Boy Who Has Hut Near One*

For some reason this year feels like it might be ‘the one’. The year where I might find a non fuckwit who has a hut near one and isn’t going to use me to smuggle coke which sees me ending up in a Thai prison singing Madonna songs and lending people my Wonderbra.

Of course I could be entirely wrong and I might spend the year wading through weirdos again but after having my poor little heart smashed to smithereens by ‘Giant Bellend of Doom’ (as he is so called, lovingly though because I’m a massive sook) it feels like I might at least be ready to try and find someone. Don’t get me wrong, my self-esteem is still through the floor and I frequently wail into a wine glass (at home alone I’m not a masochist) about how I’m completely and utterly unloveable and how I’m going to die alone surrounded by cats who won’t even eat my face off, so hideous I am. But who am I kidding because Hobo can’t even wait half an hour for his kibble so he’ll be gnawing on my face before my body is even cold.

I digress.

Inherently there’s nothing wrong with me, I have all the right bits in all the right places although granted they could be a bit smaller in parts. I can’t cook for shit but I do it in a loveable calamitous way – I once served a man risotto which could have made decent wallpaper paste and then burnt almond friands which he ate through gritted teeth and claimed to enjoy, and I’m funny in a hopefully ha ha way and not in an ‘oh god she needs committing’ fashion. I care about people and go out of my way to make them happy, and am a good kisser (so I have been told I am not just tooting my own kissing horn).

The problem I think I’m going to encounter is that I can’t help but think that all the decent ones have been snapped up leaving the slightly dented mystery tins which may contain peaches, but might also contain cat food or marrowfat peas.  Or adult babies. My friends have no single men about their persons, the idea of speed dating fills me with abject horror, and I have no hobbies where eligible men are involved. My aquafit class is filled with old ladies, my cocktail cabinet has no men hidden amongst the gin bottles, and there are none in my bed during nap time (mores the pity).

Which leaves online dating (again) which so far has been a World of married men, bizarre fetishes, and people who just really don’t tickle my pickle. I know I know, it’s hard to come across properly through pixels on a screen but I think I’m quite a good judge of character. The last one I wasn’t sure about who I let slip through the net turned into an unmitigated nightmare.

Sat in the pub having a slightly awkward drink when we get onto the subject of University. He’d dropped out which was no issue because yours truly had also divebombed my way out of my ‘ology’ degree at the end of the first year. The issue was that his parents had high hopes for their darling son and leaving Oxbridge was NOT in the plan. Cue a rant of epic proportions about how he was a grown up and could do whatever he liked, he ended this by shouting ‘I don’t need my parents, I don’t need them!’.  I wanted the ground to swallow me whole as people were staring at this man child throwing his toys firmly out of the pram.

Still I guess the silver lining of going on dates with screaming men, men who wear nappies, and those who admit to Googling me before telling me my life history is that it will make some excellent blog fodder.

Hang onto your hats kiddos, this could be quite the ride.

*10 LTA points if you get the reference without using your Google-Fu.


When Are You Getting Married?

Hi my name is Ally, I’m 35, and I once described my vagina as being like Helmand Province because nobody wants to spend any time there. 

I’m at the stage of being single where people love to comment on it, like when my lovely young nephew said “When are you going to get married Aunty Owl? Because I’m getting married when I’m 26 and you’re way older than that”. 

My Stepmum gave me the advice that I need to “keep casting my bread on the water, because you never know when a duck will fancy a nibble” but sadly all I seem to attract is old shopping trollies and welly boots. 

It started with the knicker melter, so called because well I’m sure you can figure it out. I plucked up the courage to ask him for a drink and there we were in a grotty pub and I was giving it my best chat. Flirting, being interested, really pulling out my best moves, but then I realised he hadn’t asked me a single question. Not a one. Leaning over my wine glass and with a rather wanky flutter of my eyelashes I asked, 

“Is there anything you’d like to know about me?” 

I was NOT expecting his response, 

“No, I found out everything I needed to know on Google”.

GOOGLE. He then proceeded to give me a potted history of my entire family, and was most impressed by the fact my brother had won a bravery award… ten years previously. That shit was definitely not on the first page of results. Don’t get me wrong we all do it, but it’s not something you admit to. Like the time you almost wet yourself in Tesco or cried at Peppa Pig. 

Then like most people internet dating I got catfished. I’d been talking to this very tall chatty man online, we had loads in common and great banter so decided to go for a walk on the common and then a drink. Lovely stuff. There I was stood in the sunshine when I saw this chap walking up so I smiled because I am polite. Then I realised that this man was walking right at me and was in fact my date. This man who was 5’5” if he’d been wearing 6” heels and was wearing a suit he’d clearly borrowed from his Dad. He’d pushed the sleeves back on it and looked like a Don Johnson from junior Miami Vice. 

We went for a very awkward walk once round the lake, he tried to kiss me and I hightailed it out of there. Thankfully although it looked like I was on a date with a child he hadn’t lied about his age so I wasn’t going to end up on a register. However waving goodbye to Don Johnson waved in the era of sailing rather close to the appropriate age gap wind as I started my thirties. 

This began with ‘The One Direction Barman’, so called because he looked like he should be in a boyband but with the fetching addition of a porn star moustache. He was the barman in my local and after a few too many Darth Vader cocktails watching the rugby I ended up going home with him safe in the knowledge that I was never going to hear the end of it from my friends. Next morning making awkward small talk he said,

“I’d love to see you again” and I thought ‘well you ARE the barman in my local’ and then he continued,

“Why don’t you come out next week, it’s my birthday” I said I’d think about it while meaning that of course I wasn’t going to think about and then he dropped the clanger,

“It’s going to be a great night, you don’t turn 21 every day”. 

Reader, I left him. And yes, you bet I found a new local. 

It transpired that I had a bit of a ‘thing’ for bar staff, especially those who put my eye wateringly expensive G&T’s on my Dad’s tab. We agreed to go for a picnic in the Sussex countryside and spent a very nice afternoon wiling away the hours. As the sun started to set suddenly we were joined by a variety of cars and couples – he had the good grace to look embarrassed but I did also catch him giving me a look as if to enquire whether I would be up for a casual spot of dogging. 

I wasn’t. 

We headed to the pub and he mentioned that he had to be home by half ten. Having spent the afternoon together I didn’t take it as a bad sign although he did seem rather het up about it and then he said it, 

“She’ll kill me if I’m not home on time” 

Oh fan-fucking-tastic I was on a date with a married man. 

Yeah, she was really pissed off with my mock A-Level results so I’m on a curfew”. 

And these are just the ones who make it out of my inbox. There’s the karate kid who asks me a string of questions about martial arts, never deviating from the script. 

“Have you ever done karate?”

“Would you ever do ju-jitsu?”

“How high can you kick?”

“How hard can you kick?”

“Have you ever kicked anyone in the balls?”

One day curiosity got the better of me so I replied asking if he really thought his approach was going to work. My inbox pinged and I felt genuine excitement and getting an insight to his psyche but of course I was left unsatisfied,

“Would you wear a kendo outfit in the bedroom?”

There’s also ‘What The Fuck Chuck’ who always tracks me down and likes to ask if I knock loudly on doors with my ‘frankly massive hands’, and then there’s Chuck’s opposite number who says I have ‘incredibly dainty feminine hands’. So one large hand, one small hand, and I’m left feeling like Nemo flapping in circles round the dating pool. 

There’s the guy who wants to buy my old shoes as long as they’re ‘very worn’, the adult baby who wanted me to be his ‘new Mummy’, the adult baby who wanted to pay me to change his nappies, the man who wanted me for a visa, the man who said I reminded him of Xena Warrior Princess but with a bigger arse and the man who wanted to jizz on my glasses. 

It’s not just them though, I confess to being a bit of a nob when it comes to my romantic life. Over the years in the pursuit of love I’ve:

  • Posted a Big Mac meal to Guernsey. 
  • Learned the history of a shitty football team “just in case” and
  • Spent a summer in college hanging round a county town so I could “fancy seeing you here”. 

I also am afflicted by ‘the fear’. When you’ve kissed someone for the first time and you want to say something cool because even if you don’t want to kiss them again you want them to want to kiss you. 

In the past the fear has made me come out with such classics as “I’ve been waiting for that all week” on a first date, “woah! That was a lot of tongue” on a first date, and “mmmm garlic” on a first date. And I wonder why I don’t get to date two? 

The pièce de résistance though was on a date with a 6’10” adonis who unfortunately was in the running for title of the most boring man on the planet. He spent the entire night talking about quantitiative easing so I did what anyone in my position would do, I got white girl wasted on Chardonnay whilst thinking about quantitatively easing him out of his clothes. 

Outside of the restaurant we were waiting for a taxi when he took me into his arms and we had a movie worthy kiss. As we pulled apart though I was hit by the fear, I was gazing up into his beautiful blue eyes when it came hurtling out,

“Can I lick your teeth?” 

Live From The Trenches

You spend ages picking your best photos that show you in the right light, you want to look your best, you want to appear approachable, and you want to show you have friends and a life that doesn’t just involve watching Netflix and talking to your cat.

Then you get a man who leads with this:



The man with a mirror selfie who thinks he’s doing the right thing in telling you that you look ten years older than you actually are. I love the way he even points out that he’s not negging me to get into my pants, nope, he’s just that rude. But it’s not the worst thing to lead with, as this next chap shows…


See, I’m so nice I even blurred out the name of the man who is trying to cheat on his wife and you probably won’t be surprised to hear that I didn’t in fact reply with the below,

‘Oh blank! How very lovely that it is that you want to bang someone other than the woman you took vows with. I am SO flattered and not at all skeeved out by this’ 

Of course if you don’t have a wife to lead with, how’s about sending pages and pages of unrequested and terrible erotic literature? This isn’t even as ‘good’ as ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, it’s more like ‘Ten Shades of WTF’.




It went on for about twenty scrolls down and it was without doubt the most excruciatingly awful message I’d received. I deleted it without replying but then my inbox pinged again,


Not only did he automatically assume he’d be meeting me, he assumed I’d pay for it because he was in fact a male escort touting for business. It may have been a while but I was am still not going to pay him for ‘his tongue passing along the reliefs of her intimacy, visiting each hem, every fold and folding up… in a sulky concert of groans’. Oh fuck no.

I’m also not interested in taking a slave (although I do need some pictures hung), being a slave, or making it with an invertebrate.


Master Likes


Then there was this guy who clearly got lost on his way to a popular online shopping emporium. Although I dread to think what he was buying given his photo…



Here We Go Again…

Selling a dream

A dream? Darling that line is a NIGHTMARE but yes, I am in fact really that tall. This message reminded me of the man who refused to believe I was 6’2″ and kept asking me how tall I was really. I kept confirming that yes, I was indeed 6’2″ and then he asked how tall I was REALLY and I realised I was busted.

Me: I’m 1 metre 88 centimetres

Him: oh cool (beat…) Hey! That’s 6″2″!

Give. Me. Strength.

Sometimes you see a username and unlike all the ‘sexybigboy4U’ nonsense it gives you a little bit of hope. I clocked a message late last night and was pleasantly surprised because I thought the username was a subtle head nod to one of my favourite TV shows, ‘Community’ but in an effort to play it cool I didn’t open it and went off to sleep.


‘_cool_cool’ turned out to be anything but. His late night message of ‘cant sleep at all lol hows u?’ (grammar model’s own) was a thinly veiled booty call and so because I hadn’t replied immediately he blocked me. I’m heartbroken, honestly. How will I cope, life can’t go on, wah wah wah etc. My broken heart was mended slightly by the next love missive, because really who doesn’t want to be told they’re as rare as a diamond? Knowing my luck though I’d be a conflict diamond with a bloody past explored by Leo Di Caprio with a dodgy accent in a Hollywood blockbuster.

Brightest creation

From there it got more promising (and thankfully, less cheesy) with a question I could probably write an essay on…

John Hughes

Surely it has to be Jake Ryan turning up at the church where Samantha Baker is wearing an 80’s heinous bridesmaids dress and flower crown? The ball achingly awkward chat on the street before they end up sat on a table sharing a kiss over her birthday cake? *Chandler voice* Could that BE any more perfect? (answers on a postcard please) Also, massive hat tip to Long Duk Dong for, well, being Long Duk Dong *heart eyes emoji*

Then came an offer I… well, I COULD refuse. I’m a one man woman, and let’s face it he doesn’t just want someone who can play with other guys when she wants. He wants someone who can play with other guys when she wants… as long as he can watch whilst deep breathing and frigging himself off in the corner of the room.  And I’m not about that life.

Play away


I’m also not about getting messages which sound like the start of a cover letter for a job application – it is NOT hard work dating me, no matter what you may have heard to the contrary. I mean ‘Tell me again about being a sustainability champion’ is hardly pillow talk is it.


I know, sexy right? *Fans self* And to round off this wander through my inbox let me present Mr Tally Ho:

British 1

High Tea at Harrods? Yes. Mapping each other’s personal psychology? Heck NO. You do NOT need to know the inner workings of my psyche until, well until never really. That’s a surefire passion killer amirite? And to just confirm that us Brits are nothing more than a stereotype:

British 3

So internet friends, which would YOU pick?

Bieber 2008 

Is it getting any better? Is. It. Fuck. 

I know it’s expecting miracles but I thought that perhaps sticking it out on a couple of dating sites would weed out the weirdos and bring out someone even slightly my type. 

I’m not being proved right so far… 

There was this witty raconteur – I’d imagine he would hold everyone’s attention wherever we went, regaling stories of derring-dos, heroism, and romance. He’d drive an Aston Martin and drink his Martini shaken, not stirred. 

Orrrrrrrr not. 

I thought the cop out message was “Hi” but that seems like making a concerted effort compared to this. 

Then from the, no I can’t call that message sublime so we’re going from the ridiculous to the… more ridiculous. The dating site equivalent of War and Peace sent by someone who thinks he’s trying to be quirky. He isn’t. 

Now, is he talking about her bringing her emotional baggage into the new relationship? Or about literally bringing him into it in a ménage a trois situation because either way, WHY WOULD I WANT TO GIVE YOU ADVICE ABOUT IT?! 

He continues. 

You want to come with me? How did you know I was about to run screaming in the opposite direction?! 

If you want to delete her mate then that is your call. But from the pitch you’re making, I draw two conclusions. 

1) You love game playing.

2) You think you’re going to awaken some competitive side to me like “oooh those crazy bitches think they stand a chance, lemme show them“. 

RE: number one – no thank you. 

RE: number two – I am competitive but not for this, thanks anyway. 

Asking me if I was in a relationship before and why it didn’t work out is a brave move, although STUPID. 

“Yeah I was in a relationship before but he took too long to reply to a message so I boiled his pet rabbit.”

“I’m a satanist; he couldn’t cope with all the blood.”

“He looked at another woman so I chopped up all his clothes.”

Part of me is tempted to reply with one of the above scenarios which most definitely are not real (to me at least). That will open a dialogue and I’m not sure I can cope with more enforced zaniness. 

Then this man got in touch and I got my comeuppance… 

What shit hair thought I, it’s like a greasy Justin Bieber circa 2008. 

And then I opened his message. 

And that told me.