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.