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.