52 First Dates

Red Nose Day 2013

2013-03-19T22:25:00.000Z

So last Friday was Red Nose Day 2013, the very reason I went on a mammoth 25 dates in 25 hours. And if you were still awake and watching, you might have seen this...

In total I managed to raise £1792.62 for Red Nose Day, which I'm absolutely delighted by, so thank you to everyone who supported both little tired me and this awesome charity. You can, of course, still donate to Red Nose Day if you so wish here and there's a whole bunch of Red Nose Day stuff for you to download and wotnot on iTunes. So there!

I did it! 25 dates in 25 hours for Red Nose Day

2013-03-06T09:57:00.000Z

As the title of this post might suggest, I've gone against the Hollywood tradition of leaving the 'will our protagonist complete their epic quest' part to the very end and blown my proverbial load from the off. I did it! I went on 25 dates in 25 hours, and survived! Cut to quick recap of life leading up to 28th February 2013.

A month or so I agreed (rather foolishly it seemed at the time) to go on a mammoth 25 dates as part of comedian Mark Watson's epic 25 hour fund-raising extravaganza for Red Nose Day. I just couldn't say no. Not only is Comic Relief an organisation so close to my heart, but the challenge of trying to rustle up 25 eligible bachelors and talk to them over the course of a whole day and then some appealed to my inner sadist. I'd been date-free since going on my 52nd first date in August last year, and it was about time I did something silly in the name of love. And with charity as my excuse, who could possibly say no?

I very soon learned that trying to rope in and organise 25 bachelors over such a bizarre time scale including the wee anti-social hours of Friday morning was not as easy as I thought. I think in total, I must've had around 35 contenders initially interested, but as the big day loomed, the boys started to fall by the wayside. On Thursday morning, I had 18 lined up, and the rest we'd fill with randoms harvested from amongst the hostage crowd on the night. And I won't lie, I was bricking it. It wasn't so much the pre-date nerves that got to me, it was the prospect of staying awake for such an obscene amount of time and trying to maintain an iota of dignity and sanity throughout that worried me. And rightly so...

At 10pm on Thursday 28th February, I turned up at The Pleasance Theatre in Islington with an arsenal of goodies to help my dates and I get through this behemoth megadate, including board games, bananas and some rather suspicious looking breakfast bars, and a belly full of butterflies. Already at the venue were many of the challengers all ready and raring to go, including some endurance huggers, Countdown challengers, artists, film crews, and the main man himself, Mark. The original plan was for me to pop in and update Mark after each date as it went along. Simple eh? You'd think...!

Mathematical infograms courtesy of Yianni, the sponsored 25 hour maverick math-mongerer.

At 11pm, Tim Key heralded the start of Mark's marathon mirthfest, and we were off! My first date waited patiently in the bar for me to pop into the gig and explain my challenge, before I was able to get stuck in with the dates, so to speak. What both astonished and delighted me was when I was introduced as this mad singleton who'd written this silly blog, one of the ladies, a lass by the name of Jessica, sat in the front row said she'd actually read it! I was a little bit stunned! It was only then that I realised people do actual read this shit, and I was delighted! Suddenly the last 18 months of my blogging life felt vindicated and it was the perfect start to one of the biggest challenges of my life. But enough about me, let's meet the dates...

Photo by the lovely Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig here

I will at this point add a small note slash apology to each of my dates regarding the content of these nano-write ups. Although I did my best to try and make notes as I went along to try and do these gentlemen justice, I can only apologise if some of what I remember is a little muddled or, well, totally made up. It's not intentional, I promise...

DATE # 1 - MATT (11pm)

Matt was roped into being one of my dates through one of his friends on Twitter, who it turned out was one of the actual gig audience members. He arrived bang on time, only for me to say a quick hi and had to dash off into the gig and leave him on his own for what turned out to be nearly half an hour, the poor bugger. When I finally returned, however, he'd not been bored, but had befriended some of the locals who'd been teaching how to do the crab...

Matt had actually been out at a friend's party before coming along, and bless him had stayed sober especially which earned him major brownie points, but I couldn't help thinking he might have been a bit disappointed by what he encountered once he got here. Still, it seemed he had fun before I arrived, and for the half hour we did spend together, however, we had a lovely time. He's sweet, chatty, lively, and has the weirdest fucked up thumb I've ever seen. I'm cross I didn't take a photo of it now, it was properly mutant. He showed me some magic tricks using a pack of cards, although the street edge was slightly taken off by the fact that the only cards I had to hand was a pack of baby animal Top Trumps. All in all, a charming chap, and the nicest possible start to the Megadate.

DATE # 2 - OSKAR (midnight)

My second date was Oskar, who had been corralled into being my date through Willard, date 7, whom he knows through the debating circuit. He's a student of Islamic studies, a regular participant of internet dating, and has high functioning Asperger's. He wore his pink hat especially for the date, and if I had a cap on now, I would doff it to him for effort, for it was a delightful hat. Oskar was incredibly bright, and we spoke a lot about language, particularly Hebrew and Russian. When I confessed to have been trying to learn Russian, he tried to talk to be in Russian, but sadly the best I could do was answer him with the words 'cat; and 'sandwich'. The date was rather unexpectedly punctuated by a diminutive dude with an astonishing handlebar moustache who kept shouting things like 'Satan's cock', as you do...! Oskar was a really interesting guy, but I don't think my brain was much of a match for his at sensible times, let alone at midnight.

DATE # 3 - SAM (1am)

Sam was my first unplanned date of the challenge. I did previously have a willing victim to come and endure an hour of my company at such an antisocial hour, but unfortunately he was struck down with tonsilitis and couldn't make it. So I popped into the gig to give Mark an update on the dates so far, and he asked the audience if anyone would be up for a date. The first (and only) hand up in the air was Sam's, so off we scampered back to the bar for date three. As soon as we sat down I realised the major flaw with this date, which was the 14 year age gap. Sam, a Tesco check out bod, was only 18 years old. I am 32, and I tentatively spent the entire date concerned that someone would come along and put me on some sort of register. Sam was very sweet, but terribly nervous, and sat at the other end of the sofa visibly shaking. Chat was very varied. He told me the highlight of his job was when the till would ring up numbers like £9.11, and that a dinner with his friend at Nandos earlier that week had resulted in a very farty episode. Talk turned to souvenirs and collecting things, and it was only when I'd admitted to collecting stamps up to the age of 11, it dawned on me that was a good 3 years before he was even born. His parting words on the subject of history were '...and then they found Richard the whatever's face in a car park' and then the date was over. Bless young Sam. And big big kudos for being the first volunteer to spend an hour in the company of a very strange older woman.

Mathmogram by Yianni, the sponsored math-bod

DATE # 4 - SAM (2am)

Sam I'd known on Twitter for a good 9 months or so, and he would have been in the running to be Mr #52 had he not buggered off to live in Toronto. But since I needed some dates in the wee hours of the morning and there was a convenient time difference, I asked Sam if he fancied being one of my dates, and he kindly agreed. In terms of effort, Sam definitely gets an A. He'd dressed for the occasion including wearing a shirt, and was even wearing polished shoes indoors, although the aftershave was his true master stroke. He'd also opened a bottle of wine, and had set the scene with candles everywhere, it was delightful.

Sam explained to me the joys of Canadian life, how shit they are at queuing, how he'd experienced a temperature of -27C which is utterly insane, and what it was life starting a completely new life from scratch. I even got to meet his sofa. I attempted to bond with Sam over the time I once went to Canada, but my already-knackered brain let me down when I admitted to having visited Viagara Falls. I was relieved that Sam wasn't there in person, as Skype failed to show up the fact that I had gone a bright shade of purple. As I type, I'm looking at the remnants of the notes I tried to make during the date, and I can see a sentence which looks like 'wafits of wang'. I have no idea what on earth this means, but hopefully Sam can fill me in at a later date. Sam was delightful company, albeit on the other side of the Atlantic, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was the Dave Gorman of the dating world. This was certainly a dating first for me, over Skype, and a far more sensible idea than logging onto Chat Roulette.

DATE # 5 - MARCO (3am)

Marco was my second date plucked from the audience. After standing on stage critiquing my previous dates, and flagging up the fact that Sam might have been a leeeeeetle bit too young for me, Mark called out for more volunteers. Up jumps Marco, who it turned out was older than Sam...but by only one year. He was 19. Mark asked what he liked, to which he answered 'football', and when he asked what i liked, I replied 'kittens, baking and knitting'. Match made in heaven then. Anyway, off we scampered back down to the date zone (a sofa reserved underneath the stairs) and embarked on date #6. Marco was really chatty and confident, and like a true gentleman he treated me to a Coke and a gingerbread man.

My date with Marco was a lot of fun. We spoke at length about man crushed, and he confidently confessed to having the hots for James Franco and Ryan Gosling, and we embarked on an epic Guess Who match. I smashed the first game, Marco clawed it back in the second, and going into the third it was all to play for. We were both down to the last couple of options, and then in my infinite cockiness I exclaimed out of turn 'ah! I only have two left and one of them is me! I know which one you are!' which of course gave the entire game away and Marco won. Bollocks. Fair play to him though, although he was a good 13 years my junior, he was a very funny date.

I have no idea what is going on here...genuinely...

Photo by the awesome Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig here

DATE # 6 - OLI (4am)

My date with Oli came about thanks to the match-making skills of the folks on the BBC Comedy Twitter team. Oli was a fellow 25 hours challenger who had, in my humble opinion, one of the hardest tasks there. For twenty five hours solid, he had to sit and watch the Walt Disney film Beverley Hills Chihuahua over and over again in the boiler room in the bowels of the Pleasance. The poor poor bastard. The BBC Comedy guys tweeted him to see if he'd be up for a date, and when he agreed they gave me a couple of Kit Kats to take down as a gift, and I went and joined him. Even at 4am, having only endured 5 hours of what can only be described as the worst film in the entire world, he was hanging on to his sanity by a thread. But behind the hollow husk of a man addled by a film devoted to the most irritating of all God's creatures was an extraordinarily good sense of humour. For that hour I was absorbed into the world of Chloe, voiced by Drew Barrymore who had evidently fallen on hard times since her 50 First Dates days, and I got to experience one of the more surreal hours of my life.

Kit Kats were consumed, Oli generously leant me his phone to check the IMDB rating of the film (3.6 in case you were wondering, which quite frankly is over generous by about 2.6 points) and the time analysing the finer nuances of the film just flew by. As a parting gift, Oli kindly let me have his spare copy of the Beverley Hills Chihuahua, and I pledged to follow Chloe's onward journey by watching the sequels. Since the date, BBC Comedy have been trying to engineer a second date involving a Kit Kat chunky and the next instalment of the BHC dynasty, but both Oli and I are tentative that it might just be too much too soon.

DATE # 7 - WILLARD (5am)

I first got in touch with Willard over Christmas when I noticed a spike in my blog hits, and saw that he'd mentioned it in something he'd written for the Telegraph online. I tweeted to say thanks, and then after that we stayed in touch. He had enjoyed reading 52 First Dates, so much so that he'd then decided to embark on his very own online dating project, 28 Dates Later. He'd previously asked me out over Twitter, but since I knew there was a mammoth dateathon in the offing, I politely declined until the time was right, and asked if he wanted to be involved. He said yes, and since he was going to write about it as one of his blog dates, he wanted one of the weirdest time slots available, so 5am it was. He promised to bring cupcakes and bags of icing, and would teach me how to ice, because ironically given the amount of baking I do, I've never once attempted to pipe icing. Willard turned up in a smart shirt and jacket with a box of naked cupcakes, a couple of bags of buttercream, and a selection of decorations and way too much enthusiasm for that time in the morning!

Willard is a very confident and charming man, a natural born raconteur you might say. We spoke at length about the dating blog business that he'd now immersed himself in, and he seemed mildly in awe to have finally met the person to have written the dating blog he'd followed for so long. I was incredibly flattered, but also a bit embarrassed, as I'm still surprised by the fact that so many people have read this silly thing I've been writing, and many of them actually liking it.

We also covered super-strength beers, and I was anecdotally introduced to the awesomely named Tactical Nuclear Penguin, Willard's former life as a barrister representing shoplifters, tractor thieves and prostitutes (isn't that a Cher song?), and the time he spent election night with the Grand Wizard of the KKK. The true weirdness of the 25 hour megadate started to come forth, as we were date-crashed by Huggers Anonymous, bebearded comedian Sanderson Jones and his co-hugger Mikey Lear, who decided to join in the date for fifteen minutes or so. It was clear to all involved at this point that this was definitely no normal date. Although the fact we were icing cupcakes and it was before 6am was a bit of a clue...

Before we knew it, #8 had turned up, and the date was over. I'll be honest, I was a bit more nervous about this date than others, as I was finally going to be on the receiving end of the date-blogging pen, but all things considered (charity, weirdness, delirium and buttercream), I think it went as well as could have been expected. I can certainly recommend cupcakes for breakfast as a result. Within a couple of hours of the date, Willard had already written up his own version of events, which you can read here. I might see if I can source a medal from somewhere because I think at 32 I might be the youngest 'veteran' ever. I must add a special thanks to Willard who went above and beyond the call of duty in helping me find dates and get sponsorship, so thank you.

DATE # 8 - MIKE (6am)

I can't quite remember how Mike ended up coming across the blog, but he'd emailed me gallantly nominating himself to be part of the blog, and even more gallantly offered to be the 6am date as he didn't live too far from the theatre. There were a few things of note about Mike. The first was his awesome choice of knitwear, which was a sort of festive Aran sweater affair with owls on. Secondly, was the fact he brought along a game called Tumbling Towers which was a delightfully shameless rip off of Jenga, and three, he'd brought me a present wrapped in the most beautiful paper. Shame about the tape though...

Inside said paper, was quite possibly one of the most thoughtful presents anyone has ever bought me, let alone from a virtual stranger. It was a TGS hoodie from one of my all-time favourite TV shows 30 Rock, and quite frankly it blew me away! So a great big public thank you Mike from a now-delirious 8-hours-in girl off her tits on tea and buttercream. I am wearing it as I type.

Gifts aside, the rest of the date was fun. He'd been following the dates thus far on Twitter and noted that #1 was a bit of a hottie (Matt, you're in there...he buys ace presents!) and told me that he'd signed up to run the Marathon dressed as a nurse. Jenga *ahem* Tumbling Towers was tricky, as the sugar shakes were beginning to set in and I was not the best-equipped for such a game, although I was very grateful he hadn't brought along Operation. As the last brick was removed, the tower fell spectacularly, and emerged the victor, although I wouldn't mind betting Mike threw the game as a defeat at that point in time might have tipped me over the edge for the remaining 17 dates. By this point my brain was slowly starting to shut down, but it was was the nicest 6am date I'd ever had, and I was genuinely overwhelmed by such a thoughtful pressie.

DATE #9 - DARREN (7am)

Darren was another date that had been referred to me through a friend, and I was also grateful that he'd turned up at one of the more antisocial hours. The one thing that struck me about Darren was his spectacular head of hair. If there was a top barnet prize out of all the 25 dates, he'd have had it in the bag. He's an actor currently doing temping work, and he'd come fully prepared for the date with a spectacular rust-coloured tiger print thermos of tea especially. It was particularly good tea I have to say, streets ahead of some of the stuff that had been foisted my way from the bar over the previous 8 hours, and it was just what the doctor ordered as the delirium was properly starting to set in. I'd been awake for 21 hours by this point, and still had another 16 dates / hours to go. He was super cheerful, super smiley, and took the weirdness of people wandering around willy nilly in animal onesies, and the human detritus of people sleeping on the chairs next to us entirely in his stride.

DATE #10 - DAN (8am)

*DOUBLE FIGURES KLAXON* WOOB WOOB!

Dan, a Canadian, was another date put forward by recruiter-in-chief Willard. He'd cycled all the way to the theatre from Brixton especially, which had taken him an hour or so, and the poor guy was a tad pooped. He explained to me at length how to prolong the life of my iPhone 5, which was extremely valuable information since I was on my second charge of the challenge. The real meat of the date, however, came with one of my favourite topics of all time: The Cat vs Dog debate. I am a self-proclaimed cat person, and reckon I can identify within 5 minutes of meeting someone their animal preference. My first thoughts about Dan were that he favoured the canine contingent, and I was right. My memory is a little hazy at this point, but I'm pretty sure we started to talk about YouTube videos of cats using the toilet and flushing the it afterwards, but I would need back up on that one. At the end of the date, Dan showed me his spare sweater that he'd bought to change into for the cycle back, and the can of Febreze he'd bought as olfactory back up. You've got to hand it to him, that's what I call preparation! I have to apologise to Dan for the scantness of this part of the write up, but the first wave of tiredness had swept over my by this point, and I was in dire need of some sort of pick up to get me back and closer to the land of the living. He had also brought along the brilliantly named Bananagrams along for us to play, but sadly we ran out of time. And given it was a word-based game along the lines of Scrabble, I'm a little bit relieved...

Numerological illustrations courtesy of Yianni

DATE #11 - MARTIN (9am)

Martin was the first date of the challenge that I actually knew in real life beforehand. He was the result of a team-wide recruitment drive at my former office at ITV by my good friend Kirsty, who I have no doubt had to either slip him a tenner or bribe him with baked goods to get him to babysit me for an hour. Whatever the circumstances, I was very grateful for a friendly face. And moreover, a friendly face bearing Pass The Pigs! Martin insisted on laying claim to the most original opening line of the dates thus far, with his 'have you ever been to XXXX', which funnily enough proved to be the perfect segway to an anecdote about me sat in Copenhagen airport sobbing into two kilos of miniature Daim Bars. This date was quite the gamefest. First of all we played Pass The Pigs, one of my all time favourite past times, and without blowing my own trumpet, I kicked porcine ass! We then moved on to Guess Who as Martin had never played before, but we soon came to blows when Martin cheated on an issue over facial hair. Dear readers, if someone has a goatee beard which includes a moustache, and I ask if you have a moustache, that's a yes isn't it? Yes it is. Tsk. Third in the gaming bonanza was Connect 4, which I do believe I also won, which as you'll later find out was pretty much my only Connect 4 victory of the challenge. Martin was a delightful date, and ever the gentleman, leant me his Pass the Pigs set for future reference. He also let me keep the scorecard. Yes!!!!

DATE #12 - ANDY (10am)

Andy was the second person I knew in real life to foolishly agree to be one of the glorious twenty five, chosen partly for his ability to bring a good strong beard to the table, partly for the guy candy factor but mainly because I knew he had nothing better to do at the time and seeming a charitable sort, that he'd most probably say yes. And he did say yes, obvs. And he turned up equipped with pain au chocolat for breakfast, fresh OJ for vitamin C, and emergency mini eggs for the darkest hours that I suspected might come between 5 and 7pm. Amazeballs. For the most part it was a sensible date, if we ignore the fact that I ended up sat in a pile of my own pastry flakes, but unfortunately the delirium was already getting a good grip. And as if my temporal weirdness wasn't enough shared between the two of us, I then unwittingly shared it with the nation when we were joined by Jane Garvey and interviewed for Woman's Hour on Radio 4 which you can listen to here if you're so inclined. I have to say I've never listened to Woman's Hour before, but our Andy it seemed was quite the fan as it brought back fond memories (and he's also quoted it on Facebook on the odd occasion) so I felt, in part, a little like Claire'll Fix It, in the most tasteful possible sense. The rest of the date was delightful, and largely revolved around bemoaning the pitiful excuse for tea the poor sleep-starved bar staff had rustled up, the Harlem Shake (a version of which was later done during the gig) and Connect 4, which it turns out, I really do suck at. I'd like to use my lack of sleep and senses as an excuse, but even on a good night's sleep and a gullet full of ginkgo biloba I still would have lost. Should've played Pass The Pigs. By the end of the date, my energy levels were on the rise again thanks to my awesome second breakfast, and I was ready to face the halfway mark. Who, as it turns out, was called Mark. You couldn't make this shit up...

DATE #13 - MARK (11am)

Poor halfway Mark. Our date was doomed from the start, and I blame it on the unfortunate positioning of being unlucky #13. First of all the poor guy got a bit lost and was late, so turned up a bit flustered. Secondly, mid-date we were interrupted by a photographer, who not only insisted on interfering and making us pose awkwardly (we drew the line at holding hands for the over-eager pap), but then she managed to total an entire mug of tea all over the date-zone, leaving poor Mark and I to mop up the splash radius. Once we finally got round to the actual date, chat homed in and around online dating, and modern day dating etiquette. Mark was interested to know if, after 52 first dates and no converted goal so to speak, whether I'd actually questioned my sexuality. Interesting question, and straight to the point. But at 32 years old and over 77 dates to my name, I can very safely confirm that the problem with my dates lied within my personal choice of gentleman, and not the fact that they lacked a vagina. Mark was keen to point out that in modern dating terms, women appear to be becoming more masculine, and in some respects I do agree. I for one like to pay my way because I think it's rude to assume that someone would like me enough to pay for an entire evening with me, although that said it's always nice for someone to offer. Time evaporated almost as quickly as the spilt tea, and Mark had to head back to work, but not without the parting words, 'you look so tired'. He was right, I looked knackered. But 13 down and 12 to go, it was all downhill from here. In more ways than one...

DATE #14 - PIERRE (midday)

Date #14 was somewhat of an emergency measure, as my previous #14 had emailed earlier to cancel. So much for charidee! So I decided to invite myself over for a date with my neighbour in the theatre bar, comedian and artist Pierre, whose challenge over the 25 hours was to draw the entire time. Poor guy. We were both flagging significantly at this point, but onwards we fought. Pierre had actually previously read my blog, and was curious to get the inside track on some of my more 'unusual' dates, so I recalled with deluded fondness the Bengali poet with the mutant third tooth who got so hammered on rum he started sniffing my hair, before passing out in a pool of his own beverage. We were briefly joined by one of the newly-released record-holding hugees, who took it upon himself to also have a sniff of my hair, before leaving us to move onto the topic of body parts. Pierre, it turns out, can add random trivia and the dispelling of anatomical myths to his CV, such as the fact that your hair and nails don't grow after you die, it's just your body that shrinks, and the fact that although most people believe (myself included) that when you're born, your eyeballs are the only thing that stays the same size, which apparently is utter bullshit. The date was short and sweet, and I left questioning everything I've ever known, but it was worth it to have seen Pierre's latest creation, the last in a long line of highly depressed characters that look like members of the royal family.

DATE #15 - CHAD (2pm)

It's now 2pm, I've been dating for around 15 hours, I've been awake for over 28 hours, which might explain a little about why this date went the way it did. Chad initially got in touch with me as he's a freelance camera-man, and had offered to film my dateathon. Initially flattered, I had to decline on account that there were so many cameras knocking about the place, one entirely devoted to capturing my undignified demise was a bridge too far. However I did suggest that if he was up for it, that he nominated himself to be one of my dates, which he did. What Chad brought to the party, apart from yet another strong beard, was Play Doh!

Now I've not seen Play Doh in well over 20 years, and I was disproportionately delighted to see the very cement of my childhood. I had fond recollections about sculpting awesome objects to proudly present to my parents, whilst revelling in the salty smell of this amazing substance. So we started sniffing it, and the memories started flooding back. Then, and this is most definitely a sign of the time, we started eating it. Just a little bit mind, to remind myself of quite how shit it tasted back in the eighties, and I can confirm it tastes just as as I remembered. I felt very very sick. Nausea aside, we forged on with the date, and because I was struggling with the powers of speech, Chad gallantly offered to sculpt my effigy out of Dynorod orange, blue hair, and purple shoes. To match my eyes. How very thoughtful. So without further ado, here's me. With boobs. I won't lie, it's a little bit awkward making small talk with a date whilst they're rolling your miniature mammaries around in front of you between their thumb and forefinger...

You'll just have to take my word for it, but this is scarily more of an accurate depiction of me at that point in time, and I am in no way offended. I especially like the way my right eye has got bored of being friends with the left and has started to do its own thing. The date ended in the revelation that Chad was tempted to come to the date dressed as Zippy from Rainbow, and taunted with what might have been, I was left a little disappointed. Oh, I forgot, at some point I did sing 'I wish I could fly', Orville stylee. This definitely will not have added to a good first date impression. This is why you need sleep, people...

'Who eats Play Doh on a first date? Silly bint!' Photo by the delightful Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig here

DATE #16 - LUKE (3pm)

My date with Luke was engineered by Mr Watson himself. For his Red Nose Day challenge, Luke was doing a sponsored separation from his girlfriend Nadia. In the hours leading up to the date, he'd been through the typical post-break up rituals, including spending a lot of time 'with himself', and eating a takeaway curry for two by himself. By 3pm, he was ready to begin dating again, so Mark got us both up onstage to introduce us. In yet another thoughtful gesture, Luke had brought me a present. I'd been doing very well all day today, but Luke took the word 'thoughtful' to a-whole-nother level. A bag of goodies. These goodies...

That's right! A golfing magazine, some Werther's Originals, some chocolate lozenges and a bottle of de-icer. Here's a guy that knows what women want. That Nadia was missing out! Conversation was varied but enjoyable. We covered the merits of Harry Potter, touched on Mills and Boon, childhood collections and Kirsten Stewart's ears. Unfortunately Luke blew things when he poured Coke all over himself, and I knew then that it just wasn't meant to be. Shame. The de-icer was a master stroke...

Numbers and words courtesy of Yianni

DATE #17 - NORRIE (4pm)

Norrie volunteered to be one of my dates having been roped into it by his flatmate's girlfriend, a friend of mine. There'd been a fair amount of banter prior to the date, and I knew early on that I'd need to have my brain fully in gear for our date. Herein lies the problem. 17 hours into the dates and my brain was sadly nowhere to be seen. After bragging about having had a lie in until 10am that morning, Norrie then decided to test my cranial capacity by bringing up Einstein's theory of relativity, quoting Churchill and Karl Jung, and talking about the demise of the Pope's ring. I managed to come back to the conversation long enough to talk about the Littlest Hobo, but then I was lost again when Norrie tried to tell me a joke involving the words 'tuna' and 'tuba', and I just could not get it. Trying to bring things a bit more down to my level, he started to talk about koalas, and I like koalas, I really do, but that was about as much as I could contribute to the situation. Things then moved onto she-pees, for non-festival goers they're devices designed to enable women to wee standing up, and I was gone again. I have a vague recollection of the words 'moist' and 'slit' entering the vernacular, and as I struggle to hide recoiling in horror at two of my least favourite words, he looked me straight in the eyes and said 'slit - does that make you feel uncomfortable?' Yes, yes it did. Actually, being awake and having to communicate with another human being, any human being, was a struggle, so sadly poor Norrie didn't stand much of a chance. By this point I was a wreck, and I concede, I was an effing horrible date. As if by magic, Norrie also produced a gift, which he'd hand-picked on account of how weird and shit it was. It was a solar-powered Fortune Cat. This one, in fact...

Initially I ribbed him mercilessly about his random choice of offering, but the next time I went into Mark's gig to update them on my progress, I told the audience about the cat, and then suddenly to see 200 sleep-deprived people all do the waving arm at me in exact synchronicity suddenly nailed it. This present was a-to-the-mazing. As I type now, I can see the funny little bastard knocking on an imaginary door in my peripheral vision, and I love him even more each day. He will forever serve as a reminder of some of the darkest hours of my 25 hour long delirium-fest. So Norrie, because I didn't say it enough at the time, thank you. I shall call him Paraprosdokian, after your favourite obscure figure of speech.

DATE #18 - LUKE (5pm)

Luke was the second date drafted from ITV, and although I'd vaguely known him whilst I was there, I never really spoke to him. I knew he was hot, and I was sure there was also some back-hand bribery to secure his attendance, but I didn't really care, I'd started to get desperate. Luke emailed me earlier on in the date to let me know he could only stay for half an hour, but he'd come along anyway. As soon as he arrived, he panned Pass The Pigs and went straight for the Connect 4. Whilst he became the second / third / fourth / I can't remember-th person to kick my arse at the game, we spoke about dating etiquette, and how he's a strong advocate of playing by the rules, including things such as the three day rule which I have to say I'd always believed was a myth. After a cursory couple of games, it was time for Luke to flee, but not before he revealed that in the carrier bag he was carrying were the makings of spaghetti and meatballs that he was going to prepare for a 'real' date. You mean I wasn't a real date? You break my heart Luke, you really do. Or not. You decide...

DATE #19 - CARL (6pm)

Carl was another one of the dates that I'd cajoled into coming along, and being the benevolent sort he obliged. I've known Carl for a good 12 years or so, having gone to university together, but since I only ever see the bugger once every 5 years and we'd never 'dated', it seemed like a good idea. Plus he knew me well enough to be able to understand the delirium more than most, which definitely counted in my favour. For a good 40 minutes or so we spoke about veganism, and I asked Carl to try and explain to me why forgoing all the good stuff in life, like meat and cheese, was a good idea. Apparently he converts up to 40 people a year to veganism, so I thought it;d be an interesting debate. I'm usually a reasonable person, and I'm sure under normal circumstances I'd have been more susceptible to his powers of persuasion. But my armour of insomnia served me well, and instead by the end of it I found myself hankering for Ikea horsemeatballs and Dairylea. Sorry Carl. Aside from the veganism, we touched on his PhD in political violence, his hobby as an anarchist, and his impending emigration to Canada. At some point, we were invaded by an entire primary school, round about the time I tried to recite and rewrite Rutger Hauer's speech from Bladerunner detailing my surreal 25 hours experience thus far (I've seen things you people wouldn't believe; fat chips and the shoulders of a giant Carebear..."), and then suddenly the clock struck 7pm. Bloody hell, 19 down, 6 to go...

DATE #20 - GAVIN (7pm)

Karl Pilkington lookey-likey Gavin ("only prettier", his words not mine) was roped into being a date through a mutual friend on Twitter, and being a competitive sort, not only agreed to be a date, but also roped his mate Jonathan in to be date #23. Gavin is quite possibly one of the smiliest people I've ever met. He persuaded me to start drinking alcohol (a fateful error since undoing all of the training that 15 years worth of drinking with an ill-advised dry January),virtually demolished an entire pack of Werther's given to me by #16, and likened my dating marathon to the work of a prostitute. Only slightly less cash and sex in my version, honest. We covered public transport and snow (according to my notes, but I really can't remember!), 30 Rock and why he's like Manny from Modern Family. The highlight of the date (apart from my new-found love of booze) was him teaching me how to say 'Hi, my name is CTS, pleased to meet you' in sign language, and explaining how sign language is only just becoming not-racist. You'll just have to take my word for it that I can still remember how to say these things, at least I think I can, although they may have morphed into something unintentionally offensive over the course of a few days. I have a vague recollection of Gavin saying I had a 'mouth like a cat's bum', and after my parting words of 'I think i'm going to die of tired', it was the end of the date. But my resounding memory of Gavin was what a beamy bloke he was, and I respect anyone who tried to sabotage their mate's date by getting her drunk beforehand. Cheers!

It was around now I had to do another update in the theatre, and I remembered I was missing the 25th and final date. When Mark and Emma Kennedy asked me who I'd like it to be, knowing full well they probably had the magical powers to conjure up pretty much any man I desired (with the exception of Zach Braff, who gig-goers will know would have been a minor miracle), I stood there in a semi-comatose state incapable of thinking of any possible man. With the benefit of my retrospectrometer, this was absolutely a wasted opportunity. But casting my mind back, I was so delirious I had a total blank. I just stood there like a fart in a trance completely incapable of unique thought which of course was of no help to anyone, and it was all rather embarrassing. Even now, having recouped all of my sleep, I still don't know who I would have chosen. Although everyone else I've spoken to since has a list at the ready...

"The Spanish Inquisition - largely unanswered" Photo by the sublime Isabelle Adam. More pics from the gig here

Lots of counting courtesy of Yianni

DATE #21 - WOODY (8pm)

Poor Woody. Poor poor beardy hairy Woody. As date #21, he was onto a losing streak already, for which I can only posthumously apologise. By this point I was not only beside myself with tiredness, but to add insult to injury was now on my way to getting hammered, having eaten nothing but a cupcake, a croissant, a couple of bananas and a handful of chocolates in over 24 hours. To add to my sugar-overdose, Woody kindly furnished me with a Kinder Egg, and watched with astonishment at the way that assembling a car made from 3 parts baffled my teeny tiny overtired brain. I can only recall snippets of conversation, which included drunken eBay, darts, taxidermied squirrels, the blue rabbit sponge my little sister put up her nose aged 4, beards, balloons, and his ridiculously over-sized hands. The highlight of the date, however, were Woody's card tricks. Even through my mind-fug, I could tell he was a shit hot close up magician, and he broke my brain with a number of different card tricks. And these were properly tricky sleight of hand jobs, and I was genuinely very impressed. Soon, the big hand went past the little hand, and it was time for the date to end. But Woody had been a genuinely awesome sport, and I could have happily watched a lot more of his card tricks had I had some matchsticks to prop my eyelids open.

DATE #22 - KEIR (9pm)

If you didn't feel sorry enough for Woody, then please spare a thought for poor Keir. Keir had travelled all the way from Bristol to spend an hour with someone who was scarcely held together by vodka and chocolate, and he turned up like a little whirling dervish of mirth. When he turned up, I was due an update in the theatre, so I dragged the poor bugger into the auditorium to introduce him to the audience. But there was a seriously competetive Countdown game afoot at the time, and without wanting to interrupt or spend the entire date on the sidelines, I dragged him back to the bar again. Although I'd not met him before, I felt like I'd known Keir for a while, as he was originally one of the short-listed candidates to be Mr #52, although he was pipped to the post by a Dane. Keir came fully equipped for the date, and brought with him a bumper bag of miscellaneous Lego to keep me amused. One of his fortes, I've seen over Twitter, is his ability to build forts when he's bored at work. Bearing in mind we were in a theatre bar, full-size fort architecture wasn't an option, so he'd opted for a small Lego version. As we sat drinking the tinned vodkas he'd brought along, we tried to combine forces and build something. However his mis-matching selection of plastic bricks led to a number of artistic differences, and we were forced to concede a number of redesigns en route. It was Keir's decision, for example, to put a death-trap propellor rich underneath the diving board, but his excuse was he liked to live on the edge.

In an effort to prove the structural integrity of said edifice, the following conversation occurred:

Keir: 'There you go, you can stand on that!'
Me: 'No you can't'
Keir: 'Yes you can...'

It then broke. And I was smug.

Aside from the Lego-architecture, we spoke about a myriad of weird things: why his father was responsible for making Bridgewater smell, bacon jam (oh yes, such a thing does exist folks...), Keir's uncanny impression of Vicky Pollard and why he thinks all children are bastards. The highlight for me, however, came when he offered me the first Fruit Pastille, a red one. Everyone loves the red ones don't they? And the black ones. It soon turned out, the entire pack was either red or black. He'd bought a number of packets, and sat on the train on the way over rigging this one pack to be only the best ones. I know there's a pun coming a mile off, but I can't think of anyway to say it: this was genuinely one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done. Through my drunken knackered haze I was still blown away. That was amazing. Soon enough, date #23 had turned up and it was time to say goodbye, and send Keir back to the West Country.

DATE #23 - JONATHAN (10pm)

Jonathan was another date who could only hang around for half an hour thanks to prior commitments, although this time it was having to work overnight rather than having a date to go and cook for. He'd been cajoled into it by Gavin, and in the spirit of competition, he'd turned up. Instantly, he thrust a much-needed Red Bull into my hand, and we did our level best to do a date. Sadly, I was rubbish. The best we could do was to crack out the Baby Animal Top Trumps, throughout which Jonathan did his level best to cheat throughout the entire game. He was very chirpy considering he was about to start the sort of night shift I'd struggled through earlier that day, and he had obviously been taking smiling lessons from Gavin. No sooner had he sat down, date #24 had already turned up, and I had to send him and his shameless cheating ass packing. By now everything had literally gone to pot. I was drunk and erratic, the end was finally in sight, and I'd consumed so much sugar I was in danger of doing myself a mischief. It's a shame Jonathan hadn't figured earlier in the running order. It was also a shame he tried to take advantage of my poor state by cheating at a child's card game. Naughty.

DATE #24 - ANDY (10.30pm)

Andy, the closest person I know to being a real life giant, drew the shortest straw of the lot, and that's not a reference to my height. I've known Andy for a few years now through a mutual friend, who when he found out I was struggling to meet the 25 date quota, put the thumbscrews on poor Andy and insisted he obliged. And oblige he did, turning up at half ten at night to ply me with more booze. He also packed a picnic. Bless...

By this time, the whole theatre was in almost meltdown with the allure of sleep proving almost too much to bear. The date pretty much consisted of me flapping around in fear of my 25th and final date, examining the knitted glow that Andy had brought along in the hope I might sew it up for him (fat chance), and me trying in some way to articulate a modicum of the events that had come to pass over the last 24 hours. Within 20 minutes, it was time to find out what the 25th and final date held in store, so I carted Andy up to the auditorium, plonked him on the back row and told him to behave himself.

DATE #25 - DAN AND NADIA (11pm, day 2)

My twenty-fifth and final date was quite the surprise. Yes folks, it was a threesome. Get in! The obliging folks in question were a fit hairy fellow called Dan, plucked from the audience, and a pretty Welsh-Iraqi comedienne, coincidentally the estranged girlfriend of Luke, date #16. We bundled off back to the bar, Dan chivalrously got a round of drinks in, and within ten minutes we'd decided to go on a jolly jaunt to EuroDisney together. This trippy triptych was obviously meant to be! Our short-lived romance ended the way all good first dates should end - by heading back into the theatre to watch Rufus Hound, dressed as a king, smash 28 eggs using a hammer gaffer taped to the end of his tallywhacker. You don't believe me? Oh, you should...

Within minutes, Jonathan Ross and Adam hills had turned up, someone bid £12k to pie poor Tiernan Douieb dressed in nowt but a blue onesie in the face, and then it was midnight! In the same way that Cinderella's carriage turned into a pumpkin, everyone in the theatre descended into joyous anarchy. It was over. We could all sleep. For ever...and ever...and ever...! Well, maybe not forever, no-one actually died. Hurrah and huzzah on all counts!

Money maths by Yianni

At the end of those extraordinary 25 hours, Mark and co had racked up well over a staggering £42,000 for Red Nose Day, which I'm sure will continue to rise before the big day is over. I am delighted that I managed to contribute over £1600 to that fund from my 25 dates in 25 hours challenge, thanks to the amazing support of family, friends, fans of 52 First Dates, and my dates themselves. I've been overwhelmed by everyone's support for this bonkers quest, so just wanted to say a big thank you to everyone who humoured me. There is, of course, still time to donate to the challenge posthumously, now you've seen proof that I honoured my word, so if you do feel like giving me a congratulatory sponsorship slap on the back, you can do so here.

It;'s been four days to the hour since my last date, and I've only just recovered from the experience and got round to bashing out this rather crude write up. Aesthetically, I still look pretty poor to say the least, having tried to explain the events of the 28th February through to 1st March a few times, I can confirm that my powers of coherent speech have not entirely returned to normal, and I physically feel like I've had a run in with the wrong end of a steam-roller. This 25 hour challenge was quite possibly one of the most bizarre, testing, hilarious, faith-restoring and life-affirming things I've ever participated in my life, But you know what? If that mad man Watson ever asked me to get on board with another one of his mammoth ball-breaking mind-bending extravaganzas, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. The man is nothing short of a superhero. Mark Watson, I salute you.

I would, at this point, like to apologise to the gentlemen doing the Countdown challenge for standing them up. It was incredibly rude of me, and I promise next time we all agree to do something this foolish, I'll come and juggle some conundrums with you. And for those of you wondering if anything has come of any of the dates, there may well be a couple of second dates on the cards. That's all I'm saying for now...nosey...

And as if things couldn't get any better, my unbelievably awesome and gorgeous friend Claire Pothecary managed to get me this...it's only a message from the one man that makes me go wibbly...Tim Minchin! I'll forgive him the minor misunderstanding...so a big big thank you Claire and a big big thank you Tim.

DISCLAIMER: I do not advise attempting batshit mental endurance dating challenges unless you've a. sought prior permission from your GP and/or b. you're batshit mental yourself.

25 Dates in 25 Hours

2013-01-31T13:28:00.000Z

Dear readers. Please forgive me for I have sinned. It's been five months since my last date, and truth be told, I don't miss it all that much. Which is probably why I've just agreed to do something rather foolish. But it's for charity, so bear with me.

This year marks the 25th anniversary of Red Nose Day, and to commemorate the occasion, comedian and masochist Mark Watson has decided to embark on another one of his trademark epic stand up gigs, this time a 25 hour gig. Lord. Needless to say when Mark hinted to me to get involved, I may have shot my mouth off a little too soon with 'yeah alright, shall I do a mini version of 52 First Dates but in 25 hours? Yeah why not!'

...and THEN thought long and hard about it. And maybe regretted it. Maybe.

Well it's too late now - I'm in for the long haul, quite literally. To be honest, I was never going to run the marathon for charity, the idea of sitting in a bath of beans for 25 hours whilst people are still starving is a little tasteless, and there's no way on God's earth I could be persuaded to do anything involving planes, ropes or mountains. But over the last 2 years I appear to have refined the art of making small talk with random strangers, so a sponsored date-a-thon it is. 25 dates with 25 random people in 25 hours. Endurance dating...my parents will be so proud.

The big main event itself takes place at the delightful Pleasance Theatre in Islington and will be streamed live on t'interweb and t'radio and t'stuff starting at 11pm on Thursday 28th of Feb 2013 and running through to midnight on Friday 1st March. During that time, I have to have been on all of my allotted dates and survived. Mostly.

'How can I get involved?' I hear you cry! Well, funny you should ask! There are a few possible options (quite frankly all of which are easier than mine so help a sister out here).

You can take your pick from...

MENU A - The easy option - sponsor me by clicking here! (or by texting "DATE52 £5" to 70070)

I don't need to tell you how bloody awesome the work of Comic Relief is (but I will - helping literally millions of people worldwide is no mean feat, and having done a lot of work for the organisation myself, I've seen where this money goes and it's, quite frankly, awesome), so even if you can spare just a couple of quid for this amazing charity please please do. And of course don't forget to Gift Aid it, etc etc. Plus, the more money I raise for my bit of the challenge, the more 'good date' I promise to give. Promise. Although nothing that involves baseball analogies, thanks. Naughty.

MENU B - The fun option - buy a ticket and come along to the gig!

Mark and co. will need all the moral support they can get, so be a sport, become part of something epic and come along for the event. It's literally a pound an hour for 25 hours worth of gig - even in this triple dip recession I think you'll all agree that's value for money. Don't worry, they won't gaffer tape you to the chair for the entire duration, I believe there might be a supervised wee break. Maybe.

MENU C - The lazy option - follow the dates live via my Twitter feed

Go on, follow me, and tweet me words of support, suggestions of how to make the dates more interesting and abuse if you're so inclined! This way you can keep up to date with the proceedings and bask in the knowledge that whilst you're probably curled up in bed watching re-runs of New Girl I'm struggling to string a sentence together in the hope of vaguely impressing a real life human man. I'll be tweeting updates after every date so you can not only meet my wonderful(ly brave) beaus throughout the event, but you'll get to witness real life human deterioration of both mind and body in the name of a good cause. Mine, that is. Double win!

MENU D - The brave option - be one of my dates!

I'm really going to need your help with this one. I'm going to need dates. Twenty five of them. Are you single? You do have to be - I don't want to be a sitting duck for If it's not you, then perhaps your single male friend who's always up for the craic and maybe doesn't have anything better to do at 4am on a Friday morning would be one. My dates would only have to endure my delirious self for between as little as ten minutes and probably no more than 45 minutes probably at the theatre itself, potentially at some sort of anti-social hour, and if you're lucky enough to catch me in the dying hours of this 25 hour marathon, you might get to bear witness to some sort of apoplectic breakdown of gargantuan proportions. I know what you're thinking...sexy. It would be super awesome if some of my dates had an idea of something fun to do that wasn't just talking (in the event I lose the power of speech), so if you fancy teaching me samba, backgammon, take me on at a thumb war, explain the history of origami or ANYTHING that might be a bit fun and different, that would be swell. So what are you waiting for? Be part of something extra-ordinary (or extra-ordinarily weird) and email me. I'm CTS by the way, pleased to meet you.

I'm the one on the right

Is that it? That was easy. I'm going to have to do this now aren't I? Bugger...

Sebastian Pritchard-Jones Strikes Back!

2012-11-08T19:42:00.002Z

Hello there 52 First Dates fans! Bet you weren't expecting to hear from me on here again were you? No. Well, there have been developments, as the title of this entry suggests. Remember the fictitious Sebastian Pritchard-Jones who made a few guest appearances during the blog when a couple of his other victims got in touch with me? Well, there have been more. And boy has that bastard been busy.

In total there are now five of us girls that have duped by this duplicitous, twisted, manipulative beast who has been posing as other people online to try and groom women, and aside from the one guy I know of who had his identity stolen to groom both myself and the first two girls to get back in touch, it seems that before us, he'd been masquerading as at least two other poor, unsuspecting guys.

When I first posted my disgruntled article about the apparently handsome Welsh teacher that buggered me around, stood me up and then turned up to be a fat psycho in a perfume bottle, I didn't expect anything more than having used it as something to write about. But the response I have had since has given me chills on a regular basis.

To save doing numerous annoying links to previous posts, I've written the entire story up according to every woman Seb has targeted, including myself. I've also attached pictures and key bits of information that we think will help lead us to who the hell this evil creature is. This guy has done some seriously sick psychological damage to those he's dicked around over the years, and we are determined to find him. And find him we will. With your help. So if there's anything in here that means anything to you, rings any bells, recognise any pictures or names or pricks any consciences, then please get in touch. He'll probably have changed his name by now, but it's hard to change such a thickly-woven web of lies, and I know there must be more of us out there.

So grab yourself a cup of tea, pop on your best Miss Marple hat and brace yourself.

My story – May 2011

Seb first got in touch with me in May 2011 through the dating website Smooch (yes, I know, I die). His first approach was forward, to say the least: ‘so when are you going to ask me out then?’. Usually I’d be put right off this sort of arrogant approach, but shallowly I liked his pictures, he ticked all the right boxes and I liked the cut of his jib from his profile. Plus I’d just started a blog called 52 First Dates where I forced myself to go on an internet date every week for a year, and I needed to line up my second date, and Seb seemed like a good enough option. So we started messaging through the site and eventually exchanged numbers to sort out a date.

Within a very short space of time, he had bulldozed his way into my life in epic style. But before we move onto that, I would like you to meet Sebastian P-J, known as Seb, or affectionately known as the boy with the disabled eyes and the Sticklebrick hair:

So here’s his story. Seb is 35 years old, has an older brother Josh, a policeman and sister Amanda, a radiographer married to Gary, another policeman. His mum Trish and dad still live in Wales and after many years of marriage have a date night every night. He lives alone in his own 4 bedroomed house in a gated development in Marylebone (part bought thanks to his granny), and works as a primary school teacher in Westminster, in line to become Deputy Head.

His ex girlfriend Laura used to work in A&E and tragically died of breast cancer a few years ago. He’d stayed with her til the bitter end, despite her wanting him to father her children as she was dying which put him through incredible emotional strain. Since Laura, he has been on his own with the exception of an alleged affair with a daytime television presenter. He likes to paint, makes excellent roast potatoes, loves Swansea City, adores his 3 year old niece Tilly and his ‘sexy gran’, used to play the drums in a band and last year did a photographic challenge during which he had to photograph himself doing something new every day. His granddad is stricken with Alzheimers and Seb is the glue to keep them all together.

His best friend is Paul who was severely disabled as a result of botched childhood innoculations. They'd been to school together, and Seb would regularly visit him. He is a huge football fan, and they'd regularly go to watch matches together.

Seb is sweet, sensitive, the life and soul of the party, and on paper he is quite possibly the perfect boyfriend. And reading all of this back now the same warning bells I had at the time are ringing again.

One thing that did concern me about Seb was from an early stage, his flirting technique needed work. He could be seedy. So each time he crossed one of these tasteless lines, I would tell him to stop being a sex pest, and to be-fucking-have. And, like any sensitive man would, he'd get back behind the line he had crossed. Against my better judgement, because I had to meet my quota for 52 First Dates style I agreed to meet him for a date, because you can only really judge a person properly when you're sat across a table for them. So, two weeks later we arranged to meet on a Monday in a pub in Soho. And this is where is all began...

At the silent disco
Monday afternoon rolled around, and an hour before we were due to meet, he texted to cancel on the grounds that he had had a disclosure at school. One of his pupils had told him that she was being abused by her father, and he had spent the afternoon involved with the police and social services. All in all, that sounds like a pretty rubbish day at work, so we decided to reschedule for Thursday that week.

Later that week I went to meet him, and we had even spoken an hour beforehand to arrange the venue, but he never turned up. I was not just furious but utterly embarrassed that I’d got it so wrong. A couple of days later I heard from him out of the blue. It emerged that he had snapped a cruciate ligament during football training and had ended up in hospital. Wow, this boy really is unlucky I thought.

The following week we started speaking on the phone. He would text me throughout the day and ring me every night. He would send me photos of himself, some doing kooky things, some of him on holiday, a couple of him lying in bed. He obviously wanted me to fancy him, and as you can tell from the photos, he's rather lovely on the eye. I was going to turn a blind eye to the borderline narcissism until I'd at least met the bugger. We'd chat for hours at a time, getting to know each other, finding common ground, taking the piss, developing our own in jokes and getting all the more closer.

A spider diagram Seb sent to me. Red felt-tip pen. Of course...

I won't lie, I was starting, in part, to fall for him. He had a story for everything, which with the benefit of my retrospectrometer bears all the hallmarks of a pathological fantasist. But for every sweet comment, funny photo, sensitive anecdote there was always a little question mark and yet another subtle little attempt to get me to give him a little sleazy titillation.

Over the space of about 2 weeks, I must've spent over 20 hours talking to this man. He told me about the death of his ex girlfriend Laura, his best friend Paul who was brain-damaged, an alleged affair he had with a popular daytime television presenter, the practical jokes played between him and his brother (including bricking up the front door and inviting a tramp round for Christmas lunch), I felt I knew everything about this man. And in return he knew about my job, my hobbies, my previous relationships, and I’m ashamed to say some skeletons in my closet. And looking back over our conversations now, for every hour on the phone, there was always one little seedy undertone. I can remember him casually slipping things like bra size, anal sex, contraception and even menstrual cycles into conversation. But because they were all anecdotal, or heavily embedded in the in jokes or the sensitive side of things, the alarm bells tinkled a little, but it was nothing I felt I couldn't handle. These are topics that come up with friends, and after all this time, we were becoming friends, friends under a sort of pressure cooker intensity. But every time he tried to eek out something personal from me, my bra size, my views on contraception, my personal cycle, I would bat them away out of the park and he'd be left with nothing. Reading this back now, I feel sick to my stomach. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now that all this investment in me was for those tiny little seedy snippets.

But by now I still wanted to meet the man behind the smooth Welsh tones. I needed to check that Seb in real life was who I thought he was, and any such salaciousness could be spotted in person, and nipped in the bud. By this time my curiosity had already got the better of me, and I'd tried to find him online. But to pour fuel to my already-increasing suspicions, I could find no trace of him. Not even using journalistic tools used to verify identities. And I am, if I do say my self, pretty fucking good at finding people online. Everyone's on there somewhere, whether it'd for an old school photo, a Just Giving donation, or a vox pop in the local press. But nevertheless, we arranged to meet on the following Friday night and I was determined to get the the bottom of this. However, come Friday afternoon, he cancelled again, this time with the best reason yet: his brother Josh, a policeman, had been having an affair with a colleague's wife. The colleague then found out, a fight broke out, the colleague winds up in hospital and the brother ends up in custody. Oh, and her baby might well have been his brother's. So Seb goes home to look after his devastated family, and once again I'm left high and dry and wondering what sort of a dramatic life this guy has.

By this point I am still hearing daily warning bells like tinnitus, but to honour my blog, and because I was gradually being more and more charmed by this man in a shameful way, I was determined to meet him to find out once and for all what was going on.
Then, out of the blue on Tuesday, came some rather sinister messages one night from a strange number. The conversation went as follows:
07507 *** ***: New number peeps (20.32)
Me: Who is this? x (20.42)
07507 *** ***: You were great xx (21.01)
Me: Who is this??? x (21.12)
07507 *** ***: You know (21.24)
CTS: No I don't...this is your new number (21.43)
07507 *** ***: I hear you are seeing somebody (21.51)
Me: Who is this? (21.52)
07507 *** ***:You fukin no who. Lets start where we left off xx (22.47)
Me: No I have no idea who you are. You either tell me who this is or stop messaging (23.04)
07507 *** ***:Don't mess with me Claire. Played hard to get b4 (23.08)
Me: Who is this? (23.08)
07507 *** ***:You know who so let us stop f***ing around with the other geezer (23.10)
Me: No I do not know who this is. I don't have your number and I have no idea what you are talking about. Leave me alone. (23.10)
07507 *** ***:I will find out who he is. If I can't have youre nor can he (23.12)
Me: Who the f*** are you? (23.13)
07507 *** ***:Small the world but it pays to be street wise (23.14)
Me: Tell me who the f*** you are and how you have my number or I'm going to the police (23.17)

At no point had I ever told anyone I was 'seeing' someone, because I’d been single for 8 years by this point, and my first instinct was that Seb had bought another phone to try and frighten me. This was all very wrong. During these messages, Seb called me and caught me in some distress that these messages, and the first thing I did was to check that it wasn't him. I just knew he had something to do with it. I just knew. He was mortified at the accusation, denied it fervently, and then offered to help by sending the number to his brother-in-law, another policeman on duty. He also queried whether this could be one of my skeletons come back to get me, something I knew was an impossible option. But then he offered to send a cab to collect me and I could stay in his spare room if I was frightened. Ding-a-ling-a-fucking-ling. Not on your life sunshine. I tried calling the strange number back and it rang and rang but no answer and no voicemail. The next day I tried the same and the phone was off. This bore all the markings of a PAYG phone, and one I suspected had been bought for purpose. And the more I thought about it, I suspected he had used something I told him in trust to scare me, and then he could sweep in and look after me.

The next few days were pretty horrific, he was still calling and messaging, one minute offering to look after me and the other expressing such horror that I was still questioning who he was. I knew I had to find out the answer to draw a line under everything. Everything I knew about him was just so intangible, nothing I could use to verify his identity. I was driving myself mad. Here was this handsome man who had been increasingly adoring of me, and yet the alarms were still clanging all over the shop. So today I finally asked where he worked. If he had nothing to hide, he would have told me. But because of these messages that had apparently spooked him too, he refused. This cemented my thoughts that he was to blame for the strange messages and that he wasn't who he said he was. I confronted him, and I said he either had to give me some proof of who he was or to leave me alone. I mentioned all of the failed date attempts, all at his behest, and said he had no intention of ever meeting me. The photo I then received told me everything I needed to know.

Why on earth would you buy someone some expensive perfume when you have never met them? Why? But even more bizarrely, look at the reflection in the bottle. Just look. That, my friends, is not the tall, dark, handsome Welsh stranger that had been messaging and calling me constantly for a month. Oh no. That is a total stranger. I have been joking all along about the film Catfish, and it turns out I have just been living it myself. I confronted Seb straight away only to be told I was being paranoid, and then I got a number of messages telling me what a fuck up I was, how I was wrong in the head and how he wished he'd never messaged me. His change of tone confirmed everything I needed to know. I now have more than enough reason to believe I had been being groomed all along. I won't lie, when I thought I was potentially fucking up something with someone I loved the sound of, I felt terrible. But now, I feel relieved. I am trying not to dwell over the hours of chats we have had over the last few weeks because I do feel incredibly violated, despite my constant vigilance of holding things back. I hate that I have given so much of myself to someone who, if we're being honest, I did have some reservations about from the very start before he started to win me over. Late that night he texted me telling me how he was falling in love with me, trying to get me back into open conversation. I told him to leave me alone or I would contact the police. I never heard from him again.
I reported the incident to the police, but since Seb had not harmed me, threatened me nor defrauded me of money, there was no crime. The most they could tell me was that someone with a ‘similar name’ had been reported for something similar a year before, but it wasn’t followed up. The only thing there was to go on were the threatening messages which could be seen as harassment.

Fast forward a week after posting my blog and the first of many revelations happened.

C's story
C was catapaulted into the Seb saga by utter fluke. After spattering my blog all over social networking sites in an attempt to get some answers about who or what Seb was, I was utterly astonished at some outstanding detective work amongst my Facebook friends. One of them recognised the background of the silent disco photo as being in Milton Keynes shopping centre. After posting this observation on my wall, within hours both her and another friend had managed to locate the man in the photos and had sent me links to his profile. His surname was exactly the same as one of the key names in Seb's web of lies. Unbefuckinglievable.

On Sunday morning I wrote perhaps one of the strangest emails that he will have ever received. 'Hello, you don't know me, but I feel like I know you. Don't freak out now, but have a little read of my blog...' Would he reply? I know I would...but this is just too fucking weird right? Right! Sunday night, as if by magic, C got back in touch, and I can safely say he was as totally shocked by what was going on as I was. It turns out that many of the details I had been told, personal details, about his life, likes, loves had been lifted straight from his life. Other details had come from elsewhere. But in any case that, and the fact that I had been sent around 80 photos documenting his life over the last few years, was enough to freak him right out. Every single picture of Seb I'd been sent were actually of C. So where now? I'd been duped by some sort of pathological liar, and C had had his life stolen.

I then went about sending C every photo I had been sent from 'Sebastian' in an attempt to piece together how he could have acquired all these pictures. I sent him as much of a dossier as I could, including the last few digits of his phone numbers in case C could identify it as maybe one of his so-called friends who would have had access to all these pictures. But what we then found out made us both feel physically sick. C emailed me back with Sebastian's exact telephone number, and said it belonged to a 'woman' called Amanda, whom he had been messaging back in 2008 through Plenty of Fish. He had never spoken to her over the phone only text, but like Seb, she'd cancelled meetings on a number of occasions. It turns out we had both been speaking to the same person.

Amanda as sent to C, which we've since traced to having come from a MILF site

C’s ex girlfriend used to work in A&E, as Seb’s ex Laura had, but unlike Laura she was still very much alive and well. C also collected vintage Cortinas and restored them, which had become part of Seb’s story with me. He had also done a to do something new every day for a year. He had a group devoted to this on Facebook, and nearly every single photo Seb had sent me had been lifted from this group. Seb had a different picture to back up every anecdote he had to spin me.

Randomly Amanda had got in touch with C out of the blue by text on that same telephone number in early 2011 asking for photos of buttonfly jeans because he knew that C used to work for Levis. In the spider diagram Seb had sent me, he’d put buttonfly jeans as one of the things he liked.

The phone number both C and I had for Seb / Amanda was 0770* *** 114. They may have also used a phone with the number 0750* *** 375, the number used to send me threatening messages.

Between the two of us, we had C removed from Smooch, updated the police, and that we thought was that. Until two months later...

D’s story

On 25^th July 2011 I had a message on Twitter that made my blood run cold. I had a message from a girl telling me she was the latest ‘idiot’. I messaged her privately to find out what was going on, and it turned out that Seb’s latest victim, the girl he moved onto after me had been shown my blog by her mother, who had grown suspicious that her daughter was falling for a man she’d never met. Understandably she was distraught, and that day cut off all ties with him. After she’d calmed down we messaged at length to try and establish what we both knew about him. As it turns out he’d spun almost an identical web of lies for her.

Over the course of just 2 weeks, D and Seb had spoken on the phone for over 60 hours. He was totally sucking her in. According to her, he was also 35 years old, born on 19^th April, lived in a gated property in Marylebone where everything was painted black and which apart from the lounge which his mum had painted lime green and brown. He’d recently lost his grandfather, and his sister Amanda (37) a sonographer was married to a policeman called Gary and they had a child together, Tilly. He also had a best friend called Steve, who Seb described as ‘short, ginger and rich’ who was marrying a girl in August who was only after him for his money. Seb was due to be the best man, the stag do was on July 15^th and they’d gone paint-balling and playing golf. Both and I had had the same photo backing up Seb’s paint-balling story, one lifted from C's collection.

When D started talking about Seb’s ex Laura, again the same story had rung true. They’d met on a train from Bristol to London, chatted the whole way, had gone for lunch once they arrived and the rest was history. Seb had been teaching in the Bristol area (where he’d had an affair with his headmistress), but relocated to London only six weeks later to be with Laura.

She spoke in detail about his relationship with Laura. They had a turbulent relationship, but they always ended up back together. The last 2 years they spent together, she had been ill and wanted to have a baby and get married before she died, but he didn’t want to be left bringing up a child on his own. At Christmas 2010 after she’d died, he’d had to get his Mum to tell her parents he couldn’t cope with having contact any more. When Laura had died, he’d taken his vintage Cortina (which he won as a bet when he was 18) and drove all the way to Cortina in Italy to get away. As it turns out, C collected and restored old cars, including Cortinas.

D also knew the same information about Seb’s family. His father, Benjamin Pritchard, was originally from Yorkshire and his mum Trish was from Tenby. She’d worked in a hotel, and one night Benjamin and his friends stayed out late so she’d locked them out. Eventually she let him in, and they chatted all through the night. Later, he tracked her down, and they got married and had been together 45 years. Both are also teachers.

Seb’s grandparents were also from Tenby, and were very wealthy. It was Seb’s grandfather Harry that had died. He had a box at Swansea City football club which would always stay in the family. Seb would always take Paul to go and watch from there.

D knew a lot about Paul too. Paul was 7 years older than Seb, and they had met at school. Paul had been left disabled and brain-damaged as a child. Paul’s mum was an alcoholic and had abused him, so he was taken away and put in a home in Milton Keynes. Seb would visit him in Milton Keynes, saw how sad he was to be there, so brought him back to Wales. As it turns out, C is from Milton Keynes.

Paul - Seb's best friend, in hospital

The things D knew Seb loved were Wales, Tenby. Swansea City (he’d ring her up drunk singing Swansea City songs, as he’d done with me), Cortinas, cricket, squash, running, taking photos and art. His best friends were Steve, Lucy and Paul. They’d also play Scrabble a lot, with his username Sebbie 76. D had met him through Smooch, but she’d also found him on OK Cupid.

After finding my blog, she never spoke to or heard from him again. We both thought that was that, and we'd never hear about Sebastian Pritchard-Jones ever again.

Fast forward seven months...

M’s story

M got in touch with me through the blog on 27^th of February this year. She’d also met Seb through Smooch under the same username Soujourn. The couple had been texting and then speaking from April 2011 until June 2011, just before he moved onto me. Once again the same stories rang true – his ex Laura had died, his sister Amanda was a sonographer, he had a brother called Gareth who was a policeman having an affair (almost the same as Josh in my case), his niece Tilly was ill in hospital and his best friend was Paul who she’d actually spoken to over the phone.

As part of their routine, they’d have ‘cuddle time’ in bed over the phone, and she said he’d asked her some of the personal questions he’d asked me which had been met with the same distain. When Seb had got in touch, M had been going through a terrible time nearly losing her mother and she was in a very vulnerable place. Within 4 days of them first messaging he knew about her mum and kept asking more and more questions. He totally got into her head, posing as a knight in shining armour. He’d even tried the ‘get in a cab and I’ll look after you’ line with her which of course she didn’t act upon.

After he stood her up the first time, because Tilly had split her head open and had to go to hospital, he sent a bouquet of 12 red roses to her former workplace which she thought was a very over-the-top gesture. The second time they were due to meet, Seb had texted her half an hour beforehand to confirm details, then told her about Laura and cancelled because he was getting ‘freaked out’ about how things were moving on. Later she had drnken phone calls and text saying he’d made a big mistake, but M called everything off. A few weeks later, Seb got back in touch, and M questioned who he really was and if he had lied. He denied everything, and it all started again.

After standing her up for the second time, M set up a bogus profile on Smooch looking for ‘no strings fun’. She checked out Seb’s profile and they started messaging. She sent him her housemate’s phone number, and was shocked to discover he was sending her very explicit and ‘out of character’ messages. She gave him a fake address, they arranged to ‘meet’, and of course he never turned up, because apparently he had fallen asleep. The next night, he texted again saying he was in Soho and wanted to meet up, and kept calling and calling the phone. Her housemate panicked and didn’t answer, at which point he turned nasty and accused her of being ‘one of his crazy exes’.

M last arranged to meet Seb on 11^th June 2012, knowing full well he would never turn up. He didn’t, and they never spoke again.

In total they had been on contact for 7 weeks, with a 2 week break after he stood her up for a second time. When M and I compared dates, Seb last stood M up 8 days before my first date with Seb, so he had already been lining me up at the end of their ‘relationship’.

This was someone clearly planning the whole duping and grooming process knowing full well that sooner or later his victim's would tire of his psychotic bullshit.

So there we go, three victims and the owner of a stolen identity found, all thanks to some stupid blog piece I wrote bitterly after being stood up. This thing was getting bigger, and weirder. But as I was soon to find out, the three of us had got off lightly....

Rachel’s story

Rachel got in touch with me on 19^th June 2012. She had been sucked in by Seb for 9 months during 2010. But this Seb had a different face.

Once I started to speak to Rachel, the same stories started to come out, but there were some key differences. She had met him through Smooch, but he had gone by the user name Agonal, a medical reference which as a senior ward sister she recognised. He also had different photos, even though the rest of the key information was the same. She later saw him on the same site, but he’d changed his username to Soujourn and his photos had changed. He tried to justify his new wearing of glasses by saying his mum persuaded him to get an eye test, but he was too vain to get glasses. The glasses later became part of his spiel to both D and I, the boy with the ‘disabled eyes’.

She knew Seb was a ‘good Catholic boy’, who taught at a Catholic school and who had been recently promoted to Deputy Head, and bragged about having his name on a plaque on the door, despite not being able to provide photographic evidence. They would also play Scrabble, and he’d send her pictures of chocolate Scrabble letters spelling out messages of love.

Rachel, herself a nurse, had been spun the same lies about Seb’s dead ex, although in her version of events the ex was called Ali. She knew about his niece, Tilly, who had been born to Amanda on 1^st September 2010. He had even rung her from the hospital to tell her the news. Seb would send her many pictures to back up his anecdotes, as well as pictures of his dinners, and later on, also some sexually explicit ones. Rachel had the same number for Seb as the rest of us, but also had a phone number for his sister Amanda, 0785* *** 612.

Their first date was cancelled because his grandfather, known affectionately as ‘the War Hero’, had been taken to hospital, and he later died. Another date was cancelled because Seb had to return to Bristol to testify in a child abuse case from a disclosure at his former school. He had called Rachel from the hotel on his lunch breaks to tell her about the case. The excuses for not meeting just kept on coming, a flooding at his parents property (and having to rescue the disabled tenant), his sister having a baby, problems with Josh and his wife, and counselling sessions to get over his ex.

As she grew increasingly suspicious about these cancellations she tried to find evidence these events took place – no court records of a child abuse case in the Bristol area, no obituary or record of a funeral for his grandfather in Tenby, nothing at all.

Rachel and Seb had a break from October 2010 – December 2010 after Seb manufactured a mammoth falling out. When he tried to patch things up with her, he slipped up by calling his dead ex Laura and not Ali, which Rachel picked up on. In previous stories he’d told Rachel, Laura had been another ex, a radiographer, who had cheated on him. Rachel and Seb were then ‘together’ until June 2011.

Rachel says Seb controlled her life for 9 months. During this time he fluctuated wildly between being loving and affectionate to aggressive and suspicious. He claimed to have bought her perfumes, flowers and other gifts which never emerged. He accused her of cheating, and tried to frighten her by saying that his policeman brother Josh had run a search on her to find out about her infidelities. It's enough to scare the shit out of anyone. It is emotional abuse. And this is the sickest, lowest thing Seb had done to date...

Then only 2 months ago a fifth victim of Sebastian Pritchard-Jones got in contact.

Ali’s story

Yes, Ali - the name of Seb's dead ex in his version of events with Rachel. Ali got in touch with me on 14^th September 2012 after Seb had tried getting back in touch with her via Skype. They had been in a relationship from January 2010 until November 2010. Ali had been so destroyed by Seb, she moved abroad and had to seek counselling as a result. And her Seb, once again, looked totally different, but the backstory was the same.

Ali had met Seb through Guardian Soulmates, under the username SebPJ in January 2010.

Once again, the key information was almost identical, sister was Amanda who had a daughter called Tilly. He had an older brother called Gary who was a policeman, both his parents were teachers and his mum was called Patricia. He grew up in Tenby, his birthday was April 18^th and his friend Steve (Lewis?) was a dentist. His best friend Paul was disabled, who was born on January 6^th and his mum was called Joyce. Seb also claimed to have a medical condition called Addison’s Disease.

The first time Ali was due to meet Seb, he broke his leg whilst playing at a charity football match. As with the rest of his other victims, they would text all day and speak for hours every night. Three weeks later, they were due to meet, but Ali discovered he had given her a false address. He turned his phone off for 3 days and then called her back drunk in tears about his dead wife Laura (not girlfriend). By this point, Ali was smitten, they’d speak until midnight every night, and would sleep with their phones by their pillows as if they were sleeping in the same bed. On Saturdays, they had a routine of picking horses together and placing bets. She also knew about the 4 bedroom house in Marylebone, the art classes, the photography, and the inheritance. They also spoke about the future, and he called her the Future Mrs Pritchard-Jones. She knew him to live off Bosell Street / Balcombe Street, he was a member of 5 Cavendish Square and Wentworth Golf Club.

Whilst they were together, Seb had ongoing issues related to his ex Laura, and Ali said she’d stand by him through therapy. Laura had apparently told Seb she never wanted him to have another woman.

Seb would frequently send Ali gifts, cash with a hand-written note and flowers. He also claimed to have bought her jewellery and clothes, but they never materialised. He also paid for taxis to take her to places, and claimed to have added her to his bank account, although once again that never materialised. Once he transferred a sum of money to her, but the money came from an account under the name of Amanda in April 2010. Seb said he’d had fraud committed on his account, so he’d had to use his sister’s. Then after sending her the gifts, if Ali didn’t appear grateful enough he’d call her selfish and ungrateful, yet another way to exert power over her.

After 4 months of his supposed therapy, they were due to meet up. His family were away in Jamaica at the time, but because of his broken leg, Seb couldn’t go. The family were stuck out there due to the volcanic ash debacle, so when they final returned, Ali and Seb were meant to go and meet his parents together. She woke up at 5am to go to the airport, tried to ring him but his phone was off and she was heart-broken. He didn’t contact her for 2 weeks, and when he did it was to accuse her of being unfaithful and claiming he had proof. By this time, May 2010, things had got back on track, but Ali knew she was never going to meet him.

In June 2010, behind Seb’s back, Ali decided to move to Sydney for good to get away from him. In July 2010, Ali ran the London 10k race, and Seb frightened her by saying he’d seen her there.

Throughout their relationship, Seb was very controlling and jealous. He stopped Ali going out, would tell her he didn’t like the clothes she was wearing and would punish her by putting her in the ‘naughty corner’. He also said he would killer her if anyone else had her.

Ali left for Sydney on 9^th November 2010. 45 minutes before she boarded the plane, Seb rang her to give her one last chance to tell him the truth about cheating on him, because he claimed he had her followed and had photographic evidence. She had been on a date in the latter months, and there was something about the way he phrased it made her think he really did know.

Once Ali was in Sydney, she had very little contact with Seb. He said he’d booked a ticket to go out to Australia to ‘get her’, but of course he never turned up.

So there you have it - Sebastian Pritchard-Jones has worked his sick fucking magic on at least six innocent people. Of course, it won't end there. And it hasn't.

UPDATE

Ali got in touch with me because totally out of the blue, because Seb had got back in contact via Skype trying to wheedle his way back into her life. He'd threatened to go to Australia to find her, but was trying to make her jealous by telling her about the new love of his life, Liz, who by all accounts is either yet another one of his victims or, most probably, is a figment of his fucked up imagination. These pictures are apparently Seb with and his new girlfriend Liz. Yet more stolen photos of unsuspecting people.

Since Ali got in touch, her Rachel and I have been emailing regularly, sharing all the photos and information we have to try and find out more about who the hell this 'thing' is. Ali also has a massive dossier of photos illustrating all of Seb's alleged family and friends. Let me introduce you to them:

Meet Amanda, Seb's sister.

And here's the love of Seb's life, his niece Tilly, a beautiful little girl, and no doubt stolen from someone's cherished personal family album.

You're also probably wondering where the proof is that Seb was married to Laura aren't you? Well here they are, on their wedding day. Whoever this happy couple is, I'll wager they have no idea that this picture is used for such a sick purpose.

He also sent plenty of pictures of his family too, so here you go, you can meet them too - here's Seb enjoying a beverage with his dad, a beautiful portrait of his mum and his Nanna.

Interestingly in one of Ali's photographs she spotted that not one but both of their Seb's were in the same photo. These guys were obviously friends.

Ali's seb is second from the left, right next to Rachel's Seb.

Ali has a number of group shots featuring her Seb, and we need to find out who this guy is as there's no way he can know that one of his 'friends' is using his image, personal parts of his own life to groom and abuse women.

Someone out there must recognise people in these photos and we need them to know what is going on. Who went to Benidorm for Rob's 50th? Surely not that many people. We've found someone like this before and I know we can find them again.

Another really major area of concern with me is that of Paul. This is obviously a very poorly man who's photos are being callously used to curry sympathy for someone for the vilest reasons possible. We have accumulated a number of photos of Paul that Seb has been sending around various women and it's not fucking right. The person behind this sickery must have contact or access to him, and his family and carers need to know about it. It chills me to the bone that someone is using someone like this for such ill means, but unfortunately this is the only way I can let people know about it.

So there you go, Sebastian Pritchard-Jones strikes again. Someone out there must recognise people in these pictures. Someone out there must have heard these stories before. I always had my reservations that the internet harboured a whole load of weird, and this is one pretty bloody good example. This creature is stealing lives, weaving lies and doing a whole lot of emotional harm. But who's to say he'll stop there? Please help us find him. Email this article to everyone you know, tweet it, slap it all over your Facebook and help us stop this mind-fuckery before more people get hurt.

And if you have heard any of these stories before, if you've been a victim of this serial nutjob or know anyone in any of these pictures, please please email me. I don't believe for one minute any of these innocent people shown in these pictures know about or would ever consent to them being used in the manner with which they are, and I want to do everything I can to stop any more people getting hurt by what appears to be a very sick and very sad individual.

Until next time readers...and mark my words, there will be a next time...

A new beginning, a new blog...

2012-09-03T13:51:00.001+01:00

So obviously 52 First Dates is done and dusted, but I've been left with a gaping hole in my life...not a man-shaped one, but a writing one. I've decided to start up a new blog to keep the writer's itch away (the cream just wasn't doing the trick...) and I wanted to invite the dear readers of 52 First Dates to check it out if they so wish. Sadly it's not dating related, but hopefully that won't deter you too much...

So without further ado, I give you The Girl Least Likely To... which began last week with a rather special event. I hope you like it.

CTS x

Mr #52 - The Great Dane

2012-07-29T21:48:00.002+01:00

The preamble:

I don't actually need to tell you an awful lot about the preamble leading up to Mr 52 - The Great Dane, because you guys chose him yourself by public vote. A friend of his had originally suggested he got in touch and put himself forward to be Mr 52, and fast forward a month or so and the prospect of me actually hopping on a plane and popping over to Denmark became very real indeed. But as promised, we chose a date, I booked my tickets, and waited for the day to roll around. In the interim we'd bonded over our mutual love of Eddie Izzard, cheese, Tim Minchin, cake, turning Disney films into grammar lessons, the possibility of time travel, meteoromancy, Douglas Adams,a gallbladder called Merv and bacon, so I was pretty convinced we'd be able to find something to talk about on the date. Brace yourself for an epic write up of an epic date...

The man:

Age: 27

Profession: Computer games designer

Random factoid: He is a full time resident of Copenhagen and the final date in my year-long challenge of 52 First Dates. I know that's not so much of a random factoid, but it's certainly a title worthy of some sort of a badge, at least.

The date:

The date for me started at a rather antisocial 5am yesterday, made even more so thanks to the fact that the entire nation had been up partying the night away because of the Olympic ceremony, and after all the fireworks had stopped I managed to only grab 4 hours sleep. But as is always the way on a big day, I was literally cast out of bed by an imaginary poltergeist and thrown into the shower before I had a chance to contemplate whether I was hungover or not. Two Tube rides and a train journey later, I was at Gatwick, on my own, passport in hand, thinking 'what the fuck am I doing?'. But I knew what I was doing. I was about to get on a plane to fly to a country I'd never been to before, where I didn't know a word of the native language, to go on a date with a boy I'd never even spoken to. It was either the coolest thing I'd ever done, or the craziest. Perhaps a mixture of both. I won't lie, I was bricking it. The pressure was on. Not only was there the geographical pressure, but the fact this was the final date in my epic quest was also in the forefront of my mind. I also really wanted it to go well, to end the blog on a high, although I suspected whatever that outcome was, Mr 52 and I would get on. One slightly nervous phone call to my mum later, and it was time to get on the plane. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Cue come photos to illustrate aeroplane travel:

So fast forward 2 hours and I'm setting foot in Denmark. On checking my phone, I saw that The Great Dane had sent me an email and it seemed he was equally in denial about what was about to happen too - certainly I don't think either of us thought when he sent me that very first email 6 or so weeks earlier that I'd actually end up on his nation's doorstep knocking to see if he wanted to come out and play. We were both excited and terrified in equal measure, but certainly for me it was absolutely the right thing to do, both for myself and for the blog. The last date deserved to be something a little bit special. And you readers decided international travel was what it needed. My fear of flying and I thank you greatly. I'll tell you now, as I walked through those arrival gates my heart was in my mouth. That morbid fear of the unknown date that first prompted me to set about 52 First Dates had made a surprising cameo appearance, and I was terrified. But as soon as I clapped eyes on The Great Dane and he was exactly as I had imagined, it evaporated into the hot Danish air. He was very tall, handsome and smiley, and I wouldn't mind betting partially in shock that I'd actually turned up. Greetings were swift, and we headed off to the Metro to find our way into town for the date.

As a Londoner, I expect public transport everywhere else in the world to be equally as nightmarish - a thousand different lines, sweltering heat, and being trapped in the armpits of a sweaty stranger. In Copenhagen, they have only two lines. Just two. Even I couldn't get lost here! Actually I probably could, given that it turns out Danish words sound nothing remotely like the way they're written to a native English speaker, but more on that later. And luckily there were no sweaty armpits to get stuck into, although it was really rather warm, and I was trying my best to chat to The Great Dane without looking like my make up was sliding off my face withing the first 10 minutes of our meeting. When he'd first written to me, he'd mentioned that he was very shy, and when faced with a strange little English girl, that shyness decided to take a trip on the Metro with us. It's obviously very easy for me to be vocal about my pre-date nerves, since I've been on more dates than lots of people have had hot dinners, but I always forget how it must feel for the other person, particularly when their date has flown nearly 1000km to go and see them. But we chatted on nonetheless, mostly me honking on about the Olympics opening ceremony from the night before, and how random it was that I'd actually turned up.

Our first port of call was an area of Copenhagen called Christiantown (and I apologise in advance to any Danish readers who might spot glaring mistakes in me spelling etc - I'm not sure how I'll get some of your linguistic symbols in here yet so it may be a bit of a challenge). Christiantown is a sort of independent hippy commune slash nature reserve in the centre of town where there's a green light area for marijuana, lots of shrubbery, lots of water, and an awesome collection of houses hand-built by their owners. Imagine Occupy London, but with less attitude, greater commitment and much better architectural skills. We wandered around for a good hour or so in the baking heat, watching the locals potter around on their bicycles, seeing dragonflies go about their business, errant golf carts and the teeny tiniest frog I've ever seen in my life scamper off into the undergrowth. The Great Dane was in full tour guide mode, which I think must've taken a lot of the 'date' pressure off, and he did an exceptionally good job too of showing me all the key landmarks, telling me about the local history, before we drifted off into the territory of dubbing foreign films, Disney, property prices, and how best to avoid untimely death. The highlights of this part of the day for me were the little frog, watching The Great Dane leap around the pathway to avoid squishing the many snails that had come out to join us en route, and spotting a really cool table and chairs, complete with tea set that had been set up in the middle of the water for the ducks to sit on.

Pretty soon our nature reserve yomp had given us quite a thirst, so we sat in the sun outside a refreshments shack in Christiantown sipping on an icy cold cola and watching the locals. As a little gift, I'd brought along a copy of Douglas Adam's The Deeper Meaning of Liff which I knew he'd never read, plus a tiny knitted Apple Mac computer I'd made, and we sat chuckling over the definition of Twomileborris (noun): A popular East European outdoor game in which the first person to reach the front of the meat queue wins, and the losers have to forfeit their bath plugs. Once the drinks had been quaffed, we set sail again to have a wander into the main part of town. It turns out, Copenhagen has a shed load of churches and a shed load of theatres. The Great Dane's knowledge of his hometown was exceptional, but my favourite parts of the tour were the things that probably weren't on the usual tours: where he works, a street affectionately known as 'the Piss Street', and the statues of famous Danes outside the university that he had no idea who they were, but guessed their profession by their haircut. He was noticeably more relaxed, and I finally felt like I wasn't terrifying him any longer by being a foreign visitor. And what made me feel even more at home was someone had kindly gone and grafittied my initials about the place which made me feel even more welcome. How very kind.

We gradually headed further into town where The Great Dane had decided we'd have lunch. His chosen venue? The Royal Cafe. This place is awesome. A traditional Danish dish is smørrebrød, which is a sort of open sandwich, but at the Royal Cafe, they give it 'a contemporary sushi twist', and call is 'smushi'. They're in delightfully small portions, so you choose a few different dishes as you would in a sushi restaurant. It's impossible not to love smushi based on the name alone. But you'd love it even more when it comes out to the table. Cue photo of food porn (if only I had Instagram, my BlackBerry camera just didn't do these justice)...

From left to right, I chose a potato and smoked cream cheese smushi on a round little rye bread with radishes, asparagus and little fresh beansprouty type things, a wafer thin marinated beef smushi on a slice of tomato and rye break with wasabi cream, onion slivers and a caperberry, and a puff pastry triangle with a creamy chicken salad smushi with peas, carrot ribbons and more beansprouty business. And it was all beautifully served on a tile made by the pottery company next door. It was exceptional. I've never eaten anything so beautiful (and tasty, of course!) in my life. We sat outside in this cobbled courtyard, neither of us wanting to destroy these little edible works of art, mulling over whether it would be practical to live in a hexagonal tower (part of this awesome building next door, testing out regional accents (he does a very convincing Australian) and staring in awe at the beard that must've taken the waiter about 3 years to cultivate. Soon enough, the smushis had mysterious vanished and coincidentally our bellies had burgeoned, and it was onwards with the tour.

Lots of churches and theatres and funny little back streets and local trivia later, we'd started to walk off our smushi-tums. The Great Dane took great pleasure in trying to get my to try and pronounce all these long place names which I was ashamedly utterly crap at, but it was funny having a go anyway. I don't think I've ever encountered a language where I've literally not had any clue where to start, as normally I'm pretty good at picking up the odd foreign word or phrase. The best I could do was try the Danish word 'hygglig', which is a fundamental aspect of Danish culture, and the Danish word for Gummibears, 'Bubbi Bjørnene'. You can listen to the theme tune sung in Danish here. But time was ticking on, and The Great Dane was determined to take me for cake before I had to get my flight, since we'd spent an awful lot of our preamble talking about sweet treats. So we arrived at La Glace, and then bamboozled ourselves with the menu. I've never seen cakes like it, and their macaroons were absolutely beautiful. I'm kicking myself for not taking more photos, but their website shows them much better than I ever could. Sadly for us, we'd arrived 5 minutes before closing, so we had to buy to take away, but bought we did! I went for the Othellokage and The Great Dane went for the Æblekage. So with cake in hand (but without cutlery which in hindsight was an error), we grabbed some iced coffee slash slushy drinks and went to find somewhere outside to eat cake. And, as if on cue, it started to rain. Brilliant. We wandered through the streets of Copenhagen half on the hunt for somewhere to sit and half on the hunt for free plastic cutlery. The Great Dane struck gold by half-inching some of the tiniest plastic spoons I've ever seen from a nearby ice cream vendor, and eventually we made it back to the canal lock where it had stopped raining, but the wind had taken up the helm instead. Try eating custardy cake in the wind with long hair. It's neither easy nor sexy. But needless to say it was pretty awesome eating Copenhagen's finest cake watching tour boats waft on by. The Great Dane had long-dispensed with the sensible tour information by this point, and instead was telling me how actually we were sat by the River Styx, and when the tourists pay the ferryman, he takes them to the end of the canal whereby the entire boat plunges into hell. Excellent!

Sadly time was not on our side, and the prospect of a return flight to London was ever more pressing, so we hopped back on the Metro and headed back plane-wards. The Great Dane spent the entire journey back trying to explain to me the ticket system for the Metro, which I was apparently totally incapable of comprehending, either because a. I was borderline delirious from lack of sleep or b. because I was an utter moron. Once back at the airport, and I'd successfully misread every single Danish sign en route and finally managed how to work the self check in system, it was time to say goodbye. We had a hug at the bottom of the escalator, and I wandered off to security. The minute I'd gone through the gates that you can't get back through I was immediately stung with regret that I'd not suggested we went for a beer at the airport to round off what had been a really wonderful day. Suddenly I was on my own again at the terminal, exhausted after a day's travel and touring, and I started to feel rather tired and emotional. This was it, the end of 52 First Dates. I'm embarrassed to admit I shed a few tears whilst sat cuddling a 1kg bad of Daim Bars I'd irrationally bought to try and use up some Danish Krone, and I can't really tell you why I did. I checked my phone again and the response I'd already been getting through texts and tweets and Facebook told me there were lots of people around the world who'd been waiting for news on the date, and rather cruelly didn't tell them very much other than the fact I was back at the airport again.

One eventful flight featuring some free white wine and a woman with a broken arm later and I was back in Blighty. And finally, after four tube ride, two flights, two Metro journeys and a bus ride, 17 hours after I'd left home, I was back there again. Shattered, emotional, but happy.

Memorable Quotes:

There were loads throughout the whole date, but I can't remember them off the top of my head. But this was the first date ever where I'd not taken a single note.

Events of note:

Too many to mention - smushis, frogs, cake, canals, flights...

The verdict:

So here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for. The verdict on Mr #52, The Great Dane, the final date of my epic 52 First Dates quest. Yes, we will hopefully see each other again, we've already mentioned the possibility of him popping over to London so I can try and play tour guide in return, so we'll just have to wait and see. As for romance? Who knows. I think maybe I spoilt that a little bit by the very nature of the date - me flying in from another country for the day and relying on some poor guy to impress me with his hometown as well as himself. In some ways, the tour element will have been a welcome distraction to the 'date' factor, but in other ways it may have been a bit of a hindrance. I really don't know. This distance thing is a real bugger to be honest, it's not like he lives just down the road, and we can pop out for a few more nights and see how it goes, it has to be a lot more contrived than that, and that's the unknown quantity. But what I do know is Copenhagen is a really awesome city, and The Great Dane lived up to his name, a really awesome guy. This, for me, is a very happy ending to a very long year. Watch this space.

PS:
As a further note, I have to say I can't believe 52 First Dates is finally over. Fuck! Over the last 13 months or so, I've been on 52 dates with 52 completely different men. I won't lie, it's not been easy. Sometimes it's been scary, sometimes it's been weird, sometimes it's been fun. But now it's over I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. Do I celebrate? Do I comiserate? I honestly don't know. But what I do know, and I'm teary as I type, is I need to thank you all for sticking with me along this journey. It's genuinely been a life-changing experience for me and I don't regret a single minute of it. But I wouldn't have been able to do it without the kind words of encouragement that my wonderful readers...my virtual friends...have sent me every step of the way. It's been a wonderful assurance knowing that so many of you have been living these experiences with me, and hopefully enjoying them. Honestly, that means the world. So from the bottom of my heart I thank you. for reading, and I thank you for chosing such a wonderful 52nd date for me. I already have plans with what will happen to 52 First Dates away from here, but in terms of this blog I hope to carry on writing in some form or other, so you won't have heard the last of me yet. Sorry about that.

Thank you

CTS x

And the winner is...

2012-07-16T17:27:00.001+01:00

So that's it. The lines have been closed, the votes have been individually counted and verified, and I can now reveal that the identity of Mr #52 is (drum roll please...)

Mr #52A - The Great Dane!

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who voted for your favourite, and more especially, to the five very game gentlemen who allowed me to put them up for the final vote. It was actually a pretty closely run battle, the leader changed a couple of times, and at the end there were only 20 votes in it. But many congratulations to The Great Dane, and good luck...you may need it!

Stay tune for further updates! Now, where did I leave my passport...

Mr #52 - The Final Five

2012-07-11T14:00:00.003+01:00

So, this is it folks. A month ago I put a rather pitiful message out to the internet appealing for potential candidates to be the final date in my 52 First Dates challenge because, quite frankly, I would really love a happy ending to the blog, and I’d been doing a pretty rubbish job of finding decent men online. And you’ll never guess what...I actually got some responses! From nice guys! I know, you’re probably as shocked as I am! But delighted nonetheless. So anyway, over the last few weeks, I’ve been emailing back and forth, and finally I’ve been able to narrow them down to these five chaps below. And for the record, I would love to go on a date with each and every one of them. But there can be only one. To protect their identity, I’ve given them each a pseudonym, and there are no photos here, because that’s not what it’s about. Let me introduce them to you, and why I wanted them to be in my final five *cue some sort of dramatic Apprentice-style music in my mind*

Mr 52A – aka The Great Dane

The Great Dane and I initially bonded over a mutual love of Eddie Izzard, why cheese is the best thing ever, how Disney can be used to teach grammar, and irresponsibly long hash tags. He’s 27, works as a software developer, and lives in the glorious city of Copenhagen. He has an awesome sense of humour, the capacity to endure 11 days at a festival without dying of alcohol poisoning, sunstroke or cholera, a command of the English language that puts most of us native speakers to shame, and he looks excellent in sunglasses. He can also bake.

Mr 52I – aka Not So Keane

Not So Keane and I first hit it off over comedy typos, why cucumber and celery should be made illegal, the merits and pitfalls of a Pret crack-mayo addiction, but most of all, of our mutual hatred of Keane. He’s 33, works as a draughtsman mapping the new sewer system under the Thames and is a fellow resident of London town. He too has an excellent sense of humour (you’ll see a theme developing here), an awesome appreciation of food programmes and is only ever photographed in multiples of four.

Mr 52J – aka Twinkletoes

Twinkletoes and I have actually been in touch on and off for the last 6 months or so, and we were at some point meant to go on a date, but this never really happened. Twinkletoes caught my attention largely because he calls me Twinkletoes with no obvious regret, but mainly because he has a maturity level similar to myself (chuckles at rude-shaped fruit), we like the same music and he can move his eyebrows independently. Twinkletoes is 26, an IT Project Manager who I believe might still live with his mum, although I can’t quite remember. He’s also a cheeky chappy and an ardent royalist who tries to curry sympathy by diagnosing himself with brittle bones.

Mr 52K – aka Lethal Brizzle

Lethal Brizzle first caught my attention when he sent me a link to his dating profile and I read the words ‘handy with a screw driver’. There are, of course, other redeeming features, such as similar tastes in music, the ability to sport a beard with aplomb, and the fact he offered to bring Fruit Pastilles on a first date. He’s a 29 year old ‘IT professional’ (I still don’t know what that means, you do computer shit, right?) who resides in the charming city of Bristol. Why did I like him? He is introduced as ‘the infamous Lethal Brizzle’ at weddings, occasionally wears hi-vis, and has been known to use his shoes as a pillow.

Mr 52O –aka Captain C-Diff

Captain C-Diff first wrote to me recommendation from a friend of his, and what struck me about him was his delightful inability to monitor his inner monologue, our mutual adoration of Elf and his love of writing (which, luckily for him, happens to also be his job). He is a 35 year old copywriter from Cardiff (hence his pseudonym, he’s definitely not a potentially lethal virus to the best of my knowledge) who calls his best friend his boyfriend and ranks St Elmo’s Fire (Man In Motion) as his all time favourite power ballad. When he’s not writing things, he also sends random girls infographics about malted milk biscuits over the internet.

So who should I go on a date with? Now, and rather tentatively I do so, I’m handing it over to you to cast your vote. You can choose who you’d like to be Mr #52 up until midnight on Sunday 15^th July (I’m not sure why then exactly, but most of these things seem to end at a midnight on a Sunday, so I may as well follow suit) and I’ll let you all know who the (un)lucky fellow is next week. So what are you waiting for? Cast your votes.....NOW! <--- there's a link under the word NOW, just in case you missed it. People do sometimes, especially when the word is so short. Probably should've thought that through earlier. Probably shouldn't be dwelling on it so much)

Parish Notices - Reply To: PO Box 49

2012-07-06T14:10:00.000+01:00

Now then folks, this post is a little out of the ordinary, and I know you’re waiting with baited eyes for the shortlist for number #52, but I wanted to take this opportunity to alert you to an exciting little love-related expo that’s popping up in London town next week.

The event is called Reply to: PO Box 49, and it’s a celebration of over 300 years of the lonely heart’s ad (the first ever one was published in 1695, fancy that! That’s even longer than I’ve been single!). It’s an experiential live theatre event which will be held in the delightful Battersea Mess and MusicHall from Wednesday 11^th of July until Saturday 14^th of July. It includes works from over 70 creatives including film-makers, directors, actors and singers, and documents the eternal quest for love, from the very first lonely heart’s ad to modern day interweb dating. When you enter the event, you’ll be led and coerced through the series of scenes around the building by elusive guides and cross-century characters, and you’ll be absorbed into the weird and wonderful pan-historical world of lonely hearts.

Why am I telling you this? Well one of the lovely producers got in touch having read my other dating blog, Internet Berating, which is all about the weirder side of internet dating emails, asking if I’d like to be involved somehow. And of course, since I’ve become some sort of self-styled Queen of Lonely Hearts, I said yes! So as part of Reply to: PO Box 49, a selection of my dating emails will be performed, recorded, and played in a wide variety of different places including a busy train station and the toilets, and quite frankly, I’m delighted! I shall be popping along to the event myself on Wednesday, which of course will coincide with the reveal of my shortlisted candidates for Mr #52, so I plan to celebrate with a cheeky cocktail or two, and an interactive theatrical experience. Lovely.

So where’s the summary of all the key info? Why, right here of course:

WHAT?

Reply to: Po Box 49

A History of the Lonely Heart

A Curious Dave Production

WHEN?

Wednesday 11th July - Saturday 14th July 2012

Battersea Mess & Music Hall, SW11 1DJ

HOW CAN I ATTEND?

Website and tickets : www.replytopobox49.com

Price: Only £10, for a romantic experiential theatrical artistic adventure. That's like buy one get four free!

I’M ON TWITTER, AND I WANT TO FOLLOW?

Twitter : @PObox49 #PObox49

So what are you waiting for? Click, book, go, and prepare to be moved, amused, shocked and intrigued. But the one thing you won’t be is lonely...

Mr #52?

2012-06-11T16:58:00.001+01:00

So, I’ve finally done it! 51 first dates down and now it’s time for the last one. I won’t lie, it’s been an awesome experience, for a myriad of weird and wonderful ways. And now I’m faced with the final date, and somehow I’m sad to let it go. For the last couple of months, I fear I’ve maybe lost sight of the purpose of this project – to find someone special – because as soon as the big five two hove into view, the competitive part of me wanted to reach the bitter end. But perhaps that’s what it’s become, bitter, and that’s not doing the blog any justice at all. I knew I had to get to number #52 and I knew I had to do something very special for it. 52 First Dates deserves to end on a high, and of course, I’d rather like a happy ending for me too.

My first plan of action involved doing what I have never done in this entire process – putting my pride on the line asking someone nice out on a date, and being the one to make the effort. Over the last four months or so, I’d struck up a rather lovely long distance correspondence with a rather lovely single Danish boy. We’d spoken about the big serious things: religion, love, family values, as well as the trivial things: Will Ferrell, rum, cake, coffee, log cabins and knitwear. As the last few dates approached, I’d decided to swallow my pride and do the unthinkable: to summon up the proverbial balls ask this boy to be Mr 52. Because whatever would have happened, assuming he agreed in the first place, I knew we’d get on as people, and I knew it’d end the blog on a high. I had this silly idea that for the grand finale of 52 First Dates I’d bake a cake, hop on a plane to Copenhagen, deliver said cake and hopefully share a slice over a cheeky espresso, and then hop back on the plane to England again. For me, it’d have been positive closure to what has been a life-changing experiment, and for everyone who’s stuck with me through the blog, their chance to see me do something different and positive. Good plan right? Yes, in principle...

Trouble was, in the interim of my making this decision, the lovely Danish boy had found himself his own rather lovely girlfriend. Ah. I’m not the sort of girl to meddle with other people’s happiness, so that idea bit the dust pretty sharpish. But DP, if you're reading this, there's still a cappuccino cupcake with your name on it should you ever end up in London town.

Anyway, back at the ranch, I was once again left with the quandary of how to make date #52 as special as I’d hoped. Enter my good friend Maggot*, a PR guru who then suggested in so many words that my choices of dates have been pretty poor at best and fucking diabolical at worst, and to let the long-suffering readers of 52 First Dates choose the final date for me!

Brilliant!

So, dearly beloved readers of 52 First Dates, this is where you come in. I put it to you that since you probably all know me better than myself by now, having endured every buttock-clenchingly cringe-worthy moment of the last 51 weeks of my life, that you help to find Mr #52 for me. You may know the perfect person to tick this elusive box, or even fancy yourself for this coveted slash much-afeared position. Well now’s the time to play Cupid and get that little bow and arrow of yours out (but perhaps leave the nappy at home). You’ve been on these dates with me (virtually), you know the sorts of things and people I like and don’t like, I’m obviously making a total balls-up of finding a boyfriend myself so perhaps you can do a better job.

Perhaps.

All you need to do is get your proposed Mr #52 (or in fact yourself if you fancy being the boy to break 52 First Dates) to email me with some information about themselves / yourself and a photograph, and hopefully some light-hearted correspondence will ensue (although I must add by means of a casual disclaimer that this isn’t guaranteed, not because I’m rude or anything like that, I’m always happy to email, but I’m just a bit shit at times, especially when I’m in the middle of moving house).

I’ve given myself a month to do this because quite frankly I’ve grown too cynical about this whole dating malarkey, and I figure a month sans dates will give me enough time to get my turbulent domestic situation sorted and more importantly to cleanse my former date-induced scepticism so Mr #52 has the fairest of shots. Therefore, on the 11th of July 2012, I shall short-list 5 possible candidates (or just list them if five or less apply for the date which is more than likely) and I’ll open them up to a poll whereby you vote for the final date of 52 First Dates. I do trust you will be kind. I will then go on said date, and write it up so you all know how it went. Simples! And, as an added incentive, if you voted for the right Mr #52 and I end up marrying him, you will of course all be invited to the wedding**.

In the interest of fairness, I should probably also give you some vital information about myself (or lifted from my online dating profile) so budding Mr #52s know a little bit about who or what they’re up against.

Name: CTS (obviously not my real name, but my real initials)

Age: 31

Profession: Edit producer formerly in television, now for a charity.

Random factoid: Used to be a falconer

Likes: knitting, baking, chutney-making, playing the piano, cake, teaching her parrots pointless things, writing in the third person, Tim Minchin, weird films, dark comedy, gigs, blowing raspberries, a wide range of cheeses, cats, Elf, sarcasm, writing, secret London pubs, feathers, loud guitars and louder drums, regional accents, festivals, crispy smoked bacon, Hackney, taxidermy, Eddie Izzard, my nephew, a good book, riding around on the top deck of the bus, cricket, the correct use of grammar, the Overground, lie ins, Charlie Brooker, overripe bananas, being independent, the ukulele, long words, antidisestablishmentarianism.

Dislikes: lateness, bad grammar, stubbing my toe, cucumber, the word ‘moist’, arrogance, spiders, Keane, being disappointed in the human race, the Daily Express, laziness, low-fat spreads, money-lovers, seafood sticks, noisy eaters, unripe bananas, football hooligans, Marley and Me, people who chew gum with their mouths open, the tube.

Would like to meet: Someone fun, funny, possible funny-looking but ideally not funny-smelling. Own teeth and hair essential (or at least acceptable substitutes toupees notwithstanding). Someone who likes to ponder the pointless as well as the poignant. Someone who can make me laugh. Someone who will hopefully not make me cry (unless it’s through laughter, see previous point). Artists, musicians, creative types especially welcome.

Oh, I have a face too. This is it.

So to sum up, I CTS ask you lovely readers to help me find my happy ending. You can help me out by spreading the word, passing this on, telling your friends and helping me round 52 First Dates off with a wonderfully big bang. So until next time, thank you and goodnight.

Mr #51 - The Stinky Ginger

2012-06-08T13:44:00.000+01:00

The preamble:

Right, Mr #51, the penultimate date of 52 First Dates. Excited? Admittedly I wasn’t, but that’s because the poor timing of my house move has sapped all of my energy and enthusiasm for pretty much everything except removals, mortgages, and the frighteningly amount of money I appear to be haemorrhaging all over the place at the moment. So as has been the case over the last few dates, I had a panic, and accepted the next date that came my way. He looked smart, sounded sane, and was really rather ginger. In my experience of ginger gents, they usually have about 20% more personality and humour than the average chap presumably as a self-defense mechanism cultivated at school when kids are mean about things like this, so I thought I’d be in for an entertaining evening.

The man:
Age: 30

Profession: Freelance computer programmer. Currently unemployed.

Random factoid: He’s currently taking singing lessons.

The date:

We’d arranged to meet at Oxford Circus at 7pm, on account of the fact that Mr #51 didn’t know anywhere to go in Soho, so once again I had to think of somewhere to go. So, at 7pm on the dot, I stood myself in the entrance of Nike Town, and texted to let him know I was there. He promptly replied and said he hadn’t left yet. Great. So I decided to potter around Top Shop in the warm, waiting for my date to turn up and trying not to spend money. I may have accidently put my face in a cupcake whilst avoiding the allure of the jewellery section, but what can you do! My poor wallet was crying out for some action, and my empty tummy was also shouting out, so it was a compromise I had to make. Half an hour later, my phone went, and Mr #51 had arrived. I found him propped up outside Top Shop in all his titian glory, with tatty black jeans, a sort of aubergine velour tracksuit top on and a big stubbly grin. We greeted, and rather embarrassingly I went for the one kiss on the cheek, whereas he went for a full on hug and ended up snogging my neck. Brilliant, an awkward introduction. My favourite. Anyway he seemed cheery enough, so I proposed a couple of pubs up Great Portland Street, and we started walking and talking. He had a brilliant Northern Irish accent which I really love, but I really had to fight the urge to join in with the Ulsterness for fear of offending. As we moseyed up the street, we chatted about London, and since he’d only been a resident for just over a year (and only in Clapham), he was forgiven for his geographical ignorance. We happened upon a reasonable looking pub, so we ducked in and grabbed a table. First impressions, once the awkwardness of the snog-hug had worn off were that he was quite nice, very dry, but nice. As he warmed up, he also had a pretty decent sense of humour. But he was obviously knackered, and whilst I was trying to ‘give good date’, he did spend the majority of the time rubbing his face like an over-tired toddler. We covered music, playing instruments, festivals, vegetarianism, comedy, camping, pets and cannibals. He took great pleasure in telling me how that day he’d been for a test at an employment agency, and he’d sat in a room cheating on his iPhone. He also decided to tell me about the drugs he’d taken, and recommended I didn’t try miaow miaow on account of it turning him into a zombie. Lovely. Thanks for the tip. After a couple of drinks, the face-rubbing got even worse, so we decided to call it a day. And just as we stood up to leave, he dropped a bombshell. Quite literally. From his bottom. I have never smelt anything quite like it in my entire life. And it was definitely him, as it sure as hell wasn’t me and there was no-one else within a 7 metre radius. It was inhumane, I could even taste it. The look on his face said he hoped I hadn’t noticed, but the look on my face must’ve given it totally away. My immediate reaction was to start talking about public transport and how best he could get home, and we quietly but stealthily headed off to the tube, where I left him, before I ducked into Tesco Express to buy some mints to stick up my nose. Game over Mr #51.

Memorable Quotes:
‘Do you need to take cats for walks?’

‘Stephen Fry is too intelligent for me’

‘In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t do too well in the sun’

Events of note:

En route to the pub, we both stopped for some money, and there was a homeless guy sat right next to cash point where I was stood. Suddenly, an inopportune gust of wind lifted my dress right in front of this poor guy’s face, as if to say ‘Sorry dude, no cash, but here’s an ass’. I Monroed a hobo. Classy CTS, very classy.

The Verdict:
There was part of me that thought before going on #51 that the poor bugger didn’t stand a chance being so close to the end, but I did genuinely enter into the date with an open mind. And although for the most part the chat was fine and at times amusing, I felt like I was talking to someone a lot more immature than me, not just in personality stakes but in life stales too. But the final blow (literally) came with that dirty protest of his at the last minute, and after dropping a botty-bomb such as that, no thanks, no chance. So there you have it, 51 dates and still going. But there’s only one left. Who will it be? Well, let me tell you know, it’s going to be something a little bit different, and I’m going to need your help. Stay tuned for further instructions...

Mr #50 - the Nutter

2012-06-05T20:15:00.000+01:00

The preamble:

So once again I owe you guys an apology - not for going on my date #50 late, oh no, I did meet him in good time, I've just not got round to writing him up on account of being homeless. So many apologies, and for this very same reason I fear Mr #51 may be a little tardy in the offing too...but since you've stuck with me this far, I hope you'll not object too much. Anyroad, Mr #50, would you like to meet him? Good. So Mr #50 had been messaging on and off for a couple of weeks, he looked very nice and safe, he used full sentences when texting which always a ticks a certain box with me. And amid the chaos of my packing and moving and misplacing most of my essential possessions, we arranged to meet near Angel for a drink.

The man:
Age: 37

Profession: Importer of gourmet foods, namely nuts and dried fruit

Random factoid: There was nothing random about this man whatsoever. Which was all in all rather disappointing...

The date:

Before we met, Mr #50 had promised to take me out on the Sunday afternoon for tea and cake. But as the date crept ever nearer, he retracted his offer in favour of a quiet Pimms, which under normal circumstances I wouldn't mind, but I'd been sat in all bloody day waiting for some bastard from Freecycle to come and collect my sofa (they never turned up by the way, I know you were wondering...) and I'd had cake on the brain for hours. When we confirmed our plans on the day, I was surprised that Mr #50 actually rang me a couple of times, which always catches me off guard a little as most people opt for the text approach rather than risk hearing what the other person sounds like and bottling it. You know what? He sounded lovely. Nice and normal. Great. Cake retraction forgiven. And I was looking forward to meeting him. So that evening I managed to peel myself away from my boxes to scamper over to Angel, where I met Mr #50. He was tall, dark, handsome with rather lovely blue eyes. Excellent work I thought! So we pottered off to a pub of my choosing, equipped ourselves with a pair of Pimmses and got to know each other. Within a relatively short space of time, I'd established that Mr #50 was rather passive aggressive. He controlled the conversation with almost military precision, and whenever he tired of a subject and wanted to move on, he'd use the same phrase every time: 'oh it's all fun and games isn't it'. Over time, this got a little wearing. Conversation, at his behest, was mostly about relationships - infidelity (he'd been with his ex for 9 years before she left him for someone else), kids, home-buying, utilities companies, and his business. We're both in the same position as we're both in the process of buying somewhere to live, and are technically homeless, but he kept putting everything about his move into the perspective that he'd like to buy somewhere that when he gets into a relationship (which he may have mentioned about a million times) that he'll think about where they should both live, and rent his place out. This man was frighteningly keen to settle down. But then to try and counteract this incredibly keen assertion that he wants to move in with someone, he'd then profess who finding dating 'terribly fickle', and that he doesn't have the energy anymore. Not convinced sunshine. Not in the slightest. He was also all-too-keen to over analyse me, calling me 'my own person' (what the fuck does that mean when it's at home?), telling me I was very 'London' (what do you mean by that, likening me to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world) and subtly patronising me for the fact that I live alone, am buying my own place and I have my own independence. The final nail in the coffin was when he managed to make me jaw drop by saying that if we were to get together, because both of us are homeless, we'd have to get 'at it' in the back of his Mini, like (and I quote) 'a pair of horny teenagers'. Game over. Game well over! Fortunately we were both sucking on dry mint leaves at this point, and seeing it was a school night, I made my excuses to leave. And despite my favourable first impressions, I did not look back.

Memorable Quotes:
'I don't want to have to resort to Thai brides until I'm at least 50'

'There's only so exciting almonds can be'. You're telling me!

Events of note:

Taking subtle notes on the decor in the pub for my new place...taxidermied birds, bowler hat lamp shades and dog print upholstery are now on the 'to buy' list.

The Verdict:
Am I going to see him again? No chance. I'd like to meet someone who appreciates my independence and also is content to have their own. Not someone who suddenly want to leap straight in to co-habitation and instantly becoming joined at the hip (in both senses of the word). I'm sure there's a lady out there in exactly the position to tick his proverbial boxes, but she ain't me. No siree.

Mr #49 - The Mole

2012-05-25T22:00:00.000+01:00

The preamble:

Okay confession time again folks. Mr #49 was yet another last minute booking on account of the fact that I’m moving home in less than two weeks, and the fact that I a. Don’t have anywhere to go to and b. Don’t seem to have thrown out a single thing in the last 6 years has meant I’ve been somewhat preoccupied with my living situation and my forthcoming dates have slipped down my priorities list a little. Something more important than 52 First Dates I hear you cry? Well exactly! To be honest, it’s all bloody inconvenient and I’m irked at best that this bloody move is bloody thwarting the twilight weeks of my dating experiment, but such is life. So bearing these excuses in mind, you won’t be surprised to hear that Mr #49 was yet again rather a last minute panic booking since all my time at the moment is spent filling cardboard boxes with crap rather than sifting through eligible bachelors online, and I won’t lie to you, I’m not exactly being inundated with offers at the moment, so you know the phrase, beggars can’t be choosers. We’d been emailing on and off a couple of weeks though, he sounded and looked sweet enough to share a cheeky vino with (from his limited profile and distant holiday photos), and since we both had other plans for the evening (his were to jet off to Lithuania, mine were to look at...shoes...expensive ones...such a girl!), it made sense to meet for a quick drink early and tosee if it was worth it for a second date.

The man:
Age: 32

Profession: Hostel manager

Random factoid: He was the first date I’ve ever been on where I had absolutely no idea how to pronounce his name, which made for a rather odd first introduction.

The date:

I met Mr #49 at Waterloo station, and it was rather embarrassing having to call him and say with my usual blustering eloquence ‘er...hi...er...sorry, I don’t know how to say your name, but it’s Claire from t’interwebs, who are you, where are you and what the hell do you look like?’. Fortunately he identified himself as ‘the guy in the black leather jacket and jeans’ (which is helpful amidst hundreds of tourists mostly matching that description), but a random wave across the road and I’d spotted him in the exact perspective I’d seen him in his profile photos. And as he came closer, I soon realised why there were no close ups. No, it wasn’t his rather curiously dyed black hair as compensation for his receding hairline. No, it wasn’t the fact that he looked like a shorter, stockier Chico Slimani. It was the massive blue mole (yes, blue) the size of a garden pea slap bang in the middle of his nose. And it had stubble, yes, the mole was partially unshaven. It was hypnotic! And all I could hear in the back of my mind was Mike Myers saying ‘moley moley moley’. Anyway he was chirpy enough, so we popped along to a nearby bar, procured some beverages and got to chatting. Immediately I became aware that this guy didn’t have any appreciation of personal space, and insisted on standing uncomfortably close at all times, so close in fact I could feel his moley moley moley breath on me, and it wasn’t pleasant. I have to say, this guy’s small talk wasn’t great, but he made up for his lack of moley moley moley banter by smiling relentlessly and laughing at everything I said, regardless of whether it was joke or not. Conversation was generic at best: the weather, public transport, where we both lived London and moley moley moley festivals. One very random area of common ground we stumbled upon was the fact we both listen to Metallica, and he really came alive when describing to me a moley moley moley Metallica tribute band he’d been to see. It was so good in fact, that he said it was better than seeing the real band live, and he’d taken the time to film their set on his moley moley moley mobile phone which he delighted in showing me. Bless him (moley moley moley). Fortunately as the wine and moley moley moley small talk dried up, it was time for us to head off to our respective plans, so we decided to call it a day. Mr #49 kindly insisted on waiting around at the bus stop for me, squeezing an extra 15 more moley moley moley minutes of awkward small talk out of me (thanks TFL) before my bus arrived and I had to bid Mr #49 and his illustrious mole farewell.

Memorable Quotes:
Mr #49: ‘I live in the hostel where I work. It’s really good, I can have free pizza any time I want’

Me: ‘wow, you’re really living the dream aren’t you?’

Mr #49: ‘Yes!’

Events of note:

Midway through our date, I noticed what appeared to be a coach-load of American pensioners filing in through the front door and wending their way round the corner. What was particularly memorable about this crocodile of old folk was that it as never-ending! Literally, ten minutes and they were still going! Mr #49 and I even stopped our conversation to watch what must have been in excess of over 150 greying Americans with baseball caps and bum bags (or, if we’re being geographically appropriate, ‘fanny packs’) plodding in through the front door and into a mysterious back room where I was convinced they were being rounded up and held hostage.

The Verdict:

Bless him, Mr #39 was a sweet boy, but other than Metallica as common ground, there was literally nothing there, no chemistry, no chat, no nothing. He dressed like Tom Cruise in the eighties and looked like Chico from X Factor. Oh, and that mole. Call me superficial, but seriously, THAT MOLE! When recounting the events of this date to my mother, she rather brilliantly remarked ‘well if you got together with him sweetheart, you could always ask for him to have it topped off’? Thanks mum, but no.

Mr #48 - Ricey Missiles

2012-05-20T11:25:00.001+01:00

The preamble:

There hadn't been a tremendous amoung of preamble between Mr #48 and I before we'd arranged a date. The reason was I'd had such a lovely evening with The Bulgarian Sherlock last week, we'd arrranged to meet again for a second date this Wednesday (which was delightful by the way, thank you for asking, but that's as much as you're going to get on here on account of the fact it's 52 First Dates...not 52 First, Second, maybe Third Dates depending on how CTS gets on), and I felt uncomfortable meeting someone else in the interim. But I was aware that I needed to cram a date in during the week, and since all of my evenings were booked up with other things, I had a bit of a panic, and took up the offer of a coffee with Mr #48 from an online dating site on Saturday afternoon. Two things struck me about Mr #48 after we'd exchanged numbers...a. he was really grumpy by text, and managed to make me feel that a quick message to confirm the date was interrupting his incredibly busy working schedule and b. he was absolutely rubbish with predictive text, and never made any attempts to remedy it eg. I can come to White japes. Er, did you mean Whitechapel? Weird.

The man:
Age: 37

Profession: Freelance lettings agent. I know, estate agents. My favourite...

Random factoid: He knew more about the history of the Rotherhithe Tunnel than anyone I'd ever met. This is nothing to be proud of...

The date:

Saturday afternoon galloped around with frightening aplomb, and before I knew it I was heading off to Brick Lane to meet Mr #48. As per usual, I texted him to let him know where I'd be, what I looked like and to warn him I'd had a fringe cut since I'd updating my profile pictures. His response? 'I'll be in a black jacket'. At this point I hoped that no-one else on the busy bustling Brick Lane would be wearing a black jacket too (hmm...) or even more worryingly that he was wearing more than just a black jacket (although that would have definitely added a certain je ne sais quoi to the date. Fortunately, when I arrived, he was the only one matching that description, and yes, he did have his trousers on. Phew. Unusually for my dates, he was tall, very rough around the edges, not very attractive (well, nowhere near as nice as he'd looked in his pictures), and was a prop'ah geez'ah! Before we set off, he made it perfectly clear to me that he needed to eat and that he had to leave in enough time that he could go and watch the football, one man, two missions. We marched up the lane to grab a coffee, and I noticed he didn't have much appreciation for personal space, and as we kept walking I found myself veering closer and closer to the wall on the right hand side. Fortunately before I grazed the skin clean off my right arm, we found a quaint little mezze place, so we commandeered a table, I ordered a peppermint tea, and to my surprise he went for the same, as well as ordering a mammoth bowl of brown rice and meatballs. As we waited for his food to arrive (I wasn't eating as it was mid-afternoon, I'd already had lunch, and we all know I'm not the biggest fan of eating on first dates unless there are mitigating circumstances), he cracked on with the small talk, with him taking particular notice to my dress and necklace, both of which he was not content to just look at but was determined to paw. Easy now. Being the football-heathen I am, I foolishly asked what the big match was (I knew there was a big match, that's enough surely????) and was then subjected to a rather painful pop quiz of my knowledge of the Europa League. After ten excruciating minutes, Mr #48 conceded that it was okay that I didn't know that much about football, because I am a girl after all. Oh. As the subject changed, the teas and meatballs arrived, and the rest of the date ensued in between giant mouthfuls and munchings. The date was relatively brief on account of Mr #48's pressing engagement with the big game, and the subject matter was varied. He covered Thailand (well, he did mainly on account of his just arriving back from 5 months away there and all of the accompanying anecdotes, and my contribution that I'd never been to Thailand, but their cuisine is ace), lettings prices in London (don't get me started!), birds, the weather (pleeeeeeeease!), car and van hire (his instigation, not mine thank you very much), the fact he has no idea what a fringe is, quinoa and the Rotherhithe Tunnel. Soon enough, the meatballs had evaporated, and his internal body clock was telling him it was beer with the lads time. He went off to pay for the food and teas, and then spent the following 10 minutes arguing loudly with the guy behind the bar about the bill, as he was adamant that he had been overcharged. It turned out he hadn't, and rather sheepishly he returned to collect his jacket and we headed off. He frog-marched me back down the lane again and offered me a lift home, which I gracefully declined on account of not wanting to get in a car with someone I didn't really trust to keep himself to himself. We arrived at a stunning Rolls Royce and he offered up his goodbyes. And as I walked away, I noticed in my peripheral vision the lights on a battered old Fiesta on the opposite side of the road go, and Mr #48 stealthily scampered over to climb into the vehicle. I pretended I hadn't noticed.

Memorable Quotes:
'So where exactly do you live, what road? Don't worry, I won't stalk you or sit outside your house or anything...' Sorry love, not taking any chances...

'I do like brown rice. Makes me feel all healthy and stuff.'

'Look at you and yer Brick Lane shoes!'

Events of note:

Over the course of the date, I'd successfully managed to dodge no less than ten brown rice missiles as Mr #48 chattered away through mouthfuls of food, all of which I had to quickly pick off my dress when he went to the bar.

The Verdict:

As we said goodbye at his imaginary car, Mr #48 suggested he'd give me a ring and we could go out for 'prop'ah booze!'. Sadly, I fear that's a bullet I'm still going to have to dodge. He wasn't very attractive, was too much of a wide boy and we just didn't have anything in common. I was retrospectively grateful he had something else to do afterwards so I didn't have to call the date short myself, but to be honest I was rather pleased to escape.

Mr #47 - the Bulgarian Sherlock

2012-05-09T23:45:00.006+01:00

The preamble: Mr #47 and I hadn’t emailed for long. He had contacted me after reading my blog and decided to offer himself up for a date. I didn’t hesitate to say because his email was probably the best introduction I’ve ever read, he was polite, courteous, his English was brilliant, and my curiosity was instantly piqued. This is just a snippet taken from his message:

‘I am rather terrified of vacuum cleaners, auto-mobiles, women and traffic wardens. I quite like cats, cake, pipe tobacco, red meat, Glenmorangie, thrash metal, blues, jazz, rockabilly, Wagner, Fridays, tweed and fine suits, hiking, motorcycles (both vintage and racing) and the smell of old books.’

He had also attached a picture of himself, smoking one of his favourite pipes, with a most impressive mutton chop-moustache combo, and he mentioned that often he was greeted with shouts of ‘Oi Sherlock’ in the street. I had to meet this man. So I agreed to meet him. Mr #47 suggested that we met in an area of London that neither of us knew, and we’d go for a wander and see what we could find. So that’s exactly what we did. Well, planned to...

The man:
Age: 26

Profession: Freelance IT developer and consultant

Random factoid: He’s Bulgarian. I’d never met a real life Bulgarian before.

The date:
Mr #47 and I arranged to meet outside Westminster station. I knew to follow the smoke signals and to keep my eyes peeled for the vintage looking chap. Sure enough, propped up on the bridge, looking like someone from an Orson Welles novel was Mr #47. I will describe him for you, as he was quite possibly the smartest man I have ever seen in my life. As well as the evidential furry facial adornments, Mr #47 wore a sharp brown fedora, crisp shirt and tie combo, knitted vest with fob watch, tailored trousers and brown brogues. He was very handsome indeed. Sod Sherlock, think more Jude Law as Dr Watson. We greeted, he lit up his pipe, and he offered me his arm as we strolled along the Thames in search of somewhere for our date. He admitted early on he was a shy man, and had only been on one other date in the past 4 years as he wasn’t a fan of modern British women with their laddish ways. Pretty swiftly our plans of going somewhere neither of us knew were scuppered when he mentioned a wine bar he was fond of, and I mentioned an old pub my parents used to frequent in the sixties, so with a nod to Robert Burns and his best paid plans, we headed to my choice of venue first for a glass of wine. Once inside, I soon realised it wasn’t quite the nice, cosy vintage haunt I remembered it to be, but Mr #47 was very gracious in saying he liked it, even though they only had house whiskey, and not the Glenmorangie he usually favoured. We briefly covered land law, postmodernism and the sound of regional accents before our drinks had mysteriously evaporated and it was time to move on. Mr #47 led me to a quaint old-fashioned wine bar and decided to order some port. Not being a port-connoisseur, I decided to also partake in the red stuff, and let Mr #47 choose our poison. His first suggestion was to share an entire bottle, but since I wasn’t a seasoned port-drinker and had work in the morning, I graciously declined, especially since his weapon of choice was a fine £75 bottle. Instead we opted for a large glass each, and on Mr #47’s recommendation ordered chocolate cake to accompany the beverage. I won’t lie, the port and chocolate fondant cake combination was exquisite. I never saw myself as a fortified wine fan, but I could definitely be persuaded now. The conversation continued: a lot more philosophy, the toxic effects of Absinthe or Creme de Menthe, thrash metal, eastern European drinking habits, unidentified drinking injuries, the merits of a finely-tailored suit, male facial grooming (thanks to cut throat razors, a tash comb and Geo F Trumper), the Cro Bar, Dylan Moran, the joys of British meats, Nazism, the laws of robotics, pipe etiquette, prejudice and the Tweed Run. Mr #47 brilliantly referred to every man as a ‘chap’, which in a Bulgarian accent was particularly endearing, and his love of philosophy exercised my brain muscles more than I’d done since studying at university. Two glasses of port down, it was time to call it a night, and Mr #47 offered to take me for a further stroll so I could get the bus. So off we went again, arm-in-arm past St Pauls. And then I got a glimpse of the sort of reaction that Mr #47 must get on a daily basis. On walking past a very boozy crowd outside a pub, some delightful wanker yelled ‘bloody ‘ell, it’s Sherlock!’. Mr #47 didn’t bat an eyelid, but inside I was fuming. Mr #47 was a chap with his own standards, his own delightful eccentricities, his own style and his own philosophies. It infuriates me that there are so many vile, narrow-minded drunken idiots out there that feel the need to behave in such an awful and hurtful manner. Of course, Mr #47’s appearance is entirely of his own decision. But live and let live. Anyway, pretty swiftly we reached the bus stop, Mr #47 politely enquired about the possibility of a second date, gave me a kiss on the hand, and saw me onto the bus. And that was that, a night to remember.

Memorable Quotes:
‘You’ve obviously never tried a Mediterranean cucumber’

‘I like the Nazis, they looked so cool’ I might point out that his liking of the Nazis did stop short of the murder of 3 million individuals, just to be clear.

‘I once woke up wearing the barman’s shirt with a broken ear after a drunken night’

‘You’re the most intelligent person I’ve met since I’ve been in the UK, because when I talk about philosophy, you actually think about it, and not just argue.’

‘In the summer I tend to wear a striped blazer, straw boater and linen fishtail trousers with braces.’

‘I missed lunch the other day so I popped into McDonalds and had what they call a Big Tasty. What I didn’t anticipate was having to spend the next 20 minutes picking the cheese sauce out of my moustache.’

Events of note:

Before entering the first establishment, Mr #47 paused to empty the ash from his pipe. At this point, a man entering the building opposite stopped, and stared, giving us the right old stink-eye. When I enquired if he was alright, the truculent so-and-so went off on one about how that particular part of the pavement was his land, and that what Mr #47 was doing was against the law. What then ensued was a very awkward back and forth, with Mr #47 being as polite as he possibly could, whilst the resident was as belligerent as he could. Finally, Mr #47 conceded gracious defeat and we headed inside. But I know where that man lives now. And I’m willing with all my telekinetic powers that all the dogs in that area of London decide to shit on his doorstep.

The Verdict:

So, Mr #47 would like to take me out again. And you know what? I’d love to spend another evening with him. Yes, he’s a little old-fashioned, yes, he’s a tad eccentric, yes he takes pride in all things tonsorial. But he was quite possibly one of the nicest, brightest, most polite gentleman I have ever met. He was both gracious and intelligent, but still loves to get hammered, head bang and watch British comedy. But his gentlemanly values, polite manner and humble demeanour genuinely made me feel like a proper lady, which is something I found rather enlightening. Men of Britain, take note...

Mr #46 - Napoleon Cokeparte

2012-05-03T11:22:00.001+01:00

The preamble:
Mr #46 had exchanged a few emails over the course of a couple of weeks, and I was not only impressed by his sense of humour, but also his enthusiasm for fancy dress (namely a Transformers costume). He also wrote and texted in full Queen’s English, with not a sniff of a LOL in sight, and even though he spoke a bit too much about the weather over text than I’d usually tolerate, I thought it only appropriate to meet the chap for a drink. Did I also mention he was handsome? Well, he was. That helped, what can I say, I’m only human.

The man:
Age: 34

Profession: Runs his own software company

Random factoid: He once crashed into Wolf from Gladiators whilst snowboarding.

The date:
In a rare occurrence in my experience of going on dates, Mr #46 had a firm idea of where he wanted to go on our date, a certain underground bar in Covent Garden. So my new fringe and I pottered along to see what Mr #46 had in store, and as expected, he was propped up at the bar with a beer in hand. My first thought was how he was much more handsome in real life than in his pictures, which was a welcome surprise. But as with all things, there was a catch. His height. Yup, same size as me, a sniff off five four. That was definitely not mentioned on his profile. But instantly his compensatory confidence spoke volumes, and I knew straight away I was on a date with textbook Short Man Complex. He leant over the bar to summon service from the staff in a over-exaggerated, slightly embarrassing wavy-and-shout fashion, and it turned out he always went to that particular bar because he provided them with their software. They all knew him. ALL OF THEM. So they must have all known we were there on a date. I suspected he probably did this a lot, as it was a very slick routine, the usual drink, the banter with the staff. Once he’d finally sorted me out with a drink, we went over to perch on some stools in the corner where it was quieter. I mounted the high stool in one go. Mr #46, however, struggled to get his low-slung bum on his, and three laboured attempts later, he was finally fully-perched. What then happened was quite possibly one of the most bizarre dates I have ever been on, and I want to share with you as many details as I can possibly remember. Pretty swiftly I realised this guy’s confidence was chemically-assisted. All the telltale signs were there: the nose tweaking, the sniffing, the chewing off his own pretty face and the frequent trips to the toilet. He was drinking shorts (no pun intended). No-one’s bladder is that small, not even Napoleon’s. And as a result, I hardly got a word in edgewise all night. There was no way on God’s earth I was going to be allowed to show him even a little bit of my personality, as the room was so full of his over-inflated ego, mine was being kept outside behind a velvet rope by the metaphorical bouncer. In terms of conversation, well, the one half anyway, he covered a broad range of subjects: how he’s started up his own IT company which was going to be massive next year, how he underpays his staff, and how he won’t take on anyone new as ‘each new member of staff is £20k less in my pocket’. Right. I was briefly allowed to tell him about my housing situation, which he promptly hijacked by number-crunching the inflation levels on my rent, potential mortgage prices and by offering me a fraudulent work contract to help me get a mortgage. Charming. Staying on his favourite subject of money, he pointed out he would move closer to London, but £700k was ‘a little too much for him to pay to live where he wanted to’ (after I’d mentioned my seemingly measily dreams of getting on a shared ownership scheme for less than a tenth of that), and told me about an ExCel spreadsheet he’d made of his wishlist for what he’d spend his money on with certain targets, ranging from £500k to £100 million. FYI when he gets to £100 million, he’ll buy his own private mountain so he can ski down it. And maybe a helicopter to drop him off. Perish the thought he’d break his own neck whilst ski-ing on his own private Berg! Financial ambitions aside, he then went back to his other favourite subject – himself. He told me that he was a break-dancer, before demonstrating some basic popping and locking moves from his stool (presumably too scared to dismount in case he couldn’t get back up again). Despite my egging him on to do the Worm in the middle of the floor, he was adamant a shoulder injury and ‘the wrong shirt’ would restrict him, so he declined. He bragged about his auditions for a number of game shows because he wanted to go on for the ‘free money’ (none of which he was selected for, I might add), regaled me with his Heath Ledger as The Joker and Yoda impressions, his knowledge of the entire Marvel comic franchise, showed me pictures of him drinking an entire bottle of Jaegermeister through a straw and a ‘hilarious’ anecdote of how he once woke up drunk and topless in the back of a Transit van. Soon it was my round, so I popped off to the bar to ask for his usual ‘special’, for which the staff refused to let me pay. It turned out, we’d been getting drinks on the house all night. When I took his drink back to him, a very expensive rare rum, diet Coke and ice in a 12oz glass (it HAD to be a 12oz glass. Just because...!) he sat and counted the cubes, and was put out that they’d ‘fucked up’ his order and given him 7 ice cubes and not 6. When I queried it and offered to remove a cube for him, he hurrumphed and said it just made the mix all wrong. Hmm. Mr #46 then decided to go and get us some crisps, so he scampered off to the bar and shortly returned with...a glass full of foam bananas and flying saucers, which he then proceeded to gum his way through. As if Class As weren’t enough to make him talk, he now had half a pound of Haribo in his system. Aces. He then moved on to bragging about the time he ate seven and a half racks of ribs, an impressive feat, but not as impressive as the detail he then went into as he described trying go for a shit the day after. He even used the phrase ‘it started off as a one trouser leg off affair, but then it became a brace yourself against the stall walls kind of thing. Childbirth could never be as painful as that, at least women are designed to accommodate something that size’. Er, what the holy fuck??? Whilst this was all going on, a drunken birthday party were dancing around near us, and I could tell Mr #46 was itching to get on the dance floor to demonstrate his breaking prowess, and I started to feel bad for restricting him despite giving him full permission to shake his tail feather. We carried on chatting, but his dialogue was interrupted first by Mike and the Mechanics coming on the jukebox and him insisting on pausing the conversation so he could whistle along for the solo, and then, my favourite, pausing the conversation again to sing along to Peter Andre’s Mysterious Girl. He knew ALL the words (including the rap). Then suddenly, as if he body was suddenly sapped of sugar and narcotics, he slumped on his stool, sat there in silence for a minute, announced ‘right, I’m over this’ and I took the hint that that was it for the night. Brilliant. We headed off to the station, he rattled off all of his available train times like some sort of savant, and at the station he literally said a half-arsed bye, didn’t even look me in the eye, and ran off to get his train.

Memorable Quotes:
‘There’s this toilet in Marbella...’ The beginning of a cracking anecdote if ever there was one...

‘I’m like Rainman’

‘My mate was given an island for his 21^st birthday’

‘What was the music like when you went to the toilet?’

Events of note:

Everything. Just everything. I just wished he’d got on the dance floor and properly busted a groove. Although I did particularly like the look on his face when I highlighted that everyone looked like they’d come straight from work, and he looked a little crestfallen as he insisted he’d gone home to change and put on a shirt and shoes especially. Face it mate, you still look like an office worker.

The Verdict:

Once again, this is a bit of a no-brainer. No. But to be honest, I can’t imagine him wanting to see me again either considering I was hardly allowed to breathe a word, and he probably thought I was the most boring date in the world. But if I have to turn into a Lil Miss Cokey-Blownose to win his affections, I think I’ll stick to my rum and ginger beer, thanks. And the moral of the story? Drugs are bad kids, m'kay?

Mr #45 - The Real Greek

2012-04-24T22:34:00.001+01:00

The preamble:
I hadn't been messaging Mr #45 very long before we agreed to meet, but I found him rather intriguing. He was very easy on the eye and enticingly moody-looking, with an artistic streak and an alluring profile, and I was keen to get to know this hopefully tall, dark and handsome Greek stranger. So when he suggested meeting for a drink, I jumped at the chance.
The man:
Age: 31

Profession: Illustrator

Random factoid: Has survived no less than 15 earthquakes when he lived in Greece.

The date:
The first I knew of Mr #45 was when he appeared in front of me at point blank range outside Boots inside Victoria station. He was relatively tall, reasonably handsome, and definitely moody. There was little to no small talk en route to the pub despite my attempts to crack out the fail safe questions, although he was the consummate gentleman in holding open every door for me as we went along. Once at the pub, we had to stand at the bar for about 15 minutes, and this bugger was not talking. At all. After about 5 minutes of decent interrogation, he wasn't giving much back, so instead I just stood there at the bar with him, behaved myself and shut up. Once equipped with drinks, we headed outside to find some seats. I plonked myself down at the nearest table without thinking and expected my date to do the same. But what then ensued was a rather lengthy debacle by which he inspected every single chair in the vicinity (and I'm talking about twenty here) until he found the cleanest one. Once he'd selected his chair of choice, we then had to move tables on account of a tiny bit of bird shit at the other end. Hmm. I live with two parrots. Anyone that frightened of avian faeces probably wouldn't feel too comfy in a room with two of them that poo like clockwork (albeit normally in their own cages but occasionally on visitors to let them know who's boss). Once we'd sat in our final positions, we resumed the chatting. It took Mr #45 a little while to warm up, but once he got going, boy did he get going! I could hardly get a word in, and for me and my garrulous gob that's quite an achievement. He talked about his work as an illustrator, his previous jobs as doorman and railway worker, his extra work (nay background artiste work dahling) on such blockbusters as Johnny English, and his heady ambitions to become a regular extra in something like EastEnders or Hollyoaks (methinks he should go on a date with Mr #44 - they have a LOT in common!). He told me about his childhood friend who used to ritually slaughter local cats and hide the bodies, how he once saw a policeman have his eye gouged out with a broken bottle and bitched about how poor the rail replacement works are. He then decided to show me some of his 'etchings', and credit with credit is due, he's a very talented illustrator, although if we're being REALLY critical, his portrait of Captain Jean-Luc Picard was a tad over-generous on the cranium, and he did look rather like a Conehead. Over the course of the date, Mr #45 had gone from monosyllabic and moody to chatty and arrogant, and throughout the chatting and drinking I was hypnotised by this grey bit of gum circling the inside of his mouth with cow-and-cud-like rhythm. Anyone who knows me knows what a mahoosive pet peeve open-mouthed mastication is of mine, and I could not take my eyes off it. At one point I willed it to leap down his throat just so I could get a word in. The only facts he gleaned out of me over the course of the date were where I lived (Whitechapel - you already knew that from emails), my job, and the fact I owned parrots (something I had to crowbar in there). I had to make a tactical trip to the ballroom after one drink, and by the time I returned he was yawning his gum-ridden chops off, and suggested we called it a day. Fine by me! And then, as we stood up to leave and I was finally able to see him in his full glory I saw them. Mustard-coloured shoes. Fucking mustard-coloured shoes. I can't think of a world where shoes like that are remotely acceptable. Three words my friends: straw, camel and back. We walked back to the station, and at the Tube entrance he kissed me on the cheek and said 'let's do this again sometime'. What, so you can talk about yourself all over again? No thanks. Sadly what came out of my mouth in that split second made me hate myself, as without thinking I blurted 'yeah, sure', and then pretending it hadn't happened I hot-footed it off down the escalator. Error. Bad CTS.

Memorable Quotes:
'My mate...the one who killed the cats...he has diabetes now and is like a balloon. Even the Army won't have him.'

'You have parrots? Why? Birds should never be kept as pets'. Uh oh...

Events of note:

During my only bathroom break of the evening, I ended up assisting a woman with the most spectacular mullet I've ever seen with a rather embarrassing coffee spillage on her revolting magenta shirt. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the coffee had probably done her a favour, and that in terms of favours, her hair wasn't doing her any either...I wish I'd taken a photo, just to mark the occasion.

The Verdict:

Oh dear. So much for the tall, dark and handsome cliche. Turns out his moody pictures were indicative of a very moody man, and a man who would probably have had just as much fun on a date sat in front of a mirror, like a giant bald budgie, pecking at his own refection and chattering to himself. And speaking of birds, anyone that anti my two favourite little feathered beasts is never going to be a genuine contender for my affections. Love me, love my parrots. That's the deal. Deal with it.

Mr #44 - Telly Addict

2012-04-21T11:44:00.002+01:00

The preamble:
Mr #44 and I have been texting on and off for what seems like forever, but in truth I think it was around Christmas when he sent his first fateful message. His dating profile was minimalist, but he looked like a very svelte, elegant and handsome Indian fellow from his profile (like he was modelling for an catalogue company - lots of choice knitwear) and he sounded pretty keen, so we exchanged numbers. But 4 attempts to meet later his texting was getting a little irritating, and I think he may now hold the record for the most uses of the word 'babe' in the course of our messaging history, which regular 52 First Dates readers will acknowledge is a real pet peeve mine. But we'd been messaging so long, and he was trying to spark up text chats during work on such a regular basis, I decided we really should meet once and for all lest we ended up texting until Hell froze over. So finally, after months or sporadic and partially irksome messaging, we arranged the date. He chose the venue, and it was in a brand new pub...right in the middle of Kings Cross station. Hmm...
The man:
Age: 38

Profession: IT developer

Random factoid: Used to be an extra, and has starred in such commercials as McDonalds, Barclays and Halifax (he was one of the people making up the giant X).

The date:
I bowled up to the date a bit late on account of being distracted by beverages with workmates, and the first thing that struck me about my date, when I eventually identified him, was that he looked nothing, and I mean NOTHING, like his profile photo. He was about a foot shorter, a foot wider and none of the luscious hair previously depicted in his photos. There was also a distinct lack of knitwear, and he was clad head to toe in a very crisp business suit complete with novelty cuff links. I, however, had turned up in jeans, converse, shirt and waistcoat and headscarf. It rapidly occurred to me that we were by far the oddest couple in the bar (which was surprisingly nice for a venue slap bang in the middle of a train station), and anyone looking at us would have instantly spotted that we'd met online, as we were the oddest couple in the world. It was almost laughable. But Mr #44 was very cheery and polite, so we grabbed some drinks and set about possibly the most elusive date of the quest. Pretty much the first thing Mr #44 brought up was the subject of online dating - it turns out he was new to t'interweb dating having escaped an arranged marriage, and I was the first person he'd met. He seemed baffled that I had told people about the fact I did online dating as he found it embarrassing. I, obviously, underplayed my involvement for obvious reasons. We spoke at length about his all his older siblings had been married off in an arranged fashion, but following the death of his mother, his father had chilled out a bit and let forced nuptials slip for the sake of his youngest son - pretty intense for the first 15 minutes of a date! He then started probing into the circumstances surrounding my singledom, and before I could protest my innocence he launched into how he'd tried to rekindle the love of his life a couple of months ago, but she'd knocked him back, and going online for dates was his rebound mechanism. Lovely. Anyway, once the deep and meaningfuls had been covered, the lighter chat got underway. I did have to question the inconsistency between his photo and the reality as it was such a drastic difference, and he claimed that his photo was from 5 years ago. And actually it probably was from 5 years ago...from someone else's Facebook profile! It turned out he's quite the telly fan, being a massive EastEnders fan, and a connoisseur of all things Take Me Out, Britains Got Talent, X Factor and The Voice. He spoke with great adoration for a little known character called William on the latter (or Will.I.Am to everyone else in the world). Once on his favourite subject and he'd relaxed a little, there was no stopping him! He then revealed his love for old school movies, and he had an almost Rainman-esque knowledge of Carry On films. He then moved onto his various talents, of which creating council tax databases, drawing and dancing were but a couple, and he recreated with glee and gusto his audition dance to be part of the Olympics opening ceremony dance. He'd made it through to the second round, and was pretty confident that his skills would be seen by the entire globe, so when you watch the opening ceremony, keep an eye out for the Indian guy from the background of a McDOnalds advert who looks nothing like a tall, slim handsome catalogue model throwing some rather spectacular shapes. Mr #44 was a fidgetty sort, and the more he spoke, the more he involved himself with usome rather off-putting under-the-table scratchings which increased as the evening went on. But he was really entertaining company, but I have to admit I was relieved that the babe-infused textings would be over.

Memorable Quotes:
When I returned from the facilities - 'what did you think of the toilets?'

'You have perfect eyebrows'

'George Clooney, he's such a heart throbe, I think he's the ultimate heart throbe'. (note - I have not misspelt this quote)

'On Saturday night, I love to get takeaway, and sit in and watch TV all night at home. In my 3 bedroom house.'

Events of note:

After declaring his skills at being able to draw 'with a pencil, on the papers, bare-hand', I challenged Mr #44 to demonstrate his skills, and demonstrate them he did. This is what he did. I think I should point out that although, this is pretty much what I look like in real life (and yes, I am just as sketchy...)

The Verdict:

Bless him, Mr #44 was excellent value, and he absolutely has a heart of gold. But I don't think I've ever met someone so drastically different to me, and although it made for a good write up, I was never destined to move to Romford to spend my Saturday nights in eating fried chicken and watching talent shows. Within 10 minutes of my getting on the bus, he'd texted to try and arrange another date. I'd dozed off on the bus before replying, and half an hour later when I awoke to get off at my stop, he had messaged again pressing for an answer. I graciously declined, but I wished him well on his quest as I'm pretty sure there'll be a chicken-loving lady out there somewhere for whom Essex and X Factor are the absolute dream. But not me. That said, that chicken burger was rather lush...

Mr #43 - The Murderer. Probably.

2012-04-14T22:14:00.002+01:00

The preamble:
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I eventually agreed to meet Mr #43. When we first started emailing, I thought Mr #43 was quite sweet. We'd bonded over our mutual love of African grey parrots and he had a lovely way with words. But then in the middle of our e-chat, suddenly I was unable to reply to his messages.Then, a couple of days later, he emailed to apologise for 'accidentally' blocking me. Weird. But nevermind, chatting resumed, we swapped numbers, and arranged a date. A couple of days before the date, however, he texted to say he had to get something off his conscience, that he'd lied on his profile and that he was actually 40, and not 35, but that his colleagues had advised him to fess up before the date. He justified the claim by saying he actually looked a lot younger than 40, and thought he could get away with it. Weirder. So to refresh my memory even further, I logged back onto the site to have a look at his profile. And it was no longer there. Weirdest yet. So I texted Mr #43 querying his absence, and made it perfectly clear that if he was dicking around for whatever reason, I wasn't interested, and that I had concerns he might not be who he said he was. He concurred that his behaviour had been pretty odd, explained away, and allayed my fears enough that I would go and meet him. But in broad daylight. And not before getting the ladies in my office to look for him on t'internet in case I didn't turn up to work the next day and pieces of my anatomy were found floating along the river in Asda bags. The more astute of you may have deduced by the very presence of this write up that I wasn't dismembered and discarded into the Thames.

The man:
Age: 40

Profession: Something to do with law and publishing

Random factoid: He had a number of ex girlfriends. From the following write up, you'll see why this might seem really rather random...

The date:
So, bracing myself for a potential face off with a genuine interweb weirdo and after practising my rapid deo-in-face self-defence move, I headed off to Waterloo to meet Mr #43. We were due to meet at the bottom of the main steps, and as if I wasn't suspicious enough, when I arrived there were two police officers stood there also waiting for someone, hopefully not my date, but at least if it WAS my date then a. I'd have survived a watery grave and b. I'd have had the night off. Lovely. But no, they didn't accost my date before he accosted me, more's the pity. And why I say 'accost', it was actually more of a polite approachment and cheek peck. My first thoughts were how quiet and petite he was, and also how camp he was! Had I maybe mislead him from my profile? Perhaps the picture with the handlebar moustache had been a bit misleading. Was he expecting a date with a dude? It seemed not. First assessments made, we pottered off to a nearby bar, and attempted to procure some beverages. Like a fool, I'd rushed out of the office without the precautionary bladder-empty I would usually employ before going on a date, so I left my date with my drinks order and scampered off to the facilities before making the date memorable for rather more embarrassing reasons. When I returned to my rum and coke, I was rather surprised when my date said 'now I'm not an alcoholic...but I was forced to buy TWO Kronenbergs'. I see, so you've got two pints there, and I have a little rum and coke to nurture. Don't get me wrong, I am no fan of double parking on a first date, nor did I want him to buy me two drinks. But I'm a swift drinker, and struggle at the best of times to pace a spirit and mixer against a date's pint, let alone two. And I always like to buy a round myself, but it's only polite to do so once my date has finished. And if I'd gone before he'd had his second, that'd just seem rude. It's funny how rapidly these thoughts whizz around your head when faced with such a situation. Anyone would think I've been on one too many dates...! Drinks aside, we got to the talky part of the date, which proved a little problematic. He was very quiet and not very chatty, and although I'm pretty good at getting some sort of evenly-balanced dialogue out of my dates, with him I was definitely responsible for 80% of the chat. That's not why I go on dates, if I wanted to hear the sound of my own voice I could just stay at home, talk to myself about the same old shit and work my way through a bottle of Morgan's Spiced. It'd be a lot cheaper. I also studied his face, and the more I realised yes, he did have very young features, his skin was very thin and crinkly, like crepe paper, the sort of skin you'd see atop a bald octogenarian that would be so soft you'd be frightened to tear it. Weird. As we spoke, or more, I spoke and he listened, my date did become more animated, and with the animation came more campness

Memorable Quotes:
'You may have noticed I'm a keen swimmer' No, I hadn't. You're in a suit, not Speedos...! Oh, but if you were...

'I don't read newspapers. Or watch the news...' Er, what???

Events of note:

The distinct lack of any sort of murder. Don't get me wrong, I am very pleased about it...

The Verdict:

I won't be seeing Mr #43 again, partly because I suspect I'm not quite as masculine as I suspect he might have liked, but mainly because he was so polite although he didn't murder me on a first date, he definitely would have done so on the second date...and I have a life to live, bills to pay, more dates to go on...death would really put a dampener on the whole thing, so best we leave things as is.

Mr #42 - Dumb Blonde

2012-04-06T00:12:00.001+01:00

First of all, apologies for the tardiness in bringing Mr #42 to your computer screens. I've had a bit of a bugger of a time trying to squeeze in dates with a bonkers work schedule, and last week when I was finally able to line one up, he cancelled the same day on account of a sniffle. Sadly I wasn't able to turn another date around in time, so last week my date life was more barren than Samantha Bricks' soul. But this week, by way of apology to the followers of 52 First Dates who haven't had their fix of interweb weirdness, I managed to pull the elusive #42 out of my sleeve in the nick of time, and with the promise of a Mr #43 as back up. Double date week leading up to Easter? Well, it's what Jesus would have wanted. Probably.

The preamble:
Mr #42 have been in touch for about two months or so prior to meeting, but thanks to him jetting off to China for two weeks and me working all hours at work, it took us a while to have a date. Although he was 10 years older, he looked like a game sort of fella from his pictures (most of which for some reason were topless which I hasten to add did not influence my decision to meet him in any way, although for the record, he did have a wonderful carved torso), and he had a good sense of humour, despite the fact he used LOL a little too freely for my liking. However, once we'd exchange numbers, he was pretty keen to spark up the text banter, and from past experience I try not to get too deep into the old texting malarkey as it always ends up getting sticky. It felt a little like a vetting process, asking whether I wanted kids, my living arrangements, and sending me pictures of him with his daughters (a little late addition to the information), his garden, and some weird chest of drawers he was selling on eBay. Hmm, possibly the strangest dating preamble to date. But the date was already in the calendar, and it was too late to back out now!

The man:
Age: 41

Profession: Runs his own property business as well as selling weird shit on eBay.

Random factoid: Once owned 20 guinea pigs.

The date:
I'll be the first to admit I wasn't on my finest form leading up to the date, on account of an irresponsible marshmallow eating competition in the office which lead to me rapidly growing the equivalent of a 6 months sugar baby in my very bloated belly. So hoping I wouldn't encounter any awkward questions about my due date, I hauled my mallow-child off to Waterloo to meet Mr #42. If my date was an animal from a film, he would have without doubt have been Marley from my least favourite film in the whole wide world ever. He bounded over in a shock of blonde hair like some sort of Haribo-psyched Labrador and before I knew it we were both bounding off together in search of a pub. After grabbing some drinks, we found a little corner in which to perch, and get down to the dating. On closer inspection, my date looked like the bastard lovechild of Paul Hogan in Crocodile Dundee and Mick Jagger (a union I would definitely not want to have been present for). He had the shaggy hair of an aging Aussie rock star, and the deep facial crevices of someone who obviously enjoyed the eighties and probably forgot most of the nineties. He was incredibly attentive, very chatty, and really easy-going. He was also not very bright. Not in the slightest. For someone who runs a couple of his own businesses, I was really surprised by some of the shit he was coming out with. We covered all the main bases, work, family, travel, and the one thing that I found a little uncomfortable was the amount he dwelt on my single status. He said on no less than 4 occasions how surprised he was I was single, and every time he did so he made me feel more and more insecure that maybe I do have some massive personality flaw that I've not acknowledged yet but that my friends and family are all too kind to point out. He spoke at great length about his ex who was a cleaner, and his two daughters, It's clear he's an awesome dad who adores his children, but he was so forthcoming about wanting more kids I was slightly concerned I might've been fertilised there and then by intoxicating paternal osmosis. But after calling me a 'clever girl' for living on my own in London, and then drawing a comparison between the age gap between my sister and I to that of his daughters, which suddenly made me very aware of my age and how much older he was. Another example was how he kept alluding to the fact that as a young(ish), single girl I must be out getting irrationally bladdered and pulling boys left, right and centre every night of the week. Not at my age sunshine, a blanket, a tub of Haagen-Dasz and a Horlicks

Memorable Quotes:
Oh there were a lot of these...

'I showed my colleague Claire your photo before I left work. She said you looked like you were 25. She also said you looked really normal, which is strange as people on the internet aren't normal'

'I don't drink rose wine, it's poofy'

'I've never been to a gig before. Except when I went to see Bon Jovi. Three times.'

'What do you like to do? I like holidays'

'I got a swan stuck in an oar once. Turned the boat over. But it was okay, as I had a few layers of lycra on'

And the best question on a date yet...'Who is your best friend?' No, that one's for your daughters, NOT your dates...

Events of note:

When two girls with absolutely no sense of propriety plonked themselves down at our little round table without asking or even acknowledging we were probably on a date, and about 10 minutes later a bottle of wine and two plates of pasta arrived. At our table.

The Verdict:

Oh dear, I feel a bit sad writing this. Throughout the date Mr #42 was incredibly complimentary, very tactile, obviously keen, and well-meaning. He's obviously someone without a bad bone in his body, and would make someone a wonderful partner and a great dad to a whole tribe of mini-Hogan-Jaggers. But trying to find some sort of chemistry between us was way too forced, and I think it was more hopeful from his side of things rather than sensing a genuine connection. I won't be seeing him again, but I sincerely hope he finds that special boat-loving lady with whom he can pop out a whole load more budding Redgraves.

Mr #41 - Pocket Prince

2012-03-20T21:27:00.001Z

The preamble:
Mr #41 and I had been emailing on and off for a couple of weeks, and what I liked about him was even on email he sounded incredibly enthusiastic about everything, and showed great interest in my knitting, which of course is automatically going to endear me to someone as one essential criteria I have in my list of my perfect man is the willingness to model my often errantly-sized knitwear. Soon after we exchanged numbers, and a few equally as enthusiastic texts later, we sorted ourselves a cheeky wee coffee date.

The man:
Age: 28

Profession: Post-grad student and part time shop worker

Random factoid: Once played for the Pakistani national football team

The date:
We'd both ended up leaving our respective locations a little late, so there were mutual warnings of tardiness. When I arrived at Kentish time 10 minutes after our designated rendez vous time, my date was nowhere to be see, so I assumed the position just outside the station and busied myself with my mobile phone until he arrived. Twenty minutes later, he still hadn't turned up and to be honest, I'd mentally given him five more minutes before I buggered off. Then he rang.

Mr #41: Hey!

Me: Hey, where are you?

Mr #41: I'm at the station, where are you?

Me: Me too

Mr #41: I can't see you

Me: Well I'm here, right outside Kentish Town tube!

Mr #41: Why are you there?

Me: Because that's where we're meeting aren't we?

Mr #41: No. I said Chalk Farm...

Me: Oh. Shit. I'll get the bus then...

Turns out when I re-read my message back, it was Chalk Farm. And not just any Chalk Farm, CHALK FARM IN CAPITAL LETTERS! Well done CTS you utter organisational retard. I hastily leaped on the bus and within 10 minutes I'd found him at the Roundhouse. SO much for him being late! But when I turned up in a bluster of apologies, he was incredibly sweet and gracious and scampered straight off to sort us out with some hot caffeinated beverages. When he sat down again I had a proper chance to look at him and he was absolutely beautiful, like a lhand-carved Bollywood hero. Albeit a very little one. He was miniature. Properly ickle. He must have been the same height as me and I estimated about half my weight, with teeny tiny hands and perfectly smooth finger nails that looked like shiny pink beetle shells. This man must've had a manicure. But he was all smiles and wavy black hair, and quite delightful! And boy, could he talk! He spent the first 20 minutes giving me a lecture on modern economics before we moved onto house prices, Sainsbury's, his hatred of mobile phones, earthquakes, the Gulf War and charities. He was a fascinating little fellow, and told me at length about how he had harboured aspirations of becoming a pilot for the Pakistani air force, but his dream was scuppered after someone slashed the back of his ankle and severed his achilles tendon in a fight two days before the medical. Having seen Hostel, I very nearly vommed on my own face. Bless him. The coffee soon evaporated and we both had other places to be, so we pottered off to the station to say our cheerios. Once at the station we shared a little hug goodbye and as I started to walk off he caught me with a 'oi' and held out his hand. A handshake goodbye? How curious! We went our separate ways and that was that. When I got in, he sent me a very sweet message saying he had a lovely time and he was sorry he didn't take flowers. I told him I was sorry I went to the wrong station, and he offered me another coffee another time.

Memorable Quotes:
'All these goth shops in Camden scare me'. I decided it probably wasn't prudent to mention my extensive heavy metal music collection and university CV as a goth in the rock society...

Events of note:

Seeing Mr #1 with his big red hooter walking in to the venue just as we were leaving. Awkward! Luckily he didn't see me...

The Verdict:

Well well well, Mr #41 was a little pocket-sized treat wasn't he? He was bright, bubbly, beautiful and was delightful company. But in truth he talked a hell of a lot, and I suspected that deep down we didn't have anything in common. He was also way too small for me, and although I could easily keep him as a little Borrower buddy of mine, that's not really why I'm going on dates. I have plenty of wonderful friends already. There needs to be that something there, and with Mr #41 sadly there wasn't. That said, I may take him up on that offer of a second coffee sometime, if only to see if he could fit on the miniature sofa I'm currently knitting. A fiver says he could...

Mr #40 - Tweet to Woo?

2012-03-16T23:21:00.001Z

The preamble:
I first met Mr #40 online on Twitter, he'd been someone who'd periodically pitched up in my timeline, we'd exchanged the odd tweet, and that was pretty much that. Then a month or so ago, for some reason which I can't quite remember, Mr #40 and I became embroiled in some team tweeting which largely involved poor Mr #40 being peer pressured into going on a date with me for the entertainment of a bunch of random women on Twitter who may or may not have known him in real life. Mr #40, all credit to him, took up the challenge, and we exchanged a few cursory emails and set the ball in motion for a date. Then Mr #39 happened, and Mr #40, having already read the blog, understandably got cold feet. But when Mr #39 didn't pan out to be my knight in shining armour, Mr #40 gracefully stepped back into the fold again, and the date was cemented.

The man:
Age: 40

Profession: Support worker and blogger

Random factoid: Used to be able to down a bottle of sweet Martini in 2 seconds. Where do you learn shit like that??? And why???

The date:
So, Mr #40 and I planned to meet on a Friday night after whatever the working week had to throw at us, and Mr #40 kindly suggested a venue near enough to my place of work that I'd be able to easily get there, but not so close that we'd be in the same room as a bunch of my co-workers, which is never the best idea for a first date. I was also pleased that prior to the date he had asked what sort of activities were 'off limits'. Too many inappropriate suggestions were at the forefront of my mind, but since he was a total stranger, I gently tried to rule out food (we all know my thoughts about eating on dates), ice-skating, zorbing and anything where I feared I might die (aside from the usual fear of meeting murderous strangers from t'internet. I think from the mere fact I'm writing this gives away the end of the story that Mr #40 isn't a murderer. Lucky me). Anyroad, along came the day of the date, alongside a clusterfuck of a Friday which nearly put pay to my dating plans a couple of times. After a brief cancellation and rapid rescheduling (you've got to keep then on their toes, right?), and then subsequent relocation to a dubious bar opposite my office thanks to a private party at the chosen venue, I finally met Mr #40. I literally had no idea what to expect of him, because I'd only ever seen his avatar on Twitter, which was of a handsome intellectual type, albeit a cartoon. The reality was similarly cartoony, somewhat more 'grumpy Glaswegian' than I'd expected. He was also older than my usual spattering of dates, and I suddenly felt oddly like I was on a date with a grown up rather than a peer, which was something I'm not sure I dealt with that well and I'm not sure is something I'm that comfortable with. One thing I spotted very rapidly, was Mr #40 had a cracking set of facial expressions about him, almost hypnotically so, and he managed to pull a textbook face of disgust when talking about football. Conversation was a little slow to begin with, probably because the booze had not set in either side. But pretty soon things warmed up and we were chatting about all sorts of bullshit. What started out as talking about work soon evolved into chat about eating cat food, becoming a grandparent under 30, charities, art, school reports, Brits abroad, the use of swear words, carpets, eBay, Gibraltar and what an utterly bizarre choice of venue it was (I'd asked the name of the Mediterranean bar opposite and was directed to somewhere more like an ex pat working men's club on the main road in Vauxhall. Weird). A couple of drinks later, the post-work fatigue and the prospect of an early morning were setting in, and I gracefully declined the offer of a third beverage. I was all set to say our cheerios outside the bar whilst he hopped on the tube and I headed buswards, but at the last minute Mr #40 decided to get the bus with me which threw me somewhat. I had another half hour of unanticipated small talk out of my sleeve. After I rather embarrassingly expressed my admiration for TFLs live bus updates, we got onto talking about books, especially the works of Roald Dahl. Mr #40, I know you're reading this now, it was Revolting Rhymes and Dirty Beasts you should be buying on Amazon at midnight once you've finished that bottle of Martini, they're awesome. A couple of childhood anthologies later, it was finally time to head our separate ways, and I rather ungracefully had to sprint for my rapidly approaching bus so I wasn't at risk of being asked to have another drink somewhere closer to home.

Memorable Quotes:
I''ve been blogging since 2000 - I discovered the internet and drugs at the same time' Hmm, risky.

'I've eaten cat food before'

'I always buy things I can't afford off eBay when I'm drunk. I once bought a book from the Folio Society for £700.'

Events of note:

Mr #40 trying to explain the 'menegerie' of different voices he has in his head, all of different nationalities, who tend to make themselves known when he cooks cuisines from different countries. One 'voice' of note was that of 'Luigi', Mr #40's Italian alter ego, who seems to knock up a ravioli in spectacularly zealous fashion. Is that normal???

The Verdict:

Now then, the verdict. On the face of it, I had a very entertaining albeit slightly short evening with Mr #40. He was entertaining, funny, and once he'd warmed up he was a good conversationalist. But I was very aware of our 9 year age gap throughout, and sadly for me there wasn't anything there one the attraction front, nothing at all. And I hate myself as I type that because he has since messaged me saying he found me 'utterly enchanting', which can only lead me to believe he is not only incredibly sweet, was trying to win me over into writing a positive review (well done there), but that he must've had that bottle of Martini before coming to meet me. And I hate myself even more by writing this as I've since seen that before our date he'd tweeted to say how nervous he was about going on a date, which is a feeling I don't tend to get these days, but reading that has taken me right back to my not-so-halcyon days of pre-date nervous-pukes. I'll probably come under fire for saying this, but I don't think I'll see Mr #40 again. And it is essentially because I think once the dating small talk was done, I genuinely don't think there's much common ground as a foundation, and I think to agree to meet him again would give the wrong impression. But Mr #40 thank you for being lovely company this evening, and although I'm not Miss Right for you, there will definitely be one out there for you, one who you can show your 'etchings' to. You know what I mean...

Update on Mr #39

2012-03-11T20:32:00.002Z

Howdy folks. Well, I think we all know how great I thought Mr #39 from last week was, and how much I was looking forward to meeting him again this weekend. So, rather than include this in a future post affecting another future date, I thought I'd let you all know how it went, as so many of you were kindly rooting for me.

Well...

I didn't meet him.

Why I hear you ask, since it went so well?

Beats me.

Since the date, there had been a couple of text messages, but all of my own instigation. He clearly wasn't a boy to banter, which is fair enough, as at least we'd have this Saturday to re-banter. But earlier in the week, I got a funny feeling that perhaps I had maybe got my hopes up a little too much too soon, which were further confirmed when I casually enquired if we were still on for Saturday, and I was met with radio silence. That old chestnut...

From past experience, I have learnt that when men don't want to reply to a message, ie to let you down or whatever, they opt to ignore you instead and hope that you just disappear. Why do they do that? It's not only hideously obvious, it's unbelievably childish and rude. I wasn't going to disappear that easily. We had a lovely evening on the date, got on really well, and heck, I'd given up a whole Saturday day and night for this date #2, so I needed to know what was going on. That's only polite isn't it?

So late on Friday, I casually asked again as to whether we were meeting up, because if not, I needed to make alternative plans. Pretty swiftly he replied to apologise for the delay, but he'd been waiting to see if his dad was coming to London. As he was, he decided to cancel our date. It seems I'd inadvertently given him a get out clause, and there was no mention of rescheduling.

Game over.

I have no idea if his father was a genuine reason or not, I suspect that actually he's been going on other dates and found some younger, thinner, hotter models in place of yours truly, and you know what, I'm actually fine with that. Internet dating is ruthless. He could've dealt with things more tactfully, but I blame the Y chromosome for that. But I suppose what I'm not fine with is the fact that I had such a lovely evening with someone who couldn't have been more keen in person, and I foolishly let myself get my hopes up. And that is absolutely my fault rather than his. Perhaps it's because for the first time since starting 52 First Dates that I genuinely met someone that I felt a funny little spark with, and with that glimmering away in my sub-conscious, I let myself see beyond that one date and the chance that I might be able to quit 52 First Dates while I was ahead.

The world of internet dating really is a cut-throat one, and although I've known that for a while, I've not really experienced the wrong end of it yet. And bitter disappointment stings. Since I've been on 39 dates, I think I've been pretty bloody lucky. Everyone gets crushed romantically every now and again, some more than others, and of course it was always going to be on the cards for me sooner or later in going on so many dates. Hell, I'm surprised it hasn't happened more often! I won't lie, it didn't feel very nice, and of course I dealt with it in phenomenally mature style by getting embarrassingly wrecked. Funny how a skinful of Sauvignon Blanc takes the edge off, although I wouldn't recommend it, my hangover was brutal. But you know what? I'm a big girl, and I just need to suck it up, slap a grin on it and get back in the game. It was just one date, albeit a really good one. But there'll be more. Not everyone will want to see me again, just as I don't always want to see them again, so I just need to deal with it.

So the moral of the story is just to keep calm, and carry on dating.

...and I don't care what anyone else says, drowning one's sorrows does help.

Catfish Strikes Back

2012-03-06T22:43:00.000Z

Hello dear cherished readers of 52 First Dates. How are you all? Good? Lovely. So I’m writing this entry as means of an apology, as I have decided not to go on a date this week. The reason? Because I’m meant to be going on a second date with Mr 39 this Saturday. I know what I started out this dating challenge I proposed in a somewhat ruthless way that I would carry on with the first dates regardless of second and third dates. As it turns out, I don’t really like that idea at all, especially since Mr #39 was such a thoroughly lovely guy, and in the event that I should eventually come clean about my dating undertakings, I wouldn’t want to spoil things by having felt obliged to carry on my serial dating just because of some silly rule I made up myself to make the challenge more interesting. I know this feels like I’m being a bit of a party pooper, and maybe I am. But how would I feel if I knew he was carrying on dating in between our dates? Pretty shitty I guess, especially since things went so well on our first date, and I’d hate to do the same in return. And even if he does carry on dating, presumably I won’t know about it, so that’s fine, unlike here where it’s all terribly public. But fear not folks, if our second date doesn’t turn out well, I’ll go on two dates next week to make it up to y’all, can’t say fairer than that, no? But secretly (actually not so secretly) I hope I won’t have to.

But, in other news, remember the Catfish debacle of 2011? Well if you missed out on the weirdest experience of my dating life, perhaps you should catch up here. Or, if you can’t be arsed to read all that, here’s a potted version. In the third person, for some utterly irrelevant reason...

CTS meets Mr #2 online, and they embark on multitudinous chats and text exchanges.

CTS arranges many dates with Mr #2, but Mr #2 keeps cancelling slash standing her up.

Mr #2 arouses CTS’ suspicion, and through a bizarre chain of events involving sinister texts and a reflective perfume bottle, it turned out Mr #2 didn’t exist. Mr #2 told under no uncertain circumstances to fuck off.

CTS posts vitriolic post and pictures on blog to expose the aforementioned Mr #2, aka Sebastian Pritchard-Jones

Detective friends identify the photos of the alleged Mr #2 as belonging to a Mr CT on Facebook.

CTS contacts CT about his stolen identity and freaks him the hell out.

CTS is then contacted by Miss D, who was on the verge of going away with Seb having embarked on a relationship with him, but after her mother’s suspicions were aroused that she’d never met him, stumbled across my blog. Miss D is understandably devastated, and invariably tells Seb to fuck off.

I think this is as far as you all know, yes? Okay.

Well whilst the latter part was going on, there were ongoing police investigations into Seb, but because the case was still active, I wasn’t able to write about it. As it turns out, stealing someone else’s photos and posing as someone else online isn’t actually a crime unless they defraud the victim out of money or murder them, essentially. But the one thing they could investigate were the mysterious threatening texts I had that one night, which could count as harassment. After months and months of investigation, the police were not able to pin anything on to Seb, but they were able to caution the owner of the phone that sent the texts...one Amanda based in Wales. Sound familiar? So that’s where it ended...my suspicions confirmed that Seb was responsible in some way for the nasty messages, but still none the wiser as to Seb was. Case closed. Or so I thought...

Last week I had an anonymous comment on my blog from someone claiming to be another victim of Seb. I was surprised that after 9 months that this had cropped up again, and initially I was suspicious it might be Seb trying to play games. I have no doubt that he knows I’ve been writing about him and has long since changed his name, but there will be other women out there familiar with his name, and I still hope to find more. I encouraged the commenter to email me, and sure enough, she did. So I was introduced to Miss M.

Miss M got in touch with me after watching a programme on teachers, and randomly Googling Seb’s full name. And lo and behold, she came across my blog. It turns out Miss M was Seb’s victim immediately before me. And her experience with this mythical beast was considerably worse than mine. She had been going through a terrible time personally, and when Seb popped into her life, he appeared to be her knight in shining armour, making himself totally available when she needed him, albeit only over the phone. Like he did with me, they’d speak for hours on the phone, he knew everything about what she was going through at that time and she thought she knew the same about him.

Miss M’s suspicions were first aroused by cancelled dates, and when she’d try and arrange spur-of-the-moment meets in London, he could never make them. She started to doubt he even lived in London, as he’d been claiming. But the rest of his life had been told to Miss M in the same frightening detail that both Miss D and I knew all too well, the dead ex, the niece, the job; a sickeningly well-rehearsed routine.

Despite many attempts to meet, Miss M was always stood up or had Seb cancel.. But Seb, the charmer he was, even sent a massive bouquet to the place she worked at at the time by way of apology, a seemingly sweet but sickeningly OTT gesture. All the while, he was trying to suck her in and mess with her head at a time he knew she was most vulnerable. He even tried to book a cab to pick her up and take her to meet him, as he tried with me, but of course she wasn’t having any of it. It seems Miss M was made of much tougher stuff than that.

Miss M eventually caught Seb out by setting up a fake profile on the same website, and giving him her flatmate’s mobile number. But the messages she received were seedy, sordid and explicit, nothing like the cheeky Welsh guy that all three of us had got to know. He also started to get aggressive and nasty, which isn’t a side we’d never seen to him. In the end, after a final attempt to see once and for all who the hell he was, Miss M arranged to meet him in London, but he never showed up. She never spoke or messaged him again.

The frightening thing is when Miss M and I compared dates, it seemed Seb had been lining me up as the next one even before things had ended with Miss M. And likewise, Seb had moved straight onto Miss D the day after I told him to leave me alone. There will have been more women before and after us. So if you or anyone you know has been duped by someone on online dating sites seemingly posing as someone else, male OR female, then please let me know. Seb’s used a woman’s name and photos before, and has no doubt changed his fictional name now, but there are only so many intricate lies you can weave, and he must still be using some of them. If these stories ring any bells for you then please get in touch. I thought this was over, but it’s not. And I am determined to find out more...

Mr #39 - Leap of Faith

2012-02-29T23:00:00.003Z

The preamble:
There had been relatively little preamble between Mr #39 and I, but he had a great profile, liked lots of the same things I did plus many more I could be tempted by, and looked nice from the couple of profile pictures he had up on the dating site. So, since Mr #38 had pretty much fallen off the radar since last week which is a bit of a shame since there had been a certain amount of promise, I didn't think twice about accepting Mr #39's offer for a drink. There was a limited amount of text banter, but what I instantly loved about him was not once did he call me babe, he used full and proper English in his messages and he had a cracking sense of humour. All the signs pointed to a pleasant evening, regardless of chemistry.

The man:
Age: 34

Profession: Works in recruitment

Random factoid: Manages his own football team.

The date:
Sadly the day after the date I had to get up at stupid o'clock in the morning for a shoot, so I forewarned Mr #39 I wouldn't be able to stay out and play very late. I was also unfortunately only able to meet him at 7.30pm, so he'd had to amuse himself in the pub for a couple of hours before I arrived, which is never a bad thing, I'm a bit believe in beer goggles counting in my favour. I met Mr #39 outside a pub near Soho, and I was instantly struck by how handsome he was...not in the same way as his picture as he was dressed very differently and was wearing glasses, but he had a lovely manner about him and I liked his style, so immediately I was suitably impressed. We headed off to a lovely little establishment behind Carnaby Street, he rustled up some drinks, and although there was nowhere to sit, we found a cosy corner to hide in and get acquainted. It soon transpired that Mr #39 and I have an awful lot in common, taste in music, film, comedy, cake and root vegetables, all the important things of course. In a short space of time we covered a lot of the essential big bases, work, home, singledom, religion, festivals and sport as well as some of the more not-so-essential topics such as murder, peanut butter, my Catfish experience, how he copes with his dog's menstrual cycle, my parrot's masturbatory habits, why no eating establishment should have a name ending in 'Zone' and things you could legitimately combine with Marmite. Mr #39 was utterly charming and a real gentleman throughout the evening despite being a little tipsier than I was on account of his extended time in the pub, but it didn't matter a jot. What I really liked about Mr #39 was how up front he was about pretty much everything. As the evening wore on, I grew increasingly resentful of my impending early start as I was having one of the nicest evenings if not THE nicest evening of 52 First Dates, but by the same respect I also wanted to quit while I was ahead as it was going so well. A couple of drinks in, Mr #39 asked me how my date was going, to which I replied 'rather well', and since he thought the same he asked there and then if he could see me again. Without hesitation, I said yes, and he then asked when was a day when I didn't have the Sword of Damocles of an early start hanging over my head, and it turns out a week on Saturday suits just fine. And that was that, second date already sorted! With date #1 in the bag and date #2 in the diary, we called it a night and headed off to the tube. As we headed down the escalators I was riddled with potential-snog anticipation, and when we said goodbye I won't lie, I was a little disappointed when it was just a peck on the cheek. But there's always the second date, right? Fuck me, a second date! Steady on CTS...!

Memorable Quotes:
'My dog is currently running around the house wearing a customised pair of mens' pants to stop her making a mess everywhere.'

Re my friend Louise's dessert making habits: 'Your friend mixed butterscotch and chocolate Angel Delight? She's single handedly responsible for the downfall of the economy...' Thinking back on timing, I think he may have been right!

'Blancmange - what the fuck's up with that?'

Mr #39: 'You don't like asparagus because it looks like a willy?'

Me: 'No...I said woody.'

Events of note:

Since this date occurred on the 29th of February, a leap year, the girls in the office were teasing me that I should propose to my date. So, after one drink, thinking he might find it funny, I brought it up. His answer? 'Well if it keeps going well, yes I'll marry you.' Well that was easy...

The Verdict:

I don't think you really need to ask this question, since you already know I've agreed to a second date. Throughout the course of 52 First Dates, I've been pretty cagey about second dates if I've not felt something there, in fact I've only ever been on the one, which was with Mr #5. But a third date with him never happened, because he simply fell off the radar. I don't want someone who's happy to fall of my radar, I want someone who wants to be to be in full beam and making it beep loudly. And although 52 First Dates hadn't turned up the man of my dreams thus far, it has reinforced the fact that I know what I'm looking for and when I did finally meet someone right, I'd know about it. With Mr #39, something clicked for me, and very easily too. And without wanting to jinx things, it felt like something may have clicked for him too. I loved the fact that I didn't have to play guessing games, because I'm beyond shit at picking up subtle signals and the eternal overanalysis combined with my innate inability to flirt in return drives me potty. And the fact that he took my utterly foolish suggestion of a marriage proposal in such good humour counts for a lot. I say good humour, he said yes, so perhaps more fool-hardy than good-humoured. But there were no games here, he paid me very sweet compliments, was genuinely interested in me, and then asked me out again. And I have to say, not only am I really looking forward to seeing him again, but the butterflies in my tummy are too. At the moment nine days feels like an awfully long time to wait. Watch this space...