011108 Not so manic now

Oh dear. It’s happened again. Did I make it happen? Did it happen to me? Is it coincidence?

Internet dating. Twice been asked my opinion of it in recent times, once by a near-virgin introvert and once by a sexy giant who’s lost her mojo.

My take? Good for collecting and deleting men as a hobby, but rarely good in practice. Let’s face it, how many times have you been to a party, gone in for the kill, (my particular choice of phrase), and then their voice has been a mutation of Mickey Mouse, or their jaw wobbles from side to side when they speak? ‘!!!’ I hear you think, well that’s what happens to me.

So a few weird pics on someone’s profile is not going to give you a true ‘picture’ of what they’re like. Tip – always look at all of their photos. Scrutinise them. I have so nearly added people to my favourites in an impatient moment, (every moment), and then looked at the extras and OH MY GOD IT’S THE CHIN AGAIN. Etc. Imagine then meeting up with them, realising after one second that they obviously come from a mutant gene pool? And all of this after obtaining a gooey, special, private feeling from the fact you may have met the love of your life over t’internet.

What a waste of time. What a let down.

The other point especially relevant to me with internet dating is that it’s fantastic for people who have trouble meeting people. Everyone knows my cavewoman methods of gaining my prey, I ain’t exactly shy now. So when I waltz in with a pervy smirk on my face they think two things:

1. Oh my god I’m terrified.
2. Hang on, I haven’t had sex for fourteen years and she seems easy.

I do it to myself, I do.

Let me talk you through the three internet dates I’ve ever been on:

1.  strange jumpy guy, bit of a beer gut, told me he genuinely wanted to make friends by internet dating.  shifty fucker.  got off with him in a bus stop, legs wrapped around his waist.  he ran off.

2.  builder.  meaty.  scary.  got off our heads, carried me home on his head.  asked me if I ever just felt like hitting someone, and could he hit me?  oh dear.

3.  about to move to london.  guy messages me.  looks a bit indie.  meet at the clocktower.  he is so thin I could knock him over by breathing.  kissed him for six minutes next to the cornish pasty shop just to get him to go away......

And actually, I realised today that I haven’t been on an internet date for over two years. I have had some pretty abrupt experiences leading to instant karma, orchestrated by myself and using more traditional, but unusual techniques of acquisition.

Like the time I gave out my calling card.

Like the time I huffed and panted at the gym instructor.

Like the time I cold-texted my friend’s brother.

We live and learn, you get what you ask for.

But for my latest near-conquest.

I was going to start with his name, which happens to start with Z.  Unusual, and slightly mad seeing as that’s me too. And his surname. That starts with S. me too! Now normally I would be fairly enamoured with this sort of co-incidence, but unfortunately I had a near-miss for three weeks last year with a guy with almost exactly the same name as me. Substitute the first letter of my name but keep the others the same. Keep the surname. Add a double barrel which phonetically matches my father’s first name and which he gave to us should we need a double barrel. What could go wrong?

But that’s a different story. On with this one.

If you’ve read ‘August 2008’, you’ll be familiar with the pitiful start of our ‘relationship’. He basically must have searched for ‘mentally ill’, and my nonchalant profile appeared with ‘open-minded (but not mentally ill). I think the Barthes-educated amongst us may recognise a binary opposite here, but for him – no.

It just so happens that by random internet networking beauty I was being projected onto Trafalgar Square as part of some cutting-edge, ground-breaking art project. Think the bloke was Dutch. I have a limited edition print of it (ripped already), as a momentous celebration of my emerging high-art identity (yeah right).

So this guy’s an artist, and I have no date with which to search for my ukelele-playing portrait in one of the most known landmarks of the world. Sad, but true.

Frig it, my flatmate was on a New York jaunt and I pretended to take the ‘seize the day’ approach and accept a date with this mad man, who would obviously worship the halogen-lit ground I was projected on.

Well, had he been obviously mad I may have been interested, (they generally expire before we do), but this guy just seemed bleak.

We wandered around the Square haplessly looking for traces of my moo-mooed body to no avail, gave up and went for a drink in a non-descript but acceptable bar. Tragic.

The conversation didn’t so much flow as jumped from consciousness to consciousness, but I was waiting to be adored. Come on. Surely, if you accept a date from someone you can’t even be arsed with on a PC screen, you expect a little worship? No?

No. Awkward strangeness. Talk of his neighbour who shared my name, who he sexed with but it went tits up. Or down. I don’t know. He had some sort of imaginative brain. When I popped outside for a fag I decided to set him a task:

‘Imagine you had a parrot, what would you call him?’ Romantic it may not be, but something had to freakin happen.

I returned.

‘Graham Tude’.

Good answer. So we head out into the night, and I’m up for some kind of mid-week debauchery. It was that kind of slightly lonely week.

We cross to the square once more.

He suddenly takes on a very strange stance. Hunched up in his parka, he swings side to side, his hands in his pockets. I decide I have no cards left to play:

‘Aren’t we meant to kiss or something?’

Turns out he has been on three internet dates in two weeks, slept with all three, morning-after-pilled one, and is still stuck on his ex. Oh for God’s sake.

I knew this internet lark was a goner, but I think I’ve gone and done it till it’s dead. I stuck my eggs in his basket and still no result. Would you believe it?