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.