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).