This month, I made a bit of a deal with the big fella up above. No not Step Dad Danger, but the big man himself, The Big G. Now, by no means am I a religious women, but I was bought up a hymn singing, church going, good little C Of E school girl, so every now and again old habits re-appear. On this occasion, I made a little request to the Big Fella, and said if he helped out a friend, I'd give up something for lent. At first, this was going to be chocolate, but then we had a hazelnut choccie cake at a meeting, so that was quickly changed to Diet Coke. That went out the window at lunch. The Big Fella was probably despairing at my lack of will power at this point and deciding to reverse his good nature. So I did the unthinkable and gave up men for lent.
Yes, Lady Danger has given up men - this includes dating; sharking; and horizontal dancing. And I have to say, its a bit crap, but I am managing. (Just). Anyway, it has got me thinking about life, and love, and how much it can all change in a year. So I need to be more savy. In a years time, there is every chance I could be loved up and on my way down the aisle....For those who mock this, think about where you were a year ago, and how quickly things change. Did Cheryl think her Ashley would have shagged a minging hairdresser and text pics of himself in his pants to random girls? (FYI - rookie error doing it on nights he was supposed to be watching her on X Factor - double "doh"). Did anyone ever think Mr High Pants himself, Simon Cowell, would get married? And who thought that Katie and Peter would split, and she'd marry a cross dressing cage fighter in Vegas? (Certainly not her agent, who is rubbing his hands together in glee, and skipping to the bank with a big smile on his face). So with this in mind, I've decided to get tactical, and have a plan as to what Lady Danger should be looking for in men, to be Mr Danger potential.
Oddly, a few sites came up when I Googled "what to look for in a husband" - more than a few actually. Advice on what we women should look for is slightly diverse and at times very businesslike. But here are the 4 steps to finding the man who will become your lobster and "complete you" (I have been watching far too many rom coms of late - please excuse me, but I have to have something to fill the time normally allocated to Internet dating - blame the Big Fella, not me). Apparently, this site reckons that finding a husband is like matching shoes to an outfit....a concern for me considering today myself and Kaz bought the exact same shoes, on the same day, in a different town. I don't share.
Anyway, I digress....Here is what I assume an American site has suggested we look for....
Step One:
"Think outside the box. You know that box--the one that holds the journal you wrote when you were a pre-teen and lay next to your dollhouse, gazing at the newly re-arranged furniture and decided what your future mate would look like, smell like, talk like. The sky-rocketing divorce statistics show that we don't always choose the one that best suits us, but rather choose the one who looks the best. A recent magazine survey showed that only 44 percent of the 3,000 married women who were surveyed said they would marry their husbands a second time."
LD Says:
Now, I have a few boxes, but I don't recall ever gazing into a dolls house (we were too poor - I used to use the book shelves in my bedroom for my dolls. The furniture was made by my older sister with the aid of Blue Peter - you may say AHHHH at this point). However, when I was considering what my future mate would look like, I had a weird list that included over the years: Craig Logan from Bros; Jon McIntyre from NKOTB; Nick Berry who plated Wicksy in Eastenders (later in Hartbeat); and Tom Cruise (Top gun and Cocktail, NOT Days Of Thunder). I'm no dimwit, I'm never going to date these men - and now I think about it, other than a young TC, I wouldn't touch the originals, let alone someone who looked like them. So for me, Step One is complete - yes! Awesome work.(I'm assuming this step only includes those we lusted after as kids, and not therefore when I now sit gazing into my framed picture of GB, muttering sweet nothings it doesn't count? Yes? Good).
Step Two
"Find a man who has the same moral values, social skills, political affiliations and financial status as you. This will make your march down the aisle a lot smoother."
LD Says:
Rigggggght. OK. Hmmm. Same social skills as me. OK, so they will not be able to handle their drink very well, and fall over / streak / talk shite after a few. Not the normal qualities I search for, but I'll get onboard. Morals? Lets not go there shall we? The Big Fella might be listening. Political affiliations depends on the level of wine consumed, but standard is Conservative - fairly normal on that one. However I have been known to call Mugabe a nutty twat, and voice my drunken opinions on Bush and 9/11 to anyone that'll listen. If your a Yank in my presence, you have no hope. Financial status - there aren't too many men who went on a massive shoe shopping expedition between the ages of 18-26, only to be left with a debt of a small country. If there are, I'm sure they are called Tarquin and have dated my cousin - the line dancer / DJ / huge queen. I'm struggling on Step Two. It started so well. Damn.
Step Three:
"Avoid the drop-dead gorgeous brawny man. Men with muscular physiques were rated nearly twice as sexy as non-muscular men, but they were also rated twice as intimidating and dominant. "Most women wouldn't choose to marry Brad Pitt because he has so many short-term dating opportunities," researcher David Frederick concluded after conducting a study of 300 college women. He found most women believe that someone that good-looking would not remain faithful to them. "The average woman would probably go for the Ray Romano guy as the long-term marriage partner," he said."
LD says:
Right, firstly, who the fuckety fuck did this survey? Ray Romano from Everybody Loves Raymond over the Pitt-meister?! Obviously he would cheat - he's taken for one thing. Now, I like a big guy, sorry, I don't want Arnie, but a there's something to say for a man who can throw you on the bed and later fix your fridge. Scrawny = booooooorrrrinnnng. I want a big man who can take on the LD and win! It's got to happen one day. (FYI - I once actually had a scary dream that I was Arnie's girlfriend. We broke up whilst on a plane. I asked him to give up body building for me, and he said no. WTF I'd been smoking that caused that dream, I'll never know).
Step Four
"Be smart. Choose a husband who is at least as intelligent as you. Marriage expert Dr. Willard F. Harley, Jr. writes, "You and he should be roughly equivalent in intelligence, within about 15 IQ points. "
LD Says:
My husband will have to have an extensive knowledge of the following to match my IQ....films, film stars, film stars relationships, Big Brother, Emmerdale, Hollyoaks, Eastenders, Corrie, Harry Potter, shoes, Love Actually, and Benefit makeup. Otherwise, no hope. Working for GB as his PA would add bonus points. Or just knowing his phone number.
OK, four steps, and we have a husband ladies and gentlemen...a winner. To summarize, I need to find a non-brawny man, who has extensive knowledge about Corrie, celebs and shoes (which he will as he owns so many); who isn't Brad Pitt or Nick Berry, who has loose morals (sorry Big Fella) and falls over when drunk. To say I'm not willing to compromise, would be the mother of all understatements if I go after this man...and I'm more concerned that he is actually out there! For now, until he appears (which will most probably on Crime Watch) I will keep day dreaming about GB and how we will bump into each other and fall madly in lust....I may have to start a new box, and get a Hollywood dollshouse.
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
I Did Not Have Sexual Relations With That Woman
"I did not have sexual relations with that women" - Bill Clinton. "Iraq has weapons of mass destruction" - Tony Blair. "I've discovered America!" - Christopher Columbus (OK, not a direct quote). Three examples of lies, exaggerations, and "truths" that men have used over the years to convince the world they are innocent, just, or have made a momentous discovery. These three were pretty big lies, and all were caught out, and made in history to look like total dicks. There is no denying, that men dislike the truth like cats dislike water. Granted, it's not totally impossible to find a cat that likes a bath, or a man who knows how to tell the truth, but men seem to have a alarm button in their brain that makes sense leave, and the lies come into play.
Over the years I've born the brunt of some classic lies, as have we all. How many times have we been told "they'd run out of your magazine" = " I was too busy looking sneakily at the porn on the top shelf, that I forgot your copy of Heat". Or, "I searched and searched and couldn't find the pickle" - you look, and find it straight away in the fridge. Men just seem incapable of admitting they've made an error, and so to save face, they think up a genius lie to through us off the scent. More so I'd like to point out, when in a relationship situation.
The big nose twat monkey (with bad hair) that I went out with a few years ago, was a prime example of such a man. His lying abilities were pretty good, and at the time, he had me hook line and sinker. Thankfully he and I parted, but some of his classic lies stay with me. Over the years I have learnt what the truth of the matter was. Some of the following are examples of Big Noses' corkers; some are from the array of other knob jockeys I have had the misfortune to date over the years....
"My ex is a serious nutter". Meaning - "My ex was seriously pissed off with me when we broke up. She'd discovered that I was a lying toe bag, who had been sleeping with her sister, and really flipped out. She threw a drink over me; told me I was shite in bed; that my collection of Sharpe on DVD was sad; and that my sex face was really, really ugly. She is obviously mad, as I am blatantly amazing in bed (her sister told me), and I love Sharpe. He rules the seas".
"I like independent women". Meaning - "I like uncomplicated women. Someone who won't want me to discuss our relationship, or feelings. An independent women will sleep with me, but bugger off when I'm out on the lash with the boys. And she won't mind if I don't come home, (I'll be shagging her sister), because we will have our own space and therefore she won't know. Yeah, independent women rock".
"I've done some thinking. I was wrong". Meaning - "FUCKKKKKKKK. There's no way round this one. I've blamed her period, and it's not for weeks. I've said she's being irrational, and she looked really annoyed. I've said sorry, it's not my fault. That didn't work either. Fuck a duck, I will have to do the unthinkable and pretend it is my fault. Or I'm getting no sex. I'll not get a good nights sleep on that sofa, and we're playing The Red Lion at footie Sunday and I need to be on form. Great, I'll have to take one for the team. But I'm not wrong. No, really, I'm not. It wasn't my fault I forgot her birthday. We've only been going out 2 years. And she didn't write it in the diary she gave me for Christmas like she usually does. Her fault all the way. I just can't work out how."
"I wanted to be honest with you. I don't like cheaters". Meaning - "Oh crap. I hope she buys this. She is blatantly going to find out I've been shagging the barmaid from the pub. Especially now I've caught chlamydia. And she's probably got it. But if I dump her now, she'll respect me, and hopefully get drunk and sleep with someone who she will then think gave it to her. Nice - maybe I can get one of the lads to help me? Hmmm, worth a thought."
"I think we need to take a break". Meaning - "I'm hoping that the girl I met last weekend when you were being "independent" puts out. If we're on a break, I can work out if she's better than you, and not feel guilty. If she's not, I can turn on the charm, tell you I missed you, and I was wrong, and you'll be so grateful that you might do that thing I've been trying to get you to do in the bedroom. If not, hopefully the other bird will. She had the look of someone who'd be up for it".
"My girlfriend / wife and I don't connect anymore. Not like me and you". Meaning - "I really really want to sleep with you. Her at home is has her monthly curse and is being a right hormonal cow bag, and wouldn't put out last weekend. And she got cross that I didn't wash up, and forgot her birthday, and gave her chlamydia. But you seem nice and independent, and if I tell you you and I connect, you will probably sleep with me. And if I add a double lie and tell her I'm not sleeping with the girlfriend / wife anymore, then I'll defo be on a winner".
"I'm not looking for anything serious". Meaning - "I'm not looking for anything serious with you. My mum doesn't like you (and she's my best friend) and the lads at the pub call you fat arse. You've asked me to be your plus one at your mates wedding and that's way too much commitment. God, I wish I hadn't got drunk and told you I was falling in love with you. It was only because of the beer".
And my all time favourite - "it's not you, it's me". Well, that one is true - you're the knob jockey, not me. Men lie, to get what they want out of us. Men lie to make out that they're not the baddy. Men lie because some of them just can't separate fact from fiction. Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects sums it up perfectly. "The greatest lie the devil ever told was to convince the world he doesn't exist". In this case, the devil is one Big Nose Twat Monkey. We all know one, and I can assure you, the packaging may change, but the lies don't.
Over the years I've born the brunt of some classic lies, as have we all. How many times have we been told "they'd run out of your magazine" = " I was too busy looking sneakily at the porn on the top shelf, that I forgot your copy of Heat". Or, "I searched and searched and couldn't find the pickle" - you look, and find it straight away in the fridge. Men just seem incapable of admitting they've made an error, and so to save face, they think up a genius lie to through us off the scent. More so I'd like to point out, when in a relationship situation.
The big nose twat monkey (with bad hair) that I went out with a few years ago, was a prime example of such a man. His lying abilities were pretty good, and at the time, he had me hook line and sinker. Thankfully he and I parted, but some of his classic lies stay with me. Over the years I have learnt what the truth of the matter was. Some of the following are examples of Big Noses' corkers; some are from the array of other knob jockeys I have had the misfortune to date over the years....
"My ex is a serious nutter". Meaning - "My ex was seriously pissed off with me when we broke up. She'd discovered that I was a lying toe bag, who had been sleeping with her sister, and really flipped out. She threw a drink over me; told me I was shite in bed; that my collection of Sharpe on DVD was sad; and that my sex face was really, really ugly. She is obviously mad, as I am blatantly amazing in bed (her sister told me), and I love Sharpe. He rules the seas".
"I like independent women". Meaning - "I like uncomplicated women. Someone who won't want me to discuss our relationship, or feelings. An independent women will sleep with me, but bugger off when I'm out on the lash with the boys. And she won't mind if I don't come home, (I'll be shagging her sister), because we will have our own space and therefore she won't know. Yeah, independent women rock".
"I've done some thinking. I was wrong". Meaning - "FUCKKKKKKKK. There's no way round this one. I've blamed her period, and it's not for weeks. I've said she's being irrational, and she looked really annoyed. I've said sorry, it's not my fault. That didn't work either. Fuck a duck, I will have to do the unthinkable and pretend it is my fault. Or I'm getting no sex. I'll not get a good nights sleep on that sofa, and we're playing The Red Lion at footie Sunday and I need to be on form. Great, I'll have to take one for the team. But I'm not wrong. No, really, I'm not. It wasn't my fault I forgot her birthday. We've only been going out 2 years. And she didn't write it in the diary she gave me for Christmas like she usually does. Her fault all the way. I just can't work out how."
"I wanted to be honest with you. I don't like cheaters". Meaning - "Oh crap. I hope she buys this. She is blatantly going to find out I've been shagging the barmaid from the pub. Especially now I've caught chlamydia. And she's probably got it. But if I dump her now, she'll respect me, and hopefully get drunk and sleep with someone who she will then think gave it to her. Nice - maybe I can get one of the lads to help me? Hmmm, worth a thought."
"I think we need to take a break". Meaning - "I'm hoping that the girl I met last weekend when you were being "independent" puts out. If we're on a break, I can work out if she's better than you, and not feel guilty. If she's not, I can turn on the charm, tell you I missed you, and I was wrong, and you'll be so grateful that you might do that thing I've been trying to get you to do in the bedroom. If not, hopefully the other bird will. She had the look of someone who'd be up for it".
"My girlfriend / wife and I don't connect anymore. Not like me and you". Meaning - "I really really want to sleep with you. Her at home is has her monthly curse and is being a right hormonal cow bag, and wouldn't put out last weekend. And she got cross that I didn't wash up, and forgot her birthday, and gave her chlamydia. But you seem nice and independent, and if I tell you you and I connect, you will probably sleep with me. And if I add a double lie and tell her I'm not sleeping with the girlfriend / wife anymore, then I'll defo be on a winner".
"I'm not looking for anything serious". Meaning - "I'm not looking for anything serious with you. My mum doesn't like you (and she's my best friend) and the lads at the pub call you fat arse. You've asked me to be your plus one at your mates wedding and that's way too much commitment. God, I wish I hadn't got drunk and told you I was falling in love with you. It was only because of the beer".
And my all time favourite - "it's not you, it's me". Well, that one is true - you're the knob jockey, not me. Men lie, to get what they want out of us. Men lie to make out that they're not the baddy. Men lie because some of them just can't separate fact from fiction. Kevin Spacey in The Usual Suspects sums it up perfectly. "The greatest lie the devil ever told was to convince the world he doesn't exist". In this case, the devil is one Big Nose Twat Monkey. We all know one, and I can assure you, the packaging may change, but the lies don't.
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
And The Winner Is.....
The Brit Awards are this year, the grand old age of 30. It's been a rocky road over the years - we'll never forget Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox's awful attempt at presenting; Jarvis Cocker storming the stage whilst Jacko saved the planet, or Cheryl Coles appalling lip syncing this year. But it has inspired me. Last year was an all time low for dating disasters, and I really feel that these dates should be recognised for their utter crapness and hilarity. So I give you - The Danger Awards 2010. Looking back on a year of horrific dating, and saluting the winners and loosers in each catagory......
So here we are, welcome to year one. I am your host for the ceremony, Miss Lady Danger, and will be taking you through this years awards, guests, and winners.
Let's begin with tonights first award -
Worst Anti-Climax 2010
Here to present the award, is my good comrade, Kaz (TL). Kaz has been at the heart of many a night out discussing the terribleness of my dates, and is proud to be presenting tonights first award. If this was a real ceremony, Kaz (TL), would sweep onto stage, looking rather gorgeous in a slinky strapless number, with a G&T in hand....but it's my diverse imagination, so we'll say Robbie Williams' sernading her as she walks toward the stage.
"Tonights nominees for Worst Anti Climax 2010 are as follows" - Says the rather cool calm, and gin fuelled Kaz....
1) The Paramedic for the worlds crappest lunch date after two years...(claps)
2) The Fireman for the worlds most disappointing dress up / bunk up....(sniggers and claps)
And
3) The Policeman for being Welsh and not the South African he'd told me he was...(claps and nods of knowingness).
"And the winner is........The Fireman, for the worlds most disappointing dress up / bunk up".
A worthy winner ladies and gentlemen. The Fireman was met last Summer at a mutual friends wedding. I'd been roped in as a plus one, and myself and HH were placed on a table of 10 single men. (Playing with fire right there). It was a fun table. With the stealing of excessive wine and champgane from other tables, the book we had running on numerous speeches, and general drunkness, mayhem and mischief was bound to ensue. In my case, it was pulling a young whipper snapper fireman. (For the first hour I thought he was a farmer as his accent was a bit Souuuuuth London and I hadn't heard him properly - did think it was weird as he was from Bromley, but thought he must have a city farm. Piss taking did, and still does occur). Anyway, we hooked up a few weeks after the wedding for a bit of "fun". Drinks, snogging, and back to his. Love an uncomplicated life. We'd text before the night, and I'd jokingly suggested he dress up in his firemen outfit for me. THE biggest anti climax in the world. He looked like he was wearing a fancy dress costume too sizes too big, and just stood there like a lemon. There's something to say for an older more confident man. Biggest disappointment of 2010. Fact. He didn't even give me a few sexy cheesy lines - I was expecting a bit of "Do you fancy a go on my pole?" but no such luck.
Our next award is our international catagory of the evening. Presenting the award, is my long suffering friend, who loves the stories of my antics, Miss Irish. Miss Irish, has been there through the years of various international men, so is proud to be asked to present this year...clutching a large whiskey, Miss Irish, will saunter (stagger) up the stairs, after gagging her two angelic looking children...
"Tonights nominess for Worst International Date 2010 are....
1) The Columbian Drug Dealer for I'll sing to you on our date, then pull someone else whilst your in the loo. (Claps).
2) The Scottish / South African for I'll get you trollied and be a complete tool. (Boooos).
3) Pervy Welsh Tim for I'll look nothing like my profile picture and be an annoying Welshmen who treid to feel up your best mates friends tits when they were 18 and he was their boss. I'm now a copper. (A few "we've all been there's").
And the winner is........Pervy Welsh Tim for looking nothing like his profile pic and being awful...
OK, I should have known that this date was going to be a nightmare in advance. For starters, he had one picture up on his internet profile, and in it he was wearing ski goggles. I should've run for the hills but, he reminded me of someone and looked OK (how bad can someones eyes be?!). His choice of location was a local pub - his local. It was like a date in the Woolpack. Anyway, he looked nothing like his picture; was short, and worst, Welsh. I love an accent, and I'm not being all Anne Robinson about our Daffodil loving neighbours, but that accent drives me mad for all the wrong reasons. He'd claimed to be half South African, but there was no hint of the Antipodean. He kept buying me more glasses of wine, to the point I had three in front of me at once, and I discovered a bit more about him. He used to run a local bar, where my friend worked, and he was known as Pervy Tim, as he'd felt up her unwilling friend. When I dated him, he had got to the level of Detective, so had gone further. But from the way he was plying me with wine, he still wanted to cop a feel, and seemed to think that getting his date trashed was the only way to achieve this.(In fairness, I'd have to be passed out for this to happen). Unfortunately the vat of wine he bought me, did nothing to change the fact he was Welsh and a knob end. No Welsh rarebit for me - he can keep his bits at a safe distance thank you very much.
Our third award and biggy of the evening, is the Worst Date Of 2010. To present this award, we have the delectable fellow sharking buddie of mine, HH. HH has literally been through every step of the 2010 dating journey, and actually set me up with one of tonight nominees (and was the one who worked with Pervy Welsh Tim). HH would sweep gracefully up the stairs, martini in hand, followed by the fit door host from last weekend carrying her handbag and Marlborough Lights. (HH is more than capable of presenting this award - her first date in a long time invloved her goregous but dim date asking is tapas was food served in a creamy sauce).
"Tonights nominees for worst date of 2010 are:
1) Dennis The Menace for I'm so boring, and dress like a gay cartoon character / yob. (Claps, and sniggers).
2) The Game Show Host / Keep Smiling for I'm 10 years older than my profile picture, wear a diamante t-shirt and stroke your hand whilst you try and eat. (Big boos and "keep smiling's" shouted from the audience).
3) Alright Mate for I'm so Souuuuth London, that I'll call you "mate" all night and show you a picture of my car, that I keep in my wallet.
And the winner is.....Dennis The Menace for I'm so boring, and I dress like a cartoon character.
Jesus Mary and Jospeh. To say this date had disaster written all over it, was an insult to disasters. This was the Jedward of dates, accept it wasn't so bad it was good (actually, nor are Jedward, so not sure why I said that). I'd been going through a bad spell on a well known dating website, and was informed by a friend, that I was being too fussy. I like to look for a spark - a funny, witty email, a bit of intrigue and fun. Unfortunately, the most you tend to get on these sites is a boring two line email, saying something mundane. But, I take constructive critisim, and when this guy mailed me, I agreed rather quickly to a date. The day of the date, I quite frankly was having MAJOR cold feet. Yes, his picture was good looking, but he had the charm of a sewer rat, and the intelligence of a Big Brother contestant. I text him and cried off the date, and settled down for a night of Christmas card writing and Stevey The TV. 7.40pm a text came through saying he was on route to the bar we were meeting in..."WTF?" was my reply....His phone was playing up and he hadn't got my text. After a lot of umming and ahhhing, I jumped in my little car and sped through the night. As I walked in the bar, I was shocked by what I saw. Firstly, my mates were out on a Christmas party. Secondly, my date was sat there wearing a black and red striped, tight, jumper, looking like Dennis The Menace. Torn between who to talk to first, I waved at my friends, and addressed my date, who at this point jumped off his bar stool. Oh dear God. He was my height, in heels (me in heels, not him). He was DULL as dishwater, to the point we discussed holidays. I spent 2 hours texting my friends asking them to save me. The highlight of the date was a drunk fireman on a night out, sitting with us and talking shite for 30 mins, before he acknowledged he was in fact drinking candle wax and had left his drink at the bar. When Dennis left, he put on a Stone Island jacket (indicating he supports Millwall) and a silk, purple, spotty scarf. Mixed with the Dennis jumper, this was a lethal combination, and led me to believe he is a gay, cartoon character, football yob. I never replied to any of his future messages, and decided that never again would I not follow my instincts. It was 4 hours of my life I'll never get back. I should sue my friend for poor advice. It was more painful than sitting through the film Nine. At least then I got to sleep.
The last award of this evening is for the Life Time Unachievement Award. There were a few nominees for this catagory, but I think there was always going to be one winner. And as host of the evening, I feel it my honour and duty to present it personally.
The winner has been a prize knob jockey over the years, but last year surpassed himself in awfulness. As a taken man, trying to sleep with Lady Danger consistently over the last 3 years has been pretty funny to be a part of. How much rejection can one person take? Seemingly, a hell of a lot.I hope his girlfriend sees sense, gets an STD test (I'm all clear thankfully), and his little man drops off. His only achievement in life, is that he'll never be happy and fulfilled because he has no idea how to connect with one women - he likes to "connect" with as many as humanly possible it seems. So the Life Time Achievement Award goes to my horrendous ex, who will be so happy to have been mentioned, Big Nose Bad Hair Twat Monkey. May 2010 lead to me never being so desparate, that I think you're a good option. I'd rather a million more shite dates and thus 2011 nominees, than spend a night with him.
And so, to all the single men out there - please don't end up in the nominations for The Danger Awards 2011 - I'd like some better luck this year please! I know you have to shovel through the shit to find the diamond, but my spades getting rusty and I've got arms like Popeye...
So here we are, welcome to year one. I am your host for the ceremony, Miss Lady Danger, and will be taking you through this years awards, guests, and winners.
Let's begin with tonights first award -
Worst Anti-Climax 2010
Here to present the award, is my good comrade, Kaz (TL). Kaz has been at the heart of many a night out discussing the terribleness of my dates, and is proud to be presenting tonights first award. If this was a real ceremony, Kaz (TL), would sweep onto stage, looking rather gorgeous in a slinky strapless number, with a G&T in hand....but it's my diverse imagination, so we'll say Robbie Williams' sernading her as she walks toward the stage.
"Tonights nominees for Worst Anti Climax 2010 are as follows" - Says the rather cool calm, and gin fuelled Kaz....
1) The Paramedic for the worlds crappest lunch date after two years...(claps)
2) The Fireman for the worlds most disappointing dress up / bunk up....(sniggers and claps)
And
3) The Policeman for being Welsh and not the South African he'd told me he was...(claps and nods of knowingness).
"And the winner is........The Fireman, for the worlds most disappointing dress up / bunk up".
A worthy winner ladies and gentlemen. The Fireman was met last Summer at a mutual friends wedding. I'd been roped in as a plus one, and myself and HH were placed on a table of 10 single men. (Playing with fire right there). It was a fun table. With the stealing of excessive wine and champgane from other tables, the book we had running on numerous speeches, and general drunkness, mayhem and mischief was bound to ensue. In my case, it was pulling a young whipper snapper fireman. (For the first hour I thought he was a farmer as his accent was a bit Souuuuuth London and I hadn't heard him properly - did think it was weird as he was from Bromley, but thought he must have a city farm. Piss taking did, and still does occur). Anyway, we hooked up a few weeks after the wedding for a bit of "fun". Drinks, snogging, and back to his. Love an uncomplicated life. We'd text before the night, and I'd jokingly suggested he dress up in his firemen outfit for me. THE biggest anti climax in the world. He looked like he was wearing a fancy dress costume too sizes too big, and just stood there like a lemon. There's something to say for an older more confident man. Biggest disappointment of 2010. Fact. He didn't even give me a few sexy cheesy lines - I was expecting a bit of "Do you fancy a go on my pole?" but no such luck.
Our next award is our international catagory of the evening. Presenting the award, is my long suffering friend, who loves the stories of my antics, Miss Irish. Miss Irish, has been there through the years of various international men, so is proud to be asked to present this year...clutching a large whiskey, Miss Irish, will saunter (stagger) up the stairs, after gagging her two angelic looking children...
"Tonights nominess for Worst International Date 2010 are....
1) The Columbian Drug Dealer for I'll sing to you on our date, then pull someone else whilst your in the loo. (Claps).
2) The Scottish / South African for I'll get you trollied and be a complete tool. (Boooos).
3) Pervy Welsh Tim for I'll look nothing like my profile picture and be an annoying Welshmen who treid to feel up your best mates friends tits when they were 18 and he was their boss. I'm now a copper. (A few "we've all been there's").
And the winner is........Pervy Welsh Tim for looking nothing like his profile pic and being awful...
OK, I should have known that this date was going to be a nightmare in advance. For starters, he had one picture up on his internet profile, and in it he was wearing ski goggles. I should've run for the hills but, he reminded me of someone and looked OK (how bad can someones eyes be?!). His choice of location was a local pub - his local. It was like a date in the Woolpack. Anyway, he looked nothing like his picture; was short, and worst, Welsh. I love an accent, and I'm not being all Anne Robinson about our Daffodil loving neighbours, but that accent drives me mad for all the wrong reasons. He'd claimed to be half South African, but there was no hint of the Antipodean. He kept buying me more glasses of wine, to the point I had three in front of me at once, and I discovered a bit more about him. He used to run a local bar, where my friend worked, and he was known as Pervy Tim, as he'd felt up her unwilling friend. When I dated him, he had got to the level of Detective, so had gone further. But from the way he was plying me with wine, he still wanted to cop a feel, and seemed to think that getting his date trashed was the only way to achieve this.(In fairness, I'd have to be passed out for this to happen). Unfortunately the vat of wine he bought me, did nothing to change the fact he was Welsh and a knob end. No Welsh rarebit for me - he can keep his bits at a safe distance thank you very much.
Our third award and biggy of the evening, is the Worst Date Of 2010. To present this award, we have the delectable fellow sharking buddie of mine, HH. HH has literally been through every step of the 2010 dating journey, and actually set me up with one of tonight nominees (and was the one who worked with Pervy Welsh Tim). HH would sweep gracefully up the stairs, martini in hand, followed by the fit door host from last weekend carrying her handbag and Marlborough Lights. (HH is more than capable of presenting this award - her first date in a long time invloved her goregous but dim date asking is tapas was food served in a creamy sauce).
"Tonights nominees for worst date of 2010 are:
1) Dennis The Menace for I'm so boring, and dress like a gay cartoon character / yob. (Claps, and sniggers).
2) The Game Show Host / Keep Smiling for I'm 10 years older than my profile picture, wear a diamante t-shirt and stroke your hand whilst you try and eat. (Big boos and "keep smiling's" shouted from the audience).
3) Alright Mate for I'm so Souuuuth London, that I'll call you "mate" all night and show you a picture of my car, that I keep in my wallet.
And the winner is.....Dennis The Menace for I'm so boring, and I dress like a cartoon character.
Jesus Mary and Jospeh. To say this date had disaster written all over it, was an insult to disasters. This was the Jedward of dates, accept it wasn't so bad it was good (actually, nor are Jedward, so not sure why I said that). I'd been going through a bad spell on a well known dating website, and was informed by a friend, that I was being too fussy. I like to look for a spark - a funny, witty email, a bit of intrigue and fun. Unfortunately, the most you tend to get on these sites is a boring two line email, saying something mundane. But, I take constructive critisim, and when this guy mailed me, I agreed rather quickly to a date. The day of the date, I quite frankly was having MAJOR cold feet. Yes, his picture was good looking, but he had the charm of a sewer rat, and the intelligence of a Big Brother contestant. I text him and cried off the date, and settled down for a night of Christmas card writing and Stevey The TV. 7.40pm a text came through saying he was on route to the bar we were meeting in..."WTF?" was my reply....His phone was playing up and he hadn't got my text. After a lot of umming and ahhhing, I jumped in my little car and sped through the night. As I walked in the bar, I was shocked by what I saw. Firstly, my mates were out on a Christmas party. Secondly, my date was sat there wearing a black and red striped, tight, jumper, looking like Dennis The Menace. Torn between who to talk to first, I waved at my friends, and addressed my date, who at this point jumped off his bar stool. Oh dear God. He was my height, in heels (me in heels, not him). He was DULL as dishwater, to the point we discussed holidays. I spent 2 hours texting my friends asking them to save me. The highlight of the date was a drunk fireman on a night out, sitting with us and talking shite for 30 mins, before he acknowledged he was in fact drinking candle wax and had left his drink at the bar. When Dennis left, he put on a Stone Island jacket (indicating he supports Millwall) and a silk, purple, spotty scarf. Mixed with the Dennis jumper, this was a lethal combination, and led me to believe he is a gay, cartoon character, football yob. I never replied to any of his future messages, and decided that never again would I not follow my instincts. It was 4 hours of my life I'll never get back. I should sue my friend for poor advice. It was more painful than sitting through the film Nine. At least then I got to sleep.
The last award of this evening is for the Life Time Unachievement Award. There were a few nominees for this catagory, but I think there was always going to be one winner. And as host of the evening, I feel it my honour and duty to present it personally.
The winner has been a prize knob jockey over the years, but last year surpassed himself in awfulness. As a taken man, trying to sleep with Lady Danger consistently over the last 3 years has been pretty funny to be a part of. How much rejection can one person take? Seemingly, a hell of a lot.I hope his girlfriend sees sense, gets an STD test (I'm all clear thankfully), and his little man drops off. His only achievement in life, is that he'll never be happy and fulfilled because he has no idea how to connect with one women - he likes to "connect" with as many as humanly possible it seems. So the Life Time Achievement Award goes to my horrendous ex, who will be so happy to have been mentioned, Big Nose Bad Hair Twat Monkey. May 2010 lead to me never being so desparate, that I think you're a good option. I'd rather a million more shite dates and thus 2011 nominees, than spend a night with him.
And so, to all the single men out there - please don't end up in the nominations for The Danger Awards 2011 - I'd like some better luck this year please! I know you have to shovel through the shit to find the diamond, but my spades getting rusty and I've got arms like Popeye...
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Roses Are Red
There are certain days of the year that I love. My birthday. Any Bank Holiday. And my all time favourite - Pancake Day. Then there are those I don't really like. Christmas Day. New Years Day. The day after my birthday when I realise I'm a year older. But the one I loathe and hate, regardless of my relationship status, is Valentines Day. The day that plunges 99% of single women into a wallowing state of depression, where they fantasize about beheading roses, and ripping up teddy bears. (Or is that just me?).
I wouldn't mind, but Valentines day seems to start to be advertised pretty much as soon as the Christmas decorations are down. So the spinsters have the heart shaped chocolate boxes and lovey-dovey card displays, rammed down our throat for 2 months before the hell is upon us. Hallmark and Clintons have a lot to answer for. I imagine them living in a Wille Wonka style pink and red factory with little pink oompa lumpa elves skipping and holding hands whilst making up roses are red poems....Meanwhile, in the office on the top floor, the spinster hating valentines devil (heart shaped horns), rubs his hands together, thinking how many single women he will make miserable this year. (One day he will be stabbed with crochet needles, after being jumped by a crack team of spinster assassins, aided by Catty-kins and Fluffy. Super Noodles will be rammed down his throat).
Even the years I have had a boyfriend, it's been an overwhelming disappointment. One year, my dick head boyfriend asked me the address of my work. Subtle? No. When the bunch of red roses arrived, I wasn't overcome with happiness - i was pissed off I had to carry them home on a packed number 73 bus. Then as we had no vase, I had to display them in a Homer Simpson pint glass belonging to our flatmate Jase. Another year, I was bought a huge white fluffy cat. This was when I was the tender age of 16 and hadn't embraced my inner cat lady, and had a gorgeous mongrel dog. The fluffy white cat (which I'm sure was bought from a local news agents) had to be hidden away as my mongrel dog beat the shit out of it whenever he saw it. Mum was worried he'd choke on the fur, so it got hidden in the roof. (Ironically years later we discovered a family of mice living in it - the cat wasn't having a lot of luck, but I enjoyed the irony). Then the last Valentines I was courting, my boyfriend of 2 years bought me a work out DVD, a lighter for the gas hob (sweet in a way - I did tend to burn my fingers) and the greatest hits of Barry White. This was the second time he'd bought me a CD by the walrus of love, and I never knew why. I didn't like Barry white. I never mentioned Barry White. But nevertheless, Bazza sat with his other CD on my rack, unopened, until I moved out. Then they got sold at a car boot I think.
But why do we have to be subjected to the day that makes us feel more lonely than George Bush on his birthday? Well, there are a few theories, all related to Christian martyrs. The most likely is as follows (and this will cheer you all up no end) - "Valentine was a holy priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius II. He was apprehended and sent by the emperor to the prefect of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith ineffectual, sentenced him to be beaten with clubs, and afterwards, to be beheaded. This occurred on February 14, around the year 270." So we celebrate a day when a man was beaten and beheaded, by making 50% of the population feel utterly miserable and lonely? Good work.
Chaucer in 1392 bought the love element in, and since then it's snowballed into a commercial bandwagon, which is second in the gift making money world, only to Christmas. £503 million alone will be spent in the UK this month, on one day. The commerciality has definitely meant that Valentines has lost its meaning and magic. A few older traditions do make me laugh though....
•The first man an unmarried woman saw on 14th February would be her future husband - Two guesses what I'll be doing Valentines morning? Yep watching Ugly Truth and gazing at my future husband. Mrs Gerard Butler. Get in.
•If the names of all a girl's suitors were written on paper and wrapped in clay and the clay put into water, the piece that rose to the surface first would contain the name of her husband-to-be. Crap bag - that's a lot of paper, and I'm no Demi Moore with the clay. A trip to the Thames maybe in order. I will need volunteers to assist. Watson, Walker, and Bacon, at the ready please.
•If a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine’s Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a rich person. - Christ almighty - I live in the country, what happens if all three are on my lawn together? I marry a sailor, to find he's a bit "hello"; so on the rebound, marry a pauper, but dislike the taste of White Lightening and shopping in Aldi, so divorce him for a richy with Italian brogues. I'm gonna be busy.
•In the Middle Ages, young men and women drew names from a bowl to see who their valentines would be. They would wear these names on their sleeves for one week. - This could lead to a lot of confusion, and I'd look a right tool at work with a bit of paper stuck to my arm. More so than the Celine Dion tattoo. Pass me a biro, it's worth a try.
•In Wales wooden love spoons were carved and given as gifts on February 14th. Hearts, keys and keyholes were favourite decorations on the spoons. The decoration meant, "You unlock my heart!" - Most men can't cut bread straight. My love spoon would more likely mean "alright love, got a bit pissed last night and made you this", at which point a chunk of wood will be presented. It'll be a piece of the neighbours fence, which he broke when he fell over drunk.
This year though, I'm being good. As yet, I have failed to administer my annual warning to my staff - "flowers will have their heads ripped off; fluffy toys too; and I'll ram any chocs into your mouth all at once, until your sick". And I have planned to glam up and go sharking with my favourite spinsters, which will no doubt result in no love matches, but plenty of pink champagne, and tutting at loved up couples. There maybe the odd low flying object - if you're on a date in Covent Garden Saturday, please refrain from public displays of smug affection if you don't want Lady Danger and her clan's disdain. Don't say we didn't warn you.
For now, I'll leave you with a little poem left in my last anonymous Valentine a few years back. It was beautiful. "Roses are red, violets are too, a body like yours, belongs in a zoo". That was sent with no irony, and I believe a slight serious intention. Chaucer would be turning in his grave.
I wouldn't mind, but Valentines day seems to start to be advertised pretty much as soon as the Christmas decorations are down. So the spinsters have the heart shaped chocolate boxes and lovey-dovey card displays, rammed down our throat for 2 months before the hell is upon us. Hallmark and Clintons have a lot to answer for. I imagine them living in a Wille Wonka style pink and red factory with little pink oompa lumpa elves skipping and holding hands whilst making up roses are red poems....Meanwhile, in the office on the top floor, the spinster hating valentines devil (heart shaped horns), rubs his hands together, thinking how many single women he will make miserable this year. (One day he will be stabbed with crochet needles, after being jumped by a crack team of spinster assassins, aided by Catty-kins and Fluffy. Super Noodles will be rammed down his throat).
Even the years I have had a boyfriend, it's been an overwhelming disappointment. One year, my dick head boyfriend asked me the address of my work. Subtle? No. When the bunch of red roses arrived, I wasn't overcome with happiness - i was pissed off I had to carry them home on a packed number 73 bus. Then as we had no vase, I had to display them in a Homer Simpson pint glass belonging to our flatmate Jase. Another year, I was bought a huge white fluffy cat. This was when I was the tender age of 16 and hadn't embraced my inner cat lady, and had a gorgeous mongrel dog. The fluffy white cat (which I'm sure was bought from a local news agents) had to be hidden away as my mongrel dog beat the shit out of it whenever he saw it. Mum was worried he'd choke on the fur, so it got hidden in the roof. (Ironically years later we discovered a family of mice living in it - the cat wasn't having a lot of luck, but I enjoyed the irony). Then the last Valentines I was courting, my boyfriend of 2 years bought me a work out DVD, a lighter for the gas hob (sweet in a way - I did tend to burn my fingers) and the greatest hits of Barry White. This was the second time he'd bought me a CD by the walrus of love, and I never knew why. I didn't like Barry white. I never mentioned Barry White. But nevertheless, Bazza sat with his other CD on my rack, unopened, until I moved out. Then they got sold at a car boot I think.
But why do we have to be subjected to the day that makes us feel more lonely than George Bush on his birthday? Well, there are a few theories, all related to Christian martyrs. The most likely is as follows (and this will cheer you all up no end) - "Valentine was a holy priest in Rome, who, with St. Marius and his family, assisted the martyrs in the persecution under Claudius II. He was apprehended and sent by the emperor to the prefect of Rome, who, on finding all his promises to make him renounce his faith ineffectual, sentenced him to be beaten with clubs, and afterwards, to be beheaded. This occurred on February 14, around the year 270." So we celebrate a day when a man was beaten and beheaded, by making 50% of the population feel utterly miserable and lonely? Good work.
Chaucer in 1392 bought the love element in, and since then it's snowballed into a commercial bandwagon, which is second in the gift making money world, only to Christmas. £503 million alone will be spent in the UK this month, on one day. The commerciality has definitely meant that Valentines has lost its meaning and magic. A few older traditions do make me laugh though....
•The first man an unmarried woman saw on 14th February would be her future husband - Two guesses what I'll be doing Valentines morning? Yep watching Ugly Truth and gazing at my future husband. Mrs Gerard Butler. Get in.
•If the names of all a girl's suitors were written on paper and wrapped in clay and the clay put into water, the piece that rose to the surface first would contain the name of her husband-to-be. Crap bag - that's a lot of paper, and I'm no Demi Moore with the clay. A trip to the Thames maybe in order. I will need volunteers to assist. Watson, Walker, and Bacon, at the ready please.
•If a woman saw a robin flying overhead on Valentine’s Day, it meant she would marry a sailor. If she saw a sparrow, she would marry a poor man and be very happy. If she saw a goldfinch, she would marry a rich person. - Christ almighty - I live in the country, what happens if all three are on my lawn together? I marry a sailor, to find he's a bit "hello"; so on the rebound, marry a pauper, but dislike the taste of White Lightening and shopping in Aldi, so divorce him for a richy with Italian brogues. I'm gonna be busy.
•In the Middle Ages, young men and women drew names from a bowl to see who their valentines would be. They would wear these names on their sleeves for one week. - This could lead to a lot of confusion, and I'd look a right tool at work with a bit of paper stuck to my arm. More so than the Celine Dion tattoo. Pass me a biro, it's worth a try.
•In Wales wooden love spoons were carved and given as gifts on February 14th. Hearts, keys and keyholes were favourite decorations on the spoons. The decoration meant, "You unlock my heart!" - Most men can't cut bread straight. My love spoon would more likely mean "alright love, got a bit pissed last night and made you this", at which point a chunk of wood will be presented. It'll be a piece of the neighbours fence, which he broke when he fell over drunk.
This year though, I'm being good. As yet, I have failed to administer my annual warning to my staff - "flowers will have their heads ripped off; fluffy toys too; and I'll ram any chocs into your mouth all at once, until your sick". And I have planned to glam up and go sharking with my favourite spinsters, which will no doubt result in no love matches, but plenty of pink champagne, and tutting at loved up couples. There maybe the odd low flying object - if you're on a date in Covent Garden Saturday, please refrain from public displays of smug affection if you don't want Lady Danger and her clan's disdain. Don't say we didn't warn you.
For now, I'll leave you with a little poem left in my last anonymous Valentine a few years back. It was beautiful. "Roses are red, violets are too, a body like yours, belongs in a zoo". That was sent with no irony, and I believe a slight serious intention. Chaucer would be turning in his grave.
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
I'm The Only Spinster In The Village
Greta Garbo. Queen Elizabeth 1. Diane Keaton. Helen Keller. Condolezza Rise. Jane Austen. Joan Of Arc. Florence Nightingale. All of these women are top of their profession, and all of these women were, or are spinsters. The one word that sparks fear in every single women of a certain age....
The term "spinster" was originally intended to indicate a woman who spun wool, thereby living independently of a male wage. These women were invariably single and, due to the medieval fear of unmarried women, became correlated with their pagan sisters as witches. Through the years, thousands of spinsters were burned at the stake, or drowned. Fear that a women could be independent, able to live, and be happy without a husband.Society (IE men and scarily, most women of their age) didn't get it - they must be the work of the devil. Centuries on, feminism has changed our opinions, but the majority of single women, whether they admit it or not, are scared of what their single future holds.
Recently, more than normal, my spinster status has become evident due to a series of events. The first event, was my reaction to a happy smoochy couple on the tube. They were sat opposite me, entwined in one another, kissing. Not just full on snogging (which would have annoyed me just as much) but brief, quick "mwah" kisses. I was tired - I'd just finished a 13 hour shift at the day job, but my reaction was one of utter contempt. I tutted without realising. Really loudly. Then followed it up with a "for Gods sake, do you have to?". The couple weren't English, and therefore may not have understood WHAT I was saying, but the scowl and tut were universal. Bitter? Moi? Never. (FYI - it was a major miss-match - he was quite fit in a brooding French way. She had teeth like a horse and a nose that looked like the product of 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. Love maybe blind - in this case it was taking the proverbial piss).
Next, Facebook kicks me in the teeth. Whilst bored and chilling out today, I caught up with a game I play on the book. After farming my crops, and harvesting my animals and trees, a pop up informed me I'd earned the Cat Lady Ribbon. Taking the mick are we Facebook? Think that's funny do you? My friends did when I posted it on my wall - genius in an ironic way.
But the thing that tipped me over the spinster edge, was an innocent chat the other night with my colleague at work. Due to her dumb arse (male) flat mate, the rather gorgeous Miss K has had to move out of her lush flat, and into her fellas Aunties house, until a suitable alternative is found. Whilst on the phone to me, she told me a bit about the nightmare she had encountered. Auntie is a drinker, with a collection of cats. She has no carpets, and her flats a mess. She rarely cooks, and lives on Super Noodles. And seems a tad bitter and twisted. Shocker - she is single, and never been married. At this point, I was sat in bed, thinking I could murder a glass of wine, with my cat on the bed. On the floor was a pile of clothes and general shite I needed to tidy, but couldn't be bothered. Plus the mess was hiding the fact I currently have no carpet in my bedroom. I wasn't eating a bowel of Super Noddles at the time, but lets just say there's a few packs in the pantry. Bugger.
So why are we so down on being single, happy, successful women? We all give the impression that we are happy with our status - proud to be self sufficient and not have to answer to anyone else. But really we are scared to death. Scared we will end up a crazy cat lady. Scared we will be mocked by society. Scared people will think there's something wrong with us. Scared that in 30 years time, we will be Susan Boyle without the talent, and like the great Miss Garbo, we will "want to be alone". Our families will know us only as "the mad great aunt" and will never visit. (Unless they think we have some cash and they might get it in our will - but being cat lovers, we will have left it all to Fluffy and Catty-kins anyway). We will eat only custard, wear battered old clothes, and local kids will play knock-knock ginger on our doors. But we will at least have the knowledge that we never settled for some half witt idiot who would've made us unhappy, and we did it our way. We will have many more funny stories to tell of our adventures than those we went to school with, who were too frightened to wait, and married Mr First-to-ask.
I personally will be retiring to Florida in my latter spinster years (beats knock konck ginger hands down) with my rather gorgeous ex-boss. We will smoke and drink cocktails in the sun, wearing rather dapper sun hats, whilst perving on the pool boy. By this time Gerard Butler will be 70 and unable to run as fast as me, thus be easier to catch. Admittedly his six pack will be a distant memory, but my rack will be by my knees, so sacrifices will be made on both sides. I will have my day in the sun, and if it's not in a wedding dress, I can live with it.....I can't however live without Puss Cat Danger, or my Super Noodles.
NB: I mate of mine called whilst I was writing this (Pam - you can blame her for the time this took), and pointed out my list of famous single women contains mainly bloody scary ones. A fair point - the great SJP as Carrie did once say "It’s like the riddle of the Sphinx… why are there so many great unmarried women, and no great unmarried men?". Because only women can live with greatness and not feel threatened maybe? Just a thought.....
The term "spinster" was originally intended to indicate a woman who spun wool, thereby living independently of a male wage. These women were invariably single and, due to the medieval fear of unmarried women, became correlated with their pagan sisters as witches. Through the years, thousands of spinsters were burned at the stake, or drowned. Fear that a women could be independent, able to live, and be happy without a husband.Society (IE men and scarily, most women of their age) didn't get it - they must be the work of the devil. Centuries on, feminism has changed our opinions, but the majority of single women, whether they admit it or not, are scared of what their single future holds.
Recently, more than normal, my spinster status has become evident due to a series of events. The first event, was my reaction to a happy smoochy couple on the tube. They were sat opposite me, entwined in one another, kissing. Not just full on snogging (which would have annoyed me just as much) but brief, quick "mwah" kisses. I was tired - I'd just finished a 13 hour shift at the day job, but my reaction was one of utter contempt. I tutted without realising. Really loudly. Then followed it up with a "for Gods sake, do you have to?". The couple weren't English, and therefore may not have understood WHAT I was saying, but the scowl and tut were universal. Bitter? Moi? Never. (FYI - it was a major miss-match - he was quite fit in a brooding French way. She had teeth like a horse and a nose that looked like the product of 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. Love maybe blind - in this case it was taking the proverbial piss).
Next, Facebook kicks me in the teeth. Whilst bored and chilling out today, I caught up with a game I play on the book. After farming my crops, and harvesting my animals and trees, a pop up informed me I'd earned the Cat Lady Ribbon. Taking the mick are we Facebook? Think that's funny do you? My friends did when I posted it on my wall - genius in an ironic way.
But the thing that tipped me over the spinster edge, was an innocent chat the other night with my colleague at work. Due to her dumb arse (male) flat mate, the rather gorgeous Miss K has had to move out of her lush flat, and into her fellas Aunties house, until a suitable alternative is found. Whilst on the phone to me, she told me a bit about the nightmare she had encountered. Auntie is a drinker, with a collection of cats. She has no carpets, and her flats a mess. She rarely cooks, and lives on Super Noodles. And seems a tad bitter and twisted. Shocker - she is single, and never been married. At this point, I was sat in bed, thinking I could murder a glass of wine, with my cat on the bed. On the floor was a pile of clothes and general shite I needed to tidy, but couldn't be bothered. Plus the mess was hiding the fact I currently have no carpet in my bedroom. I wasn't eating a bowel of Super Noddles at the time, but lets just say there's a few packs in the pantry. Bugger.
So why are we so down on being single, happy, successful women? We all give the impression that we are happy with our status - proud to be self sufficient and not have to answer to anyone else. But really we are scared to death. Scared we will end up a crazy cat lady. Scared we will be mocked by society. Scared people will think there's something wrong with us. Scared that in 30 years time, we will be Susan Boyle without the talent, and like the great Miss Garbo, we will "want to be alone". Our families will know us only as "the mad great aunt" and will never visit. (Unless they think we have some cash and they might get it in our will - but being cat lovers, we will have left it all to Fluffy and Catty-kins anyway). We will eat only custard, wear battered old clothes, and local kids will play knock-knock ginger on our doors. But we will at least have the knowledge that we never settled for some half witt idiot who would've made us unhappy, and we did it our way. We will have many more funny stories to tell of our adventures than those we went to school with, who were too frightened to wait, and married Mr First-to-ask.
I personally will be retiring to Florida in my latter spinster years (beats knock konck ginger hands down) with my rather gorgeous ex-boss. We will smoke and drink cocktails in the sun, wearing rather dapper sun hats, whilst perving on the pool boy. By this time Gerard Butler will be 70 and unable to run as fast as me, thus be easier to catch. Admittedly his six pack will be a distant memory, but my rack will be by my knees, so sacrifices will be made on both sides. I will have my day in the sun, and if it's not in a wedding dress, I can live with it.....I can't however live without Puss Cat Danger, or my Super Noodles.
NB: I mate of mine called whilst I was writing this (Pam - you can blame her for the time this took), and pointed out my list of famous single women contains mainly bloody scary ones. A fair point - the great SJP as Carrie did once say "It’s like the riddle of the Sphinx… why are there so many great unmarried women, and no great unmarried men?". Because only women can live with greatness and not feel threatened maybe? Just a thought.....
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