Tales of the Unexpected - Part 1 of 3

Ah, the power of the internet.  It can take your ego sky high or send it crashing through the floor.

When first on the dating sites, you’re the “new kid on the block” and the site veterans are all over you like a rash.  You feel wanted and anyone whose self-esteem is low will receive an almighty boost.  However, after a few weeks (unless of course you have already met the partner of your dreams) then you become a veteran yourself and interest in you naturally wanes.

It's therefore refreshing when occasionally, just occasionally, you come across a newbie.  Should I rephrase that...  oh, I'm sure you know what I mean.  Anyway, this blogpost is the first of a three parter that will hopefully take you through the whole roller coaster of emotions that the internet can provide, just as it did for me in the summer of 2008.

It started one Sunday evening.  There I was, having just registered on a new dating website, flicking through my selected females (basically any woman with a pulse and her own teeth) when I saw someone I liked the look of who was also available to chat.  My success rate at chatting in real time with prospective dates online wasn’t exactly great.  This was because the prospective date in question usually closed the chat window as soon as they saw my profile picture (apparently unflattering – see blogpost “The day I went to France and it was closed”) leaving me high, dry and talking to no-one.

But wait - shock, horror – this particular one (Charlotte) responded positively to my “Hi, wanna chat?” message.  That was that.  The rest of the night was spent in an online conversation that got flirtier and flirtier until we exchanged phone numbers.  The hour long conversation that followed just cranked up the heat.  We were getting on like a house on fire.

During the next few days things got even hotter.  When she discovered that I had the following weekend completely free, she suggested meeting up on the Friday night because if we hit it off we would have the whole weekend to enjoy.  If that wasn't a come-on then I didn't know what was! She lived about 20 miles away but luckily, I had a previously arranged appointment to visit an elderly lady client of mine in the next town to hers on that Friday afternoon, so it made perfect sense to meet her straight afterwards.  We agreed that I would call her when my work was done and we would then decide where to meet.

Roll on Friday, I couldn't wait! When I got to my client, I apologised for being informally dressed but explained I was going out on a date afterwards.

“Oh, that’s good,” my client said, “is she nice?”

“Well, I don’t really know”, I replied, “It’s our first date.  We've only chatted on the internet and phone but she seems nice so far.”

“Oh well, good luck. If she doesn’t turn up, I’ll go out with you.” she said.

Ah, bless.  A senior lady with short term memory recall problems, possibly early onset dementia and a zimmer frame flirting with a man almost 30 years her junior. The Harry Enfield sketch featuring the two randy old ladies leaping on their prey shouting “Ooh! Young Man!” came to mind.  Obviously it wasn't going to happen but I humoured her (she was my client after all) and we got down to the proper work and reason for me going to see her which included me preparing her Will and then taking her to the local hospital to get it witnessed by her psychiatric nurse and assistant.

On the way back, she re-iterated her offer should my date not materialise.  I smiled, nodded and shrugged it off before dropping her back at her flat.  It was now about 6pm and I was nearly bursting with excitement.  This, I was sure, would be one hot and steamy weekend coming up (it was July after all - what did you think I meant?) and I couldn't wait to meet Charlotte. Were the pictures she sent me a true likeness, or taken 10 years ago?  She looked pretty good, I have to say... a raven haired beauty with a curvaceous, hourglass figure.

I raced to a local pub, where I made my way to the beer garden, having first ordered a diet coke. Once settled and still bristling with anticipation, I looked at my watch.  Hmmm. 6:20.  Was it too early?  I "Umm-ed and Aah-ed" for a moment before calling her. I could feel my heart racing as her phone rang... and rang... and rang... and rang.  Then a voicemail message.  Ok, maybe it was too early.  I left a message letting her know I was ready and asked for a call back.  I texted her as well and then turned my chair toward the sun and soaked up some warm rays on my face.  

Time ticked on towards 6:30 and as I’d heard nothing I tried texting and calling again, but got the same result.   6:30 became 6:45, then 7, 7:15, 7:30 and I still hadn't heard from her. Nothing said in the previous few days had indicated anything other than a desire to meet up, so this was puzzling. I had previously mentioned that 7:30 would be the absolute latest that I would be available, so I called and texted yet again, but with no more success than before.

When it got to nearly 8:00 I had to accept the inevitable.  For the first time in my life, I had been stood up.

Rather annoyed (understatement of the year) I drove back to my flat and logged onto the computer to discover she was actually online on the dating site!  I angrily sent her a short 4 letter instant message – “Well?” – and got some waffle about how her friend was sobbing on the carpet in front of her having just lost her Mum so she couldn’t cope with this tonight as it reminded her of when she lost her Mum, yada, yada, yada.  Under normal circumstances, I would probably have been sympathetic, but as this excuse didn't mention losing the use of either her tongue or her fingers it failed to explain why she had been a) unable to leave a voice-mail or send a text advising me of this or b) why she was able to be active on the dating site despite this unexpected mental trauma.  That was that for me and I therefore told her her fortune before signing off and blocking her completely.

Determined to not be alone on my responsibility free weekend and craving female company, I walked across to the local pub, but sadly the only people there were either elderly couples or single men. As I wasn't quite that desperate yet, I came back home with a vow to not let the rest of the weekend go without some sort of female company.

And that was just the beginning.

DOH! Oh Dear!

A female deer…   No?  Oh well…

It’s always good to try to start off with something humorous as in my experience, if people are laughing, then they’re taking in what you’re saying.  And now you can have a laugh at our expense as we have both done something pretty stupid recently.

Those who followed my "The Search for Nessie” blog will know that we went to Scotland for our summer holiday this year.  Whilst we had decent weather (for Scotland) we thought it would be nice to get some proper sun on our faces and so booked a holiday to the Algarve from Southend airport on Easyjet at half-term.  Or so we thought, anyway.  The Algarve? Yes.  Southend airport? Yes. Easyjet?  Yes.  Half-term?  No.

The reason for this monumental cock up was ENTIRELY down to the fact that the new Principal at the secondary school that 3 of our kids attend had spent all of her time implementing her new zero tolerance uniform policy and not making sure the term dates on the school website were updated. Ok, ok, I suppose I have to shoulder some of the blame for not noticing that it said "School year 2011-2012" at the top. In fact, I only became aware of the problem after one of my staff said to me, “I thought you were away at half term?”

                “I am.”

                “I don’t think so; not unless your school has a different half term to everyone else’s. Half term this year goes into the first few days of November.”

The breaking of this news coincided with the arrival of a very firm letter from the new Principal advising that under NO circumstances would term time holidays be authorised. Brilliant. Having never taken any of the kids out of school before, here we were yanking three of them out at once.  But what were the options?  I checked to see if we could change but there was no availability the following week and the situation was exacerbated by the fact that the flights stopped at the end of October anyway so even though we could get out, we couldn’t get back.  Could we cancel?  I scoured my insurance policy but couldn’t find the “Imbecile Cover” clause so an insurance claim was a non-starter.  The cancellation fees would mean I would lose pretty much the whole lot and we couldn’t afford to lose that money, so the Algarve it is.  However, as I'm finishing this, we've just arrived and I'm sitting in the hotel bar by the pool sipping a hot chocolate as I survey grey skies and rain of biblical proportions. It's about 15 degrees. I guess that’s karma for you.

Bad as that may be, my lovely Dawn managed (in my opinion) to top this a few days ago and in doing so has given the RAC man a story to dine out on for weeks.

We've had a ton of expense lately and with anniversaries, birthdays and Christmas looming, what she therefore DIDN’T want to experience as she turned right into our road was an extreme tightening of the steering wheel accompanied by a sound akin to the rumbling of a distant aircraft.  As she straightened up it passed, but turning right into the drive the same thing happened, only worse as this was a sharper turn. The wheel encountered so much resistance she thought that something like the axle was going to break.  An inspection of the front wheels didn't reveal anything in particular that would cause that. 

Once indoors, she called the lovely helpful guys at Leigh Service Station and explained the problem.  One of them said,

                “Hmm, don’t try and drive it, call the RAC in the morning and get them to bring it round here.  We’ll sort it out for you.”

Helpful though that is, it’s not ideal bearing in mind that we were on holiday in a few days’ time, plus there was the question of how exactly we would be paying for this?  There were visions of trading it in and getting something newer but the timing for that sort of expense couldn’t have been worse.

The following morning we called the RAC who came out very quickly, within 35 minutes in fact.  Top, top service.  The guy wandered over and we left him with the key whilst we were trying to usher the last remaining child out of the door to go to school.

I watched him through the window examine the exterior but he clearly found nothing that would explain the situation. He then turned on the ignition and moved the wheel to the left… no problem.  Turning back to the right there was immediate resistance once he had gone past the centre and I saw him try to get it to budge but to no avail.  At that point I stopped looking as there were £ signs dancing before my eyes, so I went off to do something else. When I came back I saw him gingerly reversing the car out of the drive.  He seemed to take an age manoeuvring round before driving away up the road.

In just a few minutes he was back and turned right into the drive, seemingly with no problem.  Dawn went out to meet him and was prepared for the worst; after all her Ford Focus was coming up to 10 years old. I was inside, surveying the scene with fear and trepidation.  I half expected the RAC man to shake his head and pull a blanket up over the front of the car before taking it off to Focus heaven.

Instead, I saw Dawn clasp her hand over her mouth and then shriek with embarrassed laughter.  The problem had been caused by the cable from the Sat Nav to the 12V electrical socket being caught up and wrapping itself around the steering column.  This had created the resistance and the noise made was simply the straining of the cable on the socket.  As soon as he’d unwrapped it, everything was fine!

We both felt pretty stupid and it was one of those moments where you just want the ground to open up and swallow you.  I was concerned he’d charge us for wasting his time but he was very understanding about it and all’s well that ends well.  Top marks to the RAC.

But that was, as I understand the youngsters these days would say, an EPIC FAIL.

Dating Netiquette

One of the things that prevent some people from dipping their toes into the internet dating pond is the fear that they will date a completely psychotic nutcase and end up on News at Ten’s main story as a missing person, perhaps never to be found after a worldwide search or, possibly even worse, to spend their remaining days chained to a post in a dingy cellar being fed scraps and forced to perform disgusting and degrading sex acts.  And that's just the men.

Ok, that’s maybe a slight exaggeration, but certainly the “weirdo” factor is what holds a lot of people back.

However, with a little pre-selection and judgement, you can practically eliminate the risks of meeting a complete loon and the good news is that all you have to do is learn to identify the words used in profiles to cut through the descriptions to find out what someone is really like.

So, for your education and entertainment, please read the following for a crash course in internet dating selection techniques.

For Men – words and phrases used in female profiles and their true meaning - 

1) Aged 39 – Yeah, right.  See my blogpost Forever Young.  The chances of women getting internet dates over 40 diminish, so take this stated age as an approximation.  She may be 39… or she may also be 49.

2) Homely – Boring and frumpy.  This lady will like nothing more than watching soaps, cooking, knitting and baking things like cake and apple pie.  Chances are she’s the size of a small shed.

3) Curvy – Fat. Simple as.

4) Voluptuous – Not only fat but also dresses like a teenager in crop tops and miniskirts.  Some can, some can’t and boy, she can’t.

5) Cuddly – Totally obese.  She probably has her own postcode.

6) Bubbly – Annoying and probably fat as well.  Never knows when to be quiet, talks at inappropriately high volumes and has a frequency to her voice that can splinter steel.

7) Party girl – If she admits this then the chances are she is a clubaholic and will spend the weekends lurching between wine, vodka, the club, the pub, the toilet, a bucket and paracetamol.

8) Likes the finer things in life – This lady is used to champagne, fine dining, designer shoes, Caribbean holidays and you will be paying for it.  Best have a large wallet and/or a private income.

9) Athletic – Flat chested tomboy.

10) Fiery – Unless you want to have saucepans thrown at you, your clothes cut into shreds and continual shouting matches, don’t upset her.  In fact, probably best avoid.

11) Wonderful personality – Probably as ugly as they come.  Will make Bella Emberg look like Miss World.

12) Loyal – She will never let you out of her sight and will continuously be texting, calling or emailing either to find out where you are or make sure you are where you say you are.

13) Animal lover – Animal rights activist who’s idea of having a few pets means her house is a menagerie.  You can be dying in the gutter but when you fall, just be careful of that Chihuahua.

14) Artistic – Weird.  Her house will be totally abstract and off the wall, the unwashed plates and glasses will (according to her) enhance the shabby chic look and she will offer you things like "The Biscuit of Torment" with your tea.

15) Honest - She has Tourettes.  Don’t be easily offended.

So now, in the interest of equality, let’s do one for the Women – here are the words and phrases used by Men in their profiles for you to re-interpret.

1) Athletic – Watches Match of the Day, Golf, Rugby, Cricket, Athletics… and plays darts down the pub whilst drinking beer.

2) Handsome – What era is this bloke from and who told him?  Greta Garbo?  He’s probably a cad and a bounder to boot.

3) Attractive – Says who?  Everyone online says they are attractive and it means they basically have no visible facial deformity.

4) Fairly attractive – Beware.  He may have some facial deformity.

5) Told attractive – by his Mum.  Who he still lives with. Probably.

6) The best picture I could find – It’s old, he won’t look anything like that now and he’s getting the excuses in early.

7) Height, 5’ 10” - This means he is no taller than 5’ 7” and more likely 5’ 5”.  Otherwise he would put 6’ minimum (blokes lie about their height in the same way women lie about their age – unless of course they really are over 6’).

8) Manly – A tattooed, hairy Neanderthal who will shed body hair all over the carpet and furnishings and will love bottles, either as drinking vessels or weapons.

9) Willing to travel – He lives either on a friends sofa, with his Mum or his one bedroom flat/bedsit is such a hovel you would run a mile if you saw it.

10) Six figure income – Maybe, but in what currency and where is the decimal point?

11) Likes trying new things – Pervert.  

12) Adventurous – Kinky and makes perverted look acceptable.  For him, bondage and a ménage a trois will be a bit dull.

13) Traditional – Otherwise known as a chauvinist pig. You’d best be ready for a lifestyle akin to a woman in the 1950’s and woe betide you if his dinner isn't on the table at 7 pm with his shirts not ironed.  Oh, and forget about getting a job.

14) Entrepreneur – An ideas guy with zero talent for actually doing stuff and who lives day to day by somehow wringing money out of people so he can supposedly fund his next big plan that will make him a millionaire. 

15) Romantic – A smarmy slime-ball that will give you cheap flowers and call you “Babe” or “Princess” because he’s having trouble remembering your name.

There you go - I hope that helps.  Enjoy and learn.

Next time, there will be more dating stories for you.

Lucky Escape, part 1

Leaving my marriage was the hardest decision of my life. Most blokes who leave their families usually do so for one of two reasons;

1)  They have a girlfriend to go to, or

2)  They have been kicked out.

Neither applied to me.  I left because I could see that, once the kids had left home, I would have probably been a candidate for category 2 as I would have outlived my purpose and then I would be in my mid 50's and faced with the prospect of starting again.  I grew up an only child and didn't want to spend my retirement alone, so, once it became clear that the relationship had ended, I set about finding a new partner.

The thing is, as a middle aged bloke, where do you go to meet someone?  Clubs were never my thing when I was younger and singles bars might work for some but the prospect of them made me absolutely cringe.

I therefore had no trouble at all in embracing the idea of online dating.  All forms of life are on there and some of the earlier blogposts have recounted some fun and interesting times on dates that I had.

But what about the people I didn't get to date?  The ones who showed early promise and then something happened that made one of us change our minds and just not go any further?

One such example was Wendy.  I've changed the name, obviously, but for all I know that may have been her real name as she had one on her email address and one on her dating profile, that I assumed was a pseudonym.  She was apparently from a rather desirable part of the county and apparently had two grown up kids in their 20's.  She also apparently had a large estate in the USA, her husband apparently having been killed whilst in military service and she had apparently received several million dollars in compensation from the US Govt.  I keep using apparently, because she was also apparently a barrister.

Having had several conversations with her on the phone, we hadn't met but I had already had an offer to go and move into her 8 bedroomed place if my finances got a bit tight.  She also stressed to me the importance of due diligence when on the websites, making sure I fully researched all potential suitors in order to minimise the chances of discovering any nasty surprises later on.

So, in her case, I did, only to discover that neither of her used names were on the list of barristers in the Barristers Directory.  As I work in the legal profession and know several barristers myself, I was keen to see if we had any common contacts.  For some reason, she was extremely reluctant to discuss any sort of work issue, such as what Chambers she was in, other barristers she knew... any attempt to discuss it was simply brushed aside.

This made me a little suspicious, so I checked with the Bar Council and every conceivable list of UK Barristers and neither of her used names appeared anywhere.  In fact, no female name was anything like either of the ones she had used.

During our next conversation, I again broached the subject and she again evaded the question so I just asked, "Why will you not tell me where you work?"

"Why do you want to know?" she replied.

"Because we both work in the same profession and apart from the fact that we may even know the same people, when getting to know someone isn't it usual to share this type of information? Plus, I've done what you suggested and you don't appear on the Bar Council register. Previous experience has made me cautious, as you know."

Well, that was that.  She absolutely hit the roof.  She was screaming at me down the phone, saying things like why on earth would I think that she would use her real name to someone like me, that she'd shown incredible kindness and compassion (irony alert) by offering lodgings and how dare I question her?  I then received a text message saying that she knew lots of different types of people, some of whom would be coming to see me to rearrange my features, including some graphic descriptions of what they would do with a table leg and what appendages would be sliced off and stuck in my mouth. How kind and compassionate that was.  She must had graduated with Honours from charm school.

The woman was almost certainly a fantasist, most definitely a psychopath and it just confirms that all life forms are out there with most of them appearing on dating websites. Therefore, in an effort to retain my (ahem) good looks and appendages, I decided to make no further contact with her to try and get her to change her mind.

Mission accomplished and I remained in one piece, ready for the next exciting adventure...

Speed Demon

I’m not a petrolhead. 

To me, cars are simply vehicles that transport you from A to B and as long as it starts first time and doesn't require the fuel consumption to be be measured in gallons to the mile, then it’s an acceptable vehicle.  Performance comes so far down my list of priorities that I haven’t even test driven the last two cars I've had.

It may therefore surprise you, dear reader, to learn that I have had four speeding offences in the last 11 years… all of which occurred on deserted roads in the middle of the night, something which I felt pretty miffed about at the time.

The latest of these speeding offences occurred about three months ago and I was dreading receiving the usual £65 fine and 3 points. Therefore, I was unexpectedly surprised to receive a third alternative; I was invited to attend a speed awareness course that would set me back £95 but with no other consequences!

It was a no brainer really, so I booked myself onto the most local course I could and this blogpost, as a bit of a departure from the usual dating disasters, recounts the experience of that day.

I was one of the first to arrive for the lunchtime start and found the two guys running the course excessively enthusiastic.  I sat down and one of them, Jolly Mike, gave me a name badge “to display prominently”.  As my fellow criminals filed in, a balding, pale, wispy haired pensioner dressed from head to toe in pastel green and with big “Buggles” type glasses sat next to me.  Was this a man or a woman?  A search for an Adams Apple was initially inconclusive due to the wrinkly folds of flesh hanging down from the neck, but wait... was that a trace of lipstick or were they very rose coloured lips?  Hmmm.  Not sure. Then the person on the other side said something and a deep, gravelly voice responded… ok, he was a man then.  He had apparently been an HGV driver (amongst other things) years ago.

He was one of the last to arrive and there were only two name badges left, one for Janice and one for Sarah.  The presenter came across looking at his list, clearly puzzled, and said “What’s your name then?  I don’t appear to have you booked on.”

“Yes you do,” came the gruff response, “I’m Janice”.

At that moment it was as much as I could do to stop laughing out loud and clearly quite a few people had the same problem judging from the muffled sniggers emanating from around me.  These developed into a series of loud coughing fits as Mike handed over the name badge with a “There you go, mate” response.  It was like something out of “Little Britain”.  

These coughs lasted some time until Sarah, a native South African, completed the 20 strong group and we were underway.

The introduction was delivered by Bouncy Steve, with lots of smiling, head bobbing and forced laughter. Aside from the usual housekeeping stuff (fire exits, turn mobiles off, etc.) he said that RESPECT was the biggest thing and they would not tolerate abuse, sexism or racism.  Oh, and as they weren’t Government Employees or Police Officers, if anyone wanted to rant they were in the wrong place.  THEY DID NOT DO POLITICS!

Any questions?

“Yes,” piped up a voice from the back, “What time does it finish?”

“Five o’clock” said Steve, smiling and bouncing.

“Oh... it’s not a misprint then." came the disappointed response.

With that we were off but despite the previous warning, the first point someone brought up was… a rant.  There were 3 or 4 in the room clearly up for the fight and Bouncy Steve did his best to laugh and joke his way out of the situation whilst politely trying to remind people that they were speaking to the wrong person in the wrong forum.  Sarah started moaning about the fact that she was missing a day off work to attend this stupid course and didn’t have a choice.  Steve bobbed around the fact that she clearly did and could have taken the fine and points instead.  This prompted her to respond that it was clearly this country’s fault she was caught speeding (yes, seriously) as we gave her the licence to drive over here when she had in fact passed her test in South Africa and we didn't attempt to educate her about our roads.  Jolly Mike laughed through gritted teeth, suggesting that surely it was her responsibility to learn the signs and limits in the country she was driving in… then a voice from the back shouted out "Bloody Africans can’t drive anyway!", Sarah hurled back something along the lines of "Shut your face mate you don't know what you're talking about" and Steve finally stopped bouncing and bobbing.

“LOOK” he shouted, “We’ve got a lot to get through and I’m going to tell you all how it’s going to go, because I think I have to.  WE DON'T CARE!  This is all about YOU and your attitude to speed and you’re only here because you’ve gone over the speed limit.  Whether you take anything from this is up to you but if you don’t then this course won’t be offered to you again for at least 3 years so you’ll get points and maybe a ban.  So, let’s just get through the course, shall we?  I’ll skip the rest of the introduction as otherwise we’ll be here until 6. Let's move on.”

It was like being back at school but it did the trick and shut most people up, apart from a Yorkshireman called Graham who clearly said what he liked and liked what he bloody well said.  Every time he (frequently) opened his mouth there was an audible groan from the rest of the room.  One of his gripes was that there were so many road signs that he couldn’t concentrate on the speedometer, so what was he meant to do?  Someone (me, actually) suggested he might consider taking the bus and Jolly Mike indicated that it was his job as a driver to observe the road signs and perhaps he might therefore examine his driving ability and technique?

The rest of the course was actually very interesting and to be honest it’s the sort of thing that every driver should have to do occasionally.  The stats show that the introduction of traffic calming measures and cameras have reduced road deaths significantly.  

We had a lesson in road signs and how they get there… did you know it is purely reactive to the incidents that occur on that stretch of road? I didn't.


Also, road hazard signs are, of course, like this -

but when they have a yellow background like this -

it means that there has been a fatality or near fatality on that stretch of road. I didn't know that either.  

We are one of the world leaders in continuing road safety and are only consistently beaten by Sweden, who have a zero tolerance rule to road offences.  Is it therefore a co-incidence that their road deaths are the lowest in the world?  Maybe not.  Sadly, no-one is better at killing children on the roads than we are so that's one league table we are trying NOT to be top of.

Other interesting facts and stats –

     1)      Not one person in the room knew the correct UK speed limits for different vehicles on the different types of road,

     2)      Just 1% of the traffic on our roads is on two wheels (i.e motorbikes) but they are involved in a quarter of all accidents,

     3)      Urban areas account for about 65% of road accidents but have the fewest fatalities,

     4)      Motorways account for only 4% of all accidents and so statistically are the safest roads to be on, and

     5)      Most fatalities occur in rural areas where there is far less traffic, poorer roads, higher driving speeds and where it takes longer for the emergency services to arrive.

So I definitely took something positive out of it and am now more “speed aware”, which is the entire point.  How Bouncy Steve and Jolly Mike managed to stay so cheerful throughout is one of life’s mysteries and I take my hat off to them. 

But aside from anything else, my biggest deterrent against speeding must be to surely not to have to attend another course with people like that.

Faking it

One of the most famous movie scenes in the world is the bit in “When Harry Met Sally” where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm in a full restaurant, much to Billy Crystal’s embarrassment.  As men, I guess when the subject of faking it is brought up we all think that’s something that happens to others and not to us (cue lots of women thinking “Yeah, right!”).  Staying with the movie theme, it was in the Steve Martin comedy “All of Me” where Madolyn Smith says to Martin, “By the way, I never liked your dog, I think jazz is stupid, and I faked all those orgasms”, to which his response is something like “Yeah... well… so did I!”

This is where women have a distinct advantage over men.  The fairer sex just don’t get made to feel really inadequate in that way.  And it really does make a man feel useless.  Or so I’m told, you understand… I mean, I’m not really aware of it ever being a problem for me (again, cue lots of women thinking “Yeah, right!”).

But I can inform you, dear reader, that this apparent preserve of the female population has been breached, not once, not twice, but thrice.  Yes, there was one woman I met from the dating sites and went out with a few times that I ended up faking it with.  Three times.

Now before you ask, yes it is possible in the same way that women make it possible (i.e. make all the right noises and actions) and provided that the man is using protection then no physical evidence exists, if you get my drift.  But what sort of admission is that to make, for God’s sake?  I mean, there I was, between relationships, single, loving it and also discovering that middle aged women are even more predatory than middle aged men when I find someone that has passed the “First night in a restaurant” test and I’m ready to go in for more.  The second date goes equally well and anyone who has dated in middle age will know full well what generally happens on date three.

So there we are having completed the pre-match warm up and we're in the throes of passion for what seems like an age.  40 minutes, 50 minutes, getting on for an hour… we'd worked through what seemed like most of the Kama Sutra, cramp was beginning to set in and then... I got bored.

Yep.  Bored.  How bad is that?  First time in the sack with this woman and I’m thinking “I’m getting fed up with this now, I wonder what’s on the box?”

That was a bit of a wake up call for me actually.  I wouldn’t have thought it would have been possible, but there it was. Boredom.

So I did what countless women have done countless times… and faked it.

I felt really bad afterwards actually, especially as she seemed quite happy about the whole thing.  I wondered if it was just that evening, maybe it was a bit too hot, maybe I just wasn’t in the mood… so we saw each other twice more and genuinely had lovely evenings full of lively conversation with flirting all over the place.  Both evenings finished with the inevitable bedroom action and the not quite so inevitable result of me getting bored.  Again.

I couldn’t carry on like that.  I mean, if it’s not great at that stage it doesn’t bode well for the future does it?  Anyway, I didn’t want to fake the entire relationship. So that was that.  Goodnight Vienna.

It also made me think a bit, "What's the point?"  After all, humans are the only species that partake in sexual activity purely for pleasure and with a generally concerted emphasis on NOT getting the female pregnant.  Other animals approach the whole thing more functionally and in some species the male is seen as a Stud and worth a fortune.  Humans who do the same are looked on somewhat differently, although we do have sperm banks I suppose.  With every current daily newspaper seeming to bring us new emerging or developing banking crises, that seems just about the safest bank of the lot at the moment.  I suppose you might say in this instance I made a premature withdrawal.

To this day I have absolutely no idea why that took place at that particular time with that particular woman.  Maybe it was an instinctive biological early warning system; something my body was doing to let me know that this relationship was not to be continued.

But I can now say that I have experienced part of the female viewpoint of that particular activity, and I had no desire to let the lady concerned know in case she experienced the male side; that feeling of inadequacy.

Just like no-one has ever let me know. Yeah, right.

Forever Young

“If you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything.” 
― Mark Twain

The first time I engaged in an online discussion with someone from a dating site, it wasn’t to flirt or arrange a date; it was to learn the ropes.

This lady, by her own admission, had been on and off the sites for 4 or 5 years.  She gave me quite a few tips on the female rules, such as a woman should never go to someone’s house on a first date, always meet somewhere public and get a friend or relative to make a call about half an hour in which is to see if a) all is well or b) offer a potential get out should the date be a disaster.  Oh, and never chat to someone who doesn’t have a photo on their profile.

Wasn’t that a bit shallow?  Apparently not – you need to be able to make sure that the person is who they say they are, plus you need to recognise them if you were to meet.

Still not totally convinced, I said that I had heard several stories about people using false or ancient photos anyway, so did that really matter?  She didn’t really have a satisfactory response to that one, but did go on to say that she hadn’t found that to be the case in her experience.  However, she had found that men usually lie about their height, unless they were tall, naturally.

That just struck me as the most ridiculous lie ever.  Surely the truth would be discovered within nano-seconds of the date starting and sometimes even beforehand if the woman happened to see him in the car park?  Of course, but that didn’t alter the fact that she’d been out with plenty of men whose stated height was six foot plus but who had turned out to be under five foot six.  As she was nearly six feet tall herself, this was a complete turn off for her and bearing in mind that her cleavage was one of her best assets (her words – I never met her to find out) it was always off putting when it was at eye level with her date.  Before cutting the evening short, she always used to ask why the man had lied and the answer was usually the same; “Because if I put my real height down I wouldn’t get any dates.  Once I get in front of someone, I have a chance to show them my personality and then maybe the height won’t matter.”

Ok, I can see that logic, albeit that it is a tactic which is unlikely to succeed. But is it right to actually commence a relationship based on a lie? 

I therefore decided that I would not lie about anything on my profile and would be absolutely and totally honest.  Foolishly I assumed that everyone had the same standards.  After all, women wouldn’t need to lie about their height, would they?

Well, no.  But what I did find is that they lied about their age.  Not everyone of course, but apparently that is the most common lie a woman tells in their dating profile.

One woman I started chatting to put her age as 45 and looked absolutely stunning.  Amazingly, she made the initial contact with me (that in itself was unusual as the only people who had done that had been those desperate to escape from places like Russia, Ghana or Nigeria and who somehow were ALWAYS 28 years old) and after a few emails and phone calls, we decided to meet.  Following my rules (see earlier blogposts) I arranged to go to her area, which was about 40 miles away.  I picked her up from her home, which was a beautiful farmhouse-style property in about 2 acres of land in a rural setting.  I wasn’t invited in, but as she stepped out of the house it was clear her pictures didn’t do her justice.  She was simply gorgeous with a clearly well-toned and worked on figure, so there was some instant chemistry. We set off for a restaurant and had a fantastic Thai meal, getting on like a house on fire and obviously sharing a similar sense of humour.  The evening flew by as we chatted, finding out about each other’s backgrounds and previous experiences.  Apparently she had tried the sites before and failed as there were too many “weirdo men” who she seemed to attract but was sick of her own company and decided to have another try. She had found my profile “refreshingly honest” (irony alert) and had also been pleasantly surprised that my pictures didn’t do me justice either.

Her story was that she had left school and gone to work for the company her father had part owned (which was a multinational household name so there was clearly wealth in the family) where she stayed for 14 years until the birth of her two sons, now 23 and 22 and coming out of Uni.  Her marriage had dissolved a few years ago and she was currently studying Law by correspondence course, hoping to eventually qualify as a solicitor.

So had I found “the one”?  Clever, witty, self-sufficient, attractive and also apparently interested in me!

At the end of the evening, we were the last to leave the restaurant and I drove her home. Again, I wasn’t invited in but we did arrange to meet up again the following week and there was also talk of a weekend away in a month or two, if everything went well.

My head was full of future anticipation on the hour long journey back, but there was something nagging at me that I couldn’t put my finger on.  Then it hit me… she was 45, her eldest son was 23 and she had worked for 14 years… what age was she when she left school?  8? Clearly not – school leaving age was 16 minimum which made her 53 and maybe 54 depending on what month her birthday was.

I spoke to her the following day and asked her to clarify again… maybe I had misheard or misunderstood… I so wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt.  However, when I mentioned it, she just exploded into an angry rage on the other end of the phone, accused me of “checking up on her”, said that “people like me were EXACTLY why she left the site before”, delivered a final foul mouthed tirade and hung up, warning me never to contact her again.

So she can’t remember to make the dates work to fit her deception and yet it’s somehow my fault?  Further, she couldn’t even be honest once she’d been found out as she “admitted” she was 49 (again, at least 4 years shy) and also said she had done it because otherwise she didn’t get dates from people she wanted to go out with.  She couldn’t see that it really wasn’t a nice thing to lie in order to get something you wouldn’t normally have, so I think I had a lucky escape there. 

What most intrigued me, however, was that if she had managed to cover it up and we had really hit it off, when was she actually planning to tell me?  Would I have been planning her 50^th only to be told by one of her sons, “Look, Mum had that eight years ago!”  I think I would have questioned everything she had ever told me at that point.  As Friedrich Nietzsche said, “I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”

So, bearing in mind that she could have easily been 45 if looks and personality were the measure, would the age have mattered if I had known at the outset?  Well, probably, yes. My partner Dawn is nearly 10 years younger than I am and that was a big hurdle for me to overcome.  It wasn’t the current age difference that bothered me, but what the condition of my body would be in 20 years’ time.  I was looking for a long term relationship and someone I could grow old with, not necessarily to be looked after by.  It did take me some time to accept that Dawn really, really didn’t care and in any event, she loves old people (bloody cheek!).  I guess by the time we get to middle age we are who we are, we know what we like and – most importantly – what we don’t like or are prepared to accept.  

After all, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

Threescore Years and Ten

“The days of our years are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow; for it is soon cut off, and we fly away.”

(Psalm 90:10)

Not being overly religious, I thought my memories of the phrase “threescore years and ten” came from Shakespeare. He did make reference to it in Macbeth, but the origins come from the Bible and for the benefit of those who have only been brought up since decimalisation and the metric system, a score is 20, so the above phrase basically means that we will live for 70 years and if we’re lucky enough to reach 80 then make the most of it as the end is coming pretty soon.

And what has this to do with the price of fish?

Well, nothing, but readers of this Blog will be aware that I attend more funerals than most and just recently I went through a period where I went to three in nine days. Never has the above phrase been so poignant because of the three people concerned, one was 66, one 67 and the other had only just celebrated his 70th birthday.


That’s no age these days bearing in mind the AVERAGE life expectancy is over 80 in the UK and because people are living so much longer now, the Queen no longer sends a telegram when you hit the magical three figures.

For me, funerals are a bit like buses; nothing for ages and then a few all at once. Many of them relate to clients of mine and I go along out of respect. There is no emotional attachment there, but unfortunately the deaths sometimes are family or friends, which is a lot more draining.

Most of the time, a funeral is a funeral; sad occasions naturally and which usually follow a set format, but all of these funerals were quite memorable in their own way.

The first one was for the Mother of a childhood friend of mine, Tim. We both played guitar and in our teens started a band called Fragment with some other friends at our school. I wasn’t in the band for too long back then but we were always round each other’s houses playing and writing songs. The three core members of the band stayed together beyond the schooldays and made it their living, moving to Holland and have been professional over there for in excess of 30 years. We lost contact for some time but caught up with each other a few years ago and now are in regular touch again, which is great. His Mother came to me professionally a few years ago and I drafted her Will, together with subsequent revisions. She had given birth to Tim at a young age (17) and had been a smoker for most of her adult life which, sadly, took its toll on her health and she spent her last years bravely battling cancer, dying at just 67 years old.

Her service was a Humanist one and if you haven’t encountered these before, they are (in my opinion) truly wonderful. They are non-religious, with no Hymns or Biblical readings, just sincere and honest tributes to the deceased. They are more “Celebrations of Life” than sombre occasions although of course, there is always plenty of grief and grieving that takes place. It was her wish that the three lads in the band brought guitars to the chapel and performed two songs, one which Tim written himself called "Kilimanjaro" and the other being her favourite song, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”. They also requested me to bring my guitar along and I was to join them for a final song, the Monty Python classic “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life”. We included a special extra verse that we had written especially for her which brought smiles and approving glances from the congregation but I have to say that it was a rather strange experience; it is a bit of a musicians joke that we are asked to play at “Weddings, Dances, Parties, Birthdays, Barmitzvah’s and Funerals” but now I can actually include that last one on my C.V.

Afterwards we went to a local pub and entertained everyone by playing more songs, mainly requests. As funerals go, this was what you could call a pretty good one.

The second one was for a gentleman who wasn’t exactly a client of mine but I had been one of his Trustees. His birth was difficult and he had been born with severe brain damage, meaning that the Doctors had not given him very long to live; initial estimates were just 5 or 6 years but then this was increased, despite his parents given warnings not to expect him to reach adulthood.

His 70^th birthday was 3 days before he died.

Because of his disability, his mental age never got above that of a young baby and he had very few communication skills. He was however, constantly smiling and the littlest thing would have him beaming with joy. His parents looked after him until they both had died in the 80’s and he spent the last few years of his life in a care home. He had no living direct family and his distant family lived hundreds of miles away, meaning they were, sadly, infrequent visitors. However, more local family, friends and the care workers looked after him as if he were their own.

His early days were spent in a different part of the country and his Mother conceived him around the same time as her best friend also got pregnant. The two births were just a few days apart – both boys – and they spent a lot of their early years in each other’s company. The eulogy was delivered by that friend and was the most emotional reading I have ever witnessed. The vicar who took the service commented that it was the nicest eulogy he had ever heard and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It was a truly fitting tribute to an extremely lovable man who clearly touched the lives of everyone who came into contact with him.

The third and final funeral was another Humanist Celebration and was for a friend of mine, Pete. Back in the early 1980’s, he had joined a band I was in and we played together for about 13-14 years. We had stayed in contact and saw each other regularly but about 5 years ago he was diagnosed with Prostate cancer. Despite treatment, it became extremely aggressive and affected him to the point that he eventually became unable to go out. I managed to see him a week or so before he died and I was surprised at the deterioration in his condition. He was 66, had lived a fairly healthy and clean living life and I know had spent much of his last few years wondering “Why me?”

The large Chapel at the local Crematorium was jam packed with mourners and well-wishers; there was barely any room left even to stand and I don’t think I have been to a funeral that had been so well attended. He was clearly held in high regard. Two readings were given by his sister and the husband of his niece who both managed, much to my admiration, to deliver funny, appropriate and moving tributes, keeping a stiff upper lip and genuinely regaling us with stories from his life that made everyone laugh and remember him fondly.

Death comes to us all, but for those with terminal illnesses, it is not only inevitable but you can see it coming. I suppose in those cases most of the grieving and mourning takes place before passing away, which may make the final ceremony a little easier to get through.

Personally, I couldn’t help thinking that soon it will be my turn to arrive in the funeral car, sit at the front and greet the mourners afterwards. I’m not sure that I will have the emotional strength to deal with it in the same way as the people I have recently witnessed doing for their loved ones. There is a secret, cowardly part of me that hopes I never have to go through that experience. However, unless I become immortal, the only way that will happen is if I die first and as I’m planning on sticking around for considerably longer than my threescore years and ten I guess I’m going to have to man up and deal with it as and when my turn arrives.

But for now, that’s enough funerals for a while please. Apologies to readers who were expecting funny stories from dating experiences but I’m sure you’ll understand. Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

And many thanks to the friends and families of the deceased who have all allowed me to include their details in the post. May Heather, George and Peter all rest in peace.

The Butterfly Effect

“Does the Flap of a Butterfly’s Wings in Brazil set off a Tornado in Texas?” – Edward Lorenz.

Yes, you are reading the right author and no, this hasn’t suddenly become a blog about science. 

However, this particular post is about chaos and in 1972, Edward Lorenz gave a paper on predictability to the American Association of the Advancement of Science which bore the above title.  The theory is that the flapping wing of the butterfly represents a small change in the initial condition of the air system, which then causes a chain of events leading to large-scale phenomena. Had the butterfly not flapped its wings, the trajectory of the system might have been vastly different and the chain of events wouldn't have happened.  

Here endeth the lesson.

Well, almost.  This can also be very accurately used to describe the law of karma, which, simplified, means cause and effect.  One of my own life philosophies is “What goes around comes around” and bearing this in mind I try to be kind, loving and do good things for people.  As a consequence I am surrounded by good friends, a loving family and I rarely dwell on the bad things that happen in my life.

One friend declared that I was the most optimistic person they had ever met and that if we were drilling for oil and had found nothing 15 miles down I’d be the one that said “Keep drilling”.

Personally, I prefer to think of myself as a realist rather than an optimist, but maybe my realistic beliefs seem optimistic to others.  After all, another friend christened me “Golden Balls” long before David Beckham had that title.  Let’s just say that realistically I’m an optimist and it’s not so much that the glass is half full but more that the glass is full, I’m drinking it and can I have another one please?

Anyway, onto chaos.  Anyone knowing me may think I am an expert on this subject, having been brought up in a house brilliantly described by yet another friend (I have so many!) as having “a general atmosphere of chaos” and also living with my beautiful partner D and her three daughters in a house that is just about as chaotic as it gets.  Throw my three kids into the equation however and it goes to a whole new level.

But even I wasn’t prepared for the situation I encountered a few years back whilst in the middle of the dating scene.

I recall there was one weekend that, on the face of it, had the potential to be legendary from a “Jack the Lad” perspective.  I was very active on the dating sites and it just so happened that I had been emailing several different people and had arranged to meet three of them (not all at once, obviously) but I had one lined up for the Friday night as a dinner date, a second for a lunchtime coffee on Saturday, and the third at a music bar in town on Sunday afternoon. 

On the Thursday, I telephoned my Friday date (we’ll call her Brenda) to ask about the arrangements.  This was the first time we had physically spoken and she was just leaving work.  The conversation went something like this.

“Hi there, is that Brenda?”

“Yeah, ‘ooisit?”

“Sorry?”

“I said who is it?  You ***kin’ deaf or wot?”

“Err… it’s M from the dating site, I’m just calling about tomorrow”

“OH ALLO!!!” <Turns away from phone> “Trace, Trace, it’s ‘im!  That bloke I was tellin’ ya ‘bout”

“I just wondered what restaurant you wanted to go to tomorrow”

“I dunno… McDonalds or Pizza Hut are ok”

“Err… I was thinking more Indian, Thai, Chinese, that sort of place?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah.  Enya them.”

“Well, what do you prefer?”

“I don’ care, all tastes same to me, I don’ like nuffink too ‘ot tho.  ‘Ang on a minute.”   <Turns away again>   “Trace.  TRACE! For ****s sake will you get that ***kin’ key!  We’ve gotta lockup and get outta this ****hole”   <Comes back to phone>   “Sorry ‘bout that.  She’s the gil I work wiv. She’s so fik. Anyway gotta go, I’m lockin’ up, send me an email. Ta-ta.  Fanks for callin’.”  <Click>

This woman must have had a ghost writer.  None of her emails gave any clue as to the fact that she made Waynetta Slob from “Harry Enfield & Chums” sound educated and well spoken.  I certainly did email her, but only to (kindly) cancel the Friday date.

When I returned home I had a call from the Saturday lunchtime companion to say that someone she had seen a couple of times already wanted to make a go of it and so they were going to be exclusive; therefore the lunchtime date was off. 

It was at this point, feeling a bit peeved, that I received an email from someone else who I’d previously tried to contact but had not received a response.  That attempted contact turned out to be the “Butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil”.

This lady (Sam) had made it clear in her profile that her two children would have to come along on her first date which would ideally be breakfast in one of our many local café/restaurants overlooking the sea.  Well, my rules are my rules (see previous blog post "A toe in the water), so I emailed her back and asked if she fancied a breakfast date on the Sunday morning.  We agreed more of a “brunch” and she said she’d arrive at 11, which was perfect as I had to leave at 1 to get to the afternoon engagement.

So – I arrived at about 10:40 and secured a table for four.  There are about 10 of these small places all in a row along the sea front and as it was early summer, they get really busy.  Therefore the sight of a large table occupied by one person drinking tea caused a few angry glances to come my way whilst others waited, especially as the time ticked on to approach 11 and then past it.  My continuing defence of “They’ll be here any minute, I promise” was wearing ever thinner as calls to her mobile remained unanswered and the clocked ticked round to nearer 11:30.  I was just about to give up when I received an apologetic call saying they were just walking along and which one was I in?  My sigh of relief was audible to everyone as I stood up and looked out, signaling my whereabouts.

I believe what happened next can be described as the “Tornado in Texas”.

Sam and her two kids (aged four and seven) came in and she sat down beside me. After the exchange of pleasantries (or should I say pleasantry as it simply consisted of “Hi I’m Sam”) she then proceeded to talk AT me for quite some time without pausing for breath.  I got told the reason she was late (crashed out drunk on her sisters sofa after a too heavy Saturday night, and yes, she did drive to the date) plus every conceivable business problem she had ever encountered in her work which was so dull and boring I can’t even remember what it was but essentially whatever she made, China made more of it and cheaper.  Wow.  What a shocker.

Meanwhile, the two kids are whizzing around like a pair of Tasmanian Devils, grabbing plates, cups and cutlery off other diner’s tables and generally causing mayhem.  Their noise seemed to be unnoticed by Sam who dealt with it by simply speaking louder to make herself heard over the din.  The glances of annoyance I had earlier received from the waiting guests had now turned to stares of rage as they were all looking at me, expecting me to deal with it.

I noticed a gap of literally nano-seconds between sentences and I got in with “Shall we order?  I have to leave at 1 o’clock and the children look as though they may be hungry.” This theory was based entirely on the fact that Formula 1 cars are at their fastest when they are just about to run out of petrol.  I figured if we could get some fuel into them, at least they would have to come into the pits to receive it.

“Good idea” she said and then, without pausing for breath, called out to the waiter “Three full English’s and three teas please. Now, where was I?”

The waiter looked across at me and I mouthed “Make that four” as the second phase of the verbal assault started.

The kids continued to treat the place like a playground until the tea mercifully arrived very quickly. They then came to the table and sat down as Sam continued to vent.  The young four year old boy put two sachets of sugar in his tea before his sister said “Mum, he’s doing it again” and Sam said “Oy!  OY! No! No more sugar.”

“Aw, Mum!”

“Well, just that last one then.”

That happened four more times until he had reached his SEVENTH sachet before the food arrived, which was the only thing that stopped him.

“I imagine he’ll be lively later.” I said.

“Not my problem, he’s at my sisters this afternoon, she can deal with it.  Ha, ha, she won’t know what’s hit her.”

Nice, I thought.  And I somehow suspect that the Texan Tornado had developed into a full blown Tsunami by teatime.

I made my excuses, left and yes, I paid the bill.  Rules are rules.  But it won’t surprise anyone to learn that I didn’t pursue that relationship either and when I got back from the music bar date (which was also a dead loss) I emailed Sam to say that, as interesting as the morning had been, I had actually decided to be exclusive with the lady I’d been with that afternoon and so wished her good luck in the future.

Not as much luck as the next person who decided to meet her though.