating Direct, who had cleary read my profile carefully. I sent her a nice email back thanking her for bothering, but I was twice her age. She emailed me back thanking me.

What little confidence I had has now gone. Can't pull in real life, can't even get a reply to my emails online. Life was far easier when I was content with West Ham being the love of my life. I give up.

Food for thought

It must be obvious from my absence that I have nothing to report. Despite the encouragement of my friends – a fifth of my Christmas cards featured messages such as “hope you have some fun under the mistletoe”, “hope you get some good nookie” and “hope you get a dose of the clap” – I had a Christmas that was as devoid of action as an episode of Emmerdale.

As I have knocked the internet dating on the head for the time being, my only chance of some festive fun was via the “real world”. And although I had plenty of nights out, the fact that I was hanging around with blokes who are coupled up (with whom I end up in backstreet pubs, where we can “get a seat and a cheap pint”) or a close female friend (as I did on Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve) did not give me a lot of chance of getting lucky.

My big opportunity was the Christmas lunch for one of the magazines on which I work. There were about 30 people there, only about half of whom I know. Incredibly, I was the only single man in the group, while there were about eight single women. Good odds, in anyone’s eyes. But I didn't get a good seat at the table (they were all sat together at the other end – the safety in numbers approach), then several of them left straight after the meal.

Downstairs in the pub, my heart wasn’t in it. Not a single one of the women had given me a second look (it wasn’t as bad as the previous year, when one of them had virtually turned her back on me when I had try to speak to her) – so I ended up pouring out my heart to my editor (if I’m not bemoaning my love life online, I’m doing it verbally). She found it all fascinating and came to the conclusion that I am “too fussy”. It is an accusation that has been levelled at me by many people, although it’s one I strongly refute. I do know exactly what I am looking for in a woman – in theory. But I’ve never been out with anyone that fulfils more than a couple of my criteria. And I certainly didn’t feel fussy, as I sat at that table, thinking that I would have been keen to get any of the single women under the mistletoe.

My best mate’s missus says that men and women have a very different view of “pulling”. She says that for women, it is often a group activity. If their friends have got their eye on someone, they may join in, so as not to be left out. Conversely, if there are no blokes available (or only one, in this case), they all forget about meeting anyone and just decided to have a good time with each other, as they don't want to be the only one on the pull.

I’m keen to subscribe to that theory. Otherwise, half-a-dozen single women at a Christmas party (and Christmas is one of the two loneliest times of the year), after eight hours of drinking, still weren’t interested in me.

Happy new year.