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.

A toe in the water

When you’ve been in a long term relationship (in my case, a 20-odd year marriage), you not only get set in the ways with your partner but, if you then find yourself “on the market” again, you’re out of practice at dating.

I was 46 when the marriage broke down but didn’t discover internet dating until about six months later.  The realisation for me was that places to go and meet people for someone my age were limited.  A few people had told me about internet dating but I had shied away from it.  However, one day an email promised me a trial period on the largest UK Dating site for a month for just £1 so I decided to dip my toe in the water… just to see, you understand… I was sure nothing would come of it.

The registration process was a bit of an eye opener.   I had to write a profile and submit a picture with almost as many specific requirements as needed for a passport!  The first picture was initially rejected as apparently it didn’t meet their criteria (maybe I shouldn’t have sent that one with the donkey) and I had to find a more suitable one before I could be in the shop window.  This could take up to 48 hours, or so I was informed.  48 hours?  But I wanted to meet and chat to people then, that very evening!  My trial was only for a month!

Anyway, I started nosing around the site, trying to familiarise myself with it. I could look at profiles but couldn’t send messages or winks.

Winks?  That’s clever, I thought, does it work via a webcam or something?  Well, no.  A “wink”, I discovered, was just a come on really.  Some people like what they see but maybe don’t feel confident enough to make the first move, so send a wink instead.  It’s normally a signal to say “I’m interested.  Get in touch and I’ll respond.”  It’s an automated thing, so you can just click on a button and the site sends the wink.  That was also a relief as for a brief moment I was terrified of offending someone if I misspelt it, but clearly I had no need to worry.

Once I had been approved,  I went through the profiles of people that fitted the criteria I had selected (there are search filters so you can look by age, location, hobbies, etc.) but having fairly quickly established that there were no football loving nymphomaniacs under 30 who were looking for a chap pushing 50, I had to refine my search.  Hmmm.  This wasn’t going to be easy.  I decided that I would have to widen the net considerably and therefore trawled for female non-smokers living within 50 miles that possessed a pulse.

Quite quickly, “Hadleighgirl2 has winked at you” or “Sarahlou has viewed your profile” type messages started to come through.  That’s more like it!  I knew if I threw the net out to the 68,469 people online, there would be at least 2 or 3 that would take the bait!

Having been brought up very traditionally, I decided that I would adopt a very gentlemanly stance and devised my own rules for first dates.  These were -

1)      I would go to wherever my date was (50 miles isn’t too far),

2)      I would do what they wanted to do and

3)      I would pay.

My reasons for laying down these rules were simple; whilst I don’t mind emailing, I prefer to actually meet someone in order to get to know them.  Therefore, as we were on dating sites and not in chat rooms, going on dates sooner rather than later seemed logical and natural.  However, by me incurring all the expense, then if nothing developed from it then I hadn’t taken anything from them at all and they couldn’t say they’d been forced into doing something or going somewhere they maybe couldn’t afford. 

So - my first internet date.  I had been emailing several people and one, Alexandra, had agreed to meet up.  She was shown as being 30 miles away which was technically correct – as the crow flies – but the journey to get there was nearly 70 miles due to a long drive along the river and then over the bridge.  Never mind, I was looking forward to this.  She was three years older than me, looked very nice in her profile and the butterflies and sense of anticipation I had made me feel like a teenager again.

We decided to meet somewhere.  In my head I had visions of “Brief Encounter” and a rendezvous under the clock at Waterloo station.  That obviously wasn’t going to happen as she didn’t live anywhere near Waterloo, but I wasn’t quite expecting “Next to the sign showing the opening times at Morrisons.”

When I arrived – bang on time – I saw her, dressed in a scarlet fluffy jacket, black leather pencil skirt and fishnets with 5” heels. This made me wonder exactly what sort of people frequented this type of site and whether I actually had enough money on me… but I needn’t have worried.  This lady had been single since her children were babies and as they were at University this was now her time.  I was her first date too and the only time she had enjoyed solo male company for over 20 years!  Her children had apparently dressed her as her own clothes were “far too dull and drab” but I didn’t really like to comment that she looked more like a Hooker than someone trying to impress! 

We headed off to the main shopping area and found a French Bistro to have a meal.  Starting a conversation with someone you don’t know and have little in common with whilst you are both clearly seeing whether or not there is anything to base a relationship on isn’t an easy task!  There is also that slightly awkward thought of where it could lead and it’s almost impossible to avoid visualising your date naked. Neither of us had any prior dating experiences or stories to share (that proved to be a good icebreaker for all future dates) but we got on well enough to start.  After about half an hour she got “the call”, which the majority of women get on a first date.  It’s basically a phone call from a family member or friend about half an hour in to ensure that all is well and the date isn’t a mad axe murderer.  As the evening progressed however, conversation unfortunately became more difficult with several awkward silences, and there are only so many times you can praise the food!

My own nervousness and apprehension didn’t help and it became clear that, even though the age gap was only three years, our outlook on life generally was miles apart and it was like talking to my Mother on occasion.

At the end of the evening I delivered her safely back home at 11:30 with nothing more than a mutual wish of good luck for the future, so I guess she must have also felt similar.

I suppose it had been a little underwhelming as a first date, but I was not to be deterred!  Back on the site, trawling for more potential catches and I was sure that the next few months would see a whole lot of fun mixed in with the odd disaster.  

I wasn’t wrong.

The Wrong Funeral

The thing about black comedy is that it seems wrong but somehow you just can’t help sniggering.  Just the title of this blog episode has probably conjured up a scenario to many of you who, I’ll bet, are half wincing but with a smile on your face.

Those who know me will be aware that, via my day job, I am surrounded by death on a daily basis and one has to find a coping mechanism; for me it’s humour.  If I allowed myself to feel the grief every time I was advised of a clients passing then I’d be permanently in the depths of depression and ready to swing from the nearest tree.

So, with what seems like a season ticket to the crematorium, I get to attend more funerals than most (lucky old me) but I have to say that there is usually something that happens to cause a giggle. This has been especially noticeable at funerals within my family (which may not come as a total surprise to some).

Firstly, there was an Uncle, a practical joker in his lifetime and also apparently afterwards.  My family are spread around the country and we had all gathered at the house, having made combined journeys of several hundred miles which meant that none of us were familiar with the local geography.  The Undertakers had provided two cars which led the procession through the main town, but sadly got separated from the convoy at a set of traffic lights.  The lead car tried to follow but the hearses were out of sight, so instead he simply followed the signs for the cemetery.  This resembled something out of Transylvania, with the graveyard being fit to burst with tombs, moss covered crosses and broken headstones.  The road became a lane and then a tracks which began winding between the plots themselves.  A graveworker, with a look of astonishment at the posse of cars, pointed out that this was the old cemetery and it was the new one where all burials and services took place. Imagine if you will, the sight of half a dozen motors trying to do 3 point turns in a tightly packed graveyard and then heading for the new cemetery at speeds more befitting of a mercy dash.  I think the speedo hit 60mph as the cars raced down the long church drive, eventually confronted by the sight of the sweating and straining pall-bearers, coffin in place on shoulders, who had been waiting patiently outside the door for the mourners to arrive for at least 10 minutes.  We were sure my Uncle had “arranged” that little incident and was probably looking down on us, laughing his head off.

Then there was the funeral of an Aunt (sister to the aforementioned Uncle) who lived in a small village which had a tiny Baptist church.  The funeral service had been booked in the big Cathedral in the town which was a Catholic church, and the Priest had rather bizarrely requested the assistance of the Vicar of the Baptist church (my Aunt was Catholic but never attended either church anyway). This was a mistake. The Priest delivered his opening address and prayer, which ended with the line “May God be with you” to which the Vicar, who was a double for Benny Hill’s small, bald sidekick, bellowed “AND WITH YOU!” at a volume that made everyone jump out of their skin.  From then it went from bad to worse.  Every statement or sentence made by the Priest was repeated half a second behind by his helper, a bit like an echo. A request for the incense burner led to some comedic indecision from the Vicar that wouldn’t have been out of place in a Laurel and Hardy film before a bit of helpful direction enabled the vicar to finally bring the burner to the Priest.  “No, I wanted something in it” the Priest said patiently and this was the cue for many of the mourners to cover their faces with tissues and handkerchiefs, trying to make their tears of laughter appear to be the more acceptable tears of grief.

But it was a recent event that inspired this episode.  Last month, I had to sadly arrange the funeral of a man who no-one knew very much about.  His family had disowned him back in the 1980’s (no-one had a clue how to contact them or even what their names were) and he had spent the last 15 years of his life absolutely convinced he was going to die imminently. He had basically given up on life, refused to communicate and confined himself to bed, his only occasional visitors being ex-neighbours plus a friend and her husband who had also taken on the role of being his Attorneys in his lifetime.  I was his Executor and had to register the death but no-one for certain even knew what his occupation was.  The Minister did a sterling job of the service considering that the only information we could give him was that he had once built his own house and hated everybody and everything except Country & Western. The funeral congregation numbered seven (me, the ex-neighbours, the attorneys and their adult children), plus a gentleman who sneaked in at the last minute and sat at the back and who, I had assumed, would be operating the piped music.  After the service -  which was amazing considering there was so little to work with - we went to look at the flowers and after a minute or so, the Minister came rushing across with this “extra” gentleman who had been sitting at the back.  He then announced that he thought he had worked with the deceased up until the early 1990’s.  He had seen the notice in the paper and thought that it must be the same person (it wasn’t a very common name but it was more the initials he remembered).  For a few minutes he regaled us with tales of the deceased’s life and provided much more personal information than we had ever had before, which prompted much “oooing” and “aaahing”.  Then he mentioned something that made the ex-neighbour look quizzical… noticing this, a thought suddenly occurred to me and I asked “What did this chap look like?”  The description he had given us was nothing like the deceased at all and it then became clear that not only had we had been discussing completely the wrong person but he had taken an afternoon out to attend the funeral of someone he had never met.  At such a sad occasion, when there was a fair amount of guilt that perhaps no-one did more to try and make the last few years more enjoyable for him (although it’s very difficult to help someone who so clearly doesn’t want to be helped), this provided a moment of light relief and hilarity for all concerned.

I’ll bet that the old boy wouldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine he would be the subject of a blog post read by a few hundred people.  In fact, he probably didn’t even know what a blog or even the internet was.  But if it wasn’t for him, then this incident wouldn’t have put a smile on my face and neither would I have been able to share it with you all, so many thanks to him for that. 

The day I went to France and it was closed

In the opening post of this blog, I promised stories relating to dating disasters and experiences.  The one I’ll share with you now made me laugh at the time.  Ok, it’s not side-splittingly funny and many of you will probably find it downright obvious, but the issue just didn’t occur to either me or my date when it happened.

This particular lady I had seen on the dating sites and liked both her picture and the way she wrote, which was articulate and funny (when I told her that she looked lovely, she corrected me and said that “stunning” was the correct description, obviously).  A big turn on is that, well, for me, anyway.  Obviously there has to be a little physical attraction too otherwise it’s a complete non-starter.  I used to frequently get messages from people whose profile I used to look at and think “Is that really the best picture you’ve got?  Really?”  Anyhow, I digress.

After a few funny and occasionally flirty emails, I established that she was a smoker, which was a no-no as far as I’m concerned.  But the emails and messages continued as we both made each other laugh, and we decided that maybe we should just have a date as it was sure to be a fun evening. 

So, we actually arranged for me to go to her flat and between us, we’d cook a Thai meal.  I would do the starter; she would do the main course.  She was 4 years older than me and had arranged a chaperone to also be in attendance who turned out to be a 30 year old single female from the same block.  Now don’t get too far ahead here… it didn’t turn out to be one of THOSE type of nights… but she did dismiss her chaperone after dessert and I seem to recall that she pulled a muscle in her neck as she moved in for some serious lip action.  It also transpired that she had apparently been pleasantly surprised when I turned up as she’d been looking at my profile on the dating site and thinking “Is that really the best picture you’ve got?  Really?” I’m apparently not that photogenic.  It’s funny how we see ourselves so differently from how others see us and after all, beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.

Anyway, she actually gave up smoking (Result! – Snogging an ash tray was never my thing) and we saw each other several times on and off for a few weeks.  She kept referring to me as her “toy-boy” (funny the first time but gets a bit tiresome with every introduction) and really had not much in common with my circle of friends, all who seem to be younger than me but nowhere near the declaration she made when she met some of them at a pub quiz night (“Look at your friends! They’re all about 12!”).  But the main trouble was that she’d never been married or had kids herself and therefore probably didn’t fully appreciate the demands on your time when you have three of them.  As any parent will know, a child isn’t just for Christmas and when you don’t live at home with them you tend to want to make the most of the little time you do get.  She also was incredibly impulsive… she asked me if I’d like to go to see her friends in Majorca as they had a spare apartment we could stay in and no sooner had I said “Yes, that’d be nice” it was booked!  No checking whether I was available or anything like that!  Bang.  Two flights from Stansted. Be there or else.  The relationship didn’t last until departure date so that was a wasted exercise.

But onto the point of the story; she also had two free tickets for Eurotunnel. This trip did need a little co-ordination and we agreed to go on a Sunday (some of you may already see the flaw in the plan) as around that time neither of us were able to take any time off during the week and Saturdays were really busy.  Her flat was kind of on the way so it was arranged that I’d go to hers, stay over and then we’d go to Folkestone from there on Sunday morning. 

We had to take her car for some reason that escapes me, but it was a Fiesta and therefore the opportunity to really stock up on the booze was a non-starter.  No matter, it would be a nice day out and we figured on some shopping, a nice lunch in a fancy restaurant, maybe some people watching as we supped coffee at a pavement café whilst basking in the sun (it was summer and in the mid-20’s) before heading home at about 9 o’clock.

The trip across was fun, laughing loads as we listened to Kevin “Bloody” Wilson CD’s and then recounted the best sketches from The Catherine Tate Show (Boy, I know how to live).  When we arrived in France, I thought it seemed unusually quiet and we drove off round the surprisingly deserted streets and villages, heading for the Hypermarkets which, as many of you have probably guessed by now, were shut.  In England, we are so indoctrinated with 24 hour shopping, 24 hour TV and practically 24 hour drinking and eating so it just didn’t occur that just 24 miles across a bit of water, a Sunday would be so different.

We did find a steak house chain that was open, so we stopped for something to eat and then desperately tried to find any sort of establishment selling cheap beer, wine or cheese (no ciggies – she’d given up) before joining a queue of English cars all doing the same and coming across a “Sainsbury’s Wine Outlet” that sold… wait for it… wine.  No beer or cheese.  Just wine.

At least I had a chance to top up on the vino.  As for the pavement café, forget it, nothing was open AT ALL and to make things worse the sky clouded over and it started to rain.  Knowing when beaten, we headed to the Eurotunnel terminal to make our way home again and I seem to remember being back by 4 o’clock, which was not bad considering we’d only left at 10. 

We didn’t see each other too much after that (nothing to do with the trip) although we kept in touch by email for a bit.  She eventually found happiness and I understand is now engaged to someone who has some grown up, self-sufficient children, so I’m pleased that it all worked out well for her.  By her own admission, she really didn’t like kids (I actually witnessed her having a panic attack in a supermarket when a young child started screaming in an adjacent aisle) and so she probably learnt not to date someone who still has major parental responsibilities.

I learnt not to book day trips to the continent on a Sunday.

Something for the weekend, sir?

All of us lads have been there I guess. Late teens, on a promise, straight into the chemist with the intention of purchasing a packet of 3, only to bottle it when confronted by the assistant who reminds you of either your Mother or your girlfriend. God, the amount of throat pastilles I got through as a teenager was unbelievable...

Anyway, something almost equally embarrassing happened to me several years ago, but it’s certainly worthy of a blog entry to give you a laugh.  I know it's a departure from the promise of dating experiences etc. since my marriage broke down,  but in my mind it's funny enough to include here, so here goes.

It was back when I was married and the ex-wife was about 6 months pregnant, which dates the story at early 1999.  Are you sitting comfortably?  Then I'll begin.

Everyone snores, don't they? Well, most do, and some louder than others. I was lucky enough to have escaped the flu bug doing the rounds at that time, but I did get quite congested, and had trouble breathing at night. Consequently the result, especially after a couple of relaxing beers, was a cross between an underground train and a Howitzer Artillery gun (or so I'm told, because as everyone knows, you can’t hear yourself snore. At all.) This woke my wife, bless her, who tolerated it for a few minutes before lashing out with fists, feet or anything handy in an attempt to shut me up. This (eventually) woke me up (I slept so deeply it was like being under a General Anaesthetic) and the end result was that neither of us got much sleep, so we were shattered the following day. The cumulative effect was devastating and after a week or so usually ended with me sleeping on the couch so that she could get some sleep ready for the whole process to start again.

As a caring hubby and a "new man" and all that, I decided to pay a visit to my local chemist on the way home from work. The intention was to see if they had any of these anti-snoring herbal type remedies; they've got to work for someone, surely.  In my ex-wife's best interests, I would also get her a pair of ear plugs, just to see if they blocked out the racket enough so that she could sleep through it.

All the assistants were busy, so I started scouring the shelves. There were no herbal remedies for anything on view; perhaps they were behind the counter. Never mind, look for the earplugs. Toothpaste, mouthwash, nappies, plasters, they must be here somewhere...

"Can I help you, sir?"

I looked around, and there was the assistant who reminded you of your Mum. I was just about to explain the situation when just behind her, waiting for a prescription, I saw a very good client of my firm. Oh my God, how embarrassing!  I now had to publicly admit in front of one of my wealthiest and best clients that my snoring is so loud that it wakes my wife and drives me to purchase earplugs and herbal snoring remedies. What would this client think? (With hindsight, probably nothing, but that thought didn't even enter my head at the time.)

"Er... yes... earplugs please."

The assistant acknowledged the request, raised one finger skywards, adopted this "you-won't-find-them-out-there" posture and headed off behind the counter. I smiled sweetly and meanwhile made polite conversation with my client, who asked was I well, were we busy, how was my wife coping with her pregnancy? Fine on all three counts, thanks...

"Are they for you, sir?"

"No, they're for my wife"

"What for, may I ask?"

Horror number two. The one who would have reminded you of your girlfriend appeared out of a room at the back. Except that she was actually my wife's best friend's daughter. She smiled and acknowledged my presence and looked at me in that "Have-you-come-in-for-anything-juicy?" type way. I now had the complete and undivided attention of both assistants and the other customer, all looking at me as if to say, "Well?"

"Er... flying. Yes, that's it, she has trouble with her ears when flying."

Got round that pretty well, I thought. All seemed satisfied and the motherly one showed me the range of earplugs, some wax, some foam, and some on special offer. I was just about to get the special offer ones when she said "Or there's these..." and then produced this box from the back of a drawer with what I'll swear had Masonry Rawlplugs in it. I wouldn't put them in my garage wall, let alone anyone's ear.

"These are specially formulated for air travel. These will do the job nicely. They're called Ear-planes."

These Ear-planes looked downright brutal… more like Ear-PAINS. I just wanted something to help keep the noise out, as I was fairly certain that our bedroom wasn't pressurised and my wife wouldn't be coming in for any rapid descents (Well, she was pregnant, come on…) and they were 3 times as expensive!

"Can I see the special offer ones again, please."

"But sir, these are formulated particularly for air travel, and if your wife has trouble when flying, then surely it makes sense to use the product specifically designed to relieve the problem, does it not?"

The motherly one had hooked me in with the "Don't-be-a-cheapskate-your-wife-is-worth-it" ploy. Top call. I had no option but to go for the Ear-planes now. OK, I know when I'm beaten.

However, it wasn't over. My wife's friend's daughter, knowing our family situation extremely well, went for the jugular.

"I didn’t know you were planning a trip.  Where are you flying to?"

Well, I couldn't have dug a bigger hole with a JCB than the one I was just about to finish off right now.

"Errr... I... don't... know..."

It was one of those bizarre Simpson-esque moments. All three characters - the client, the motherly one and the best friend's daughter - stood stock still for a couple of seconds looking at each other alternately out the corners of their eyes. God knows what was going through their minds. The motherly one then laughed and said,

"All I can say is that most people start with the travel brochures."

Ha-ha-ha. Say nothing, just let it ride, smile politely, take your change and go. Just go. Say nothing. Brain to mouth, are you receiving me? Over? Over?

"Well, you know how it is. I was just passing and thought I'd pick up the earplugs.... "

I could hear my voice trail off into nothing. What an absolutely pathetic comment. Can you imagine any sort of conversation between husband and wife like this:

"Where shall we go on holiday, darling?"

"I don't know, but I'll get some brochures on the way home."

"Good idea - don't forget the earplugs."

At the very best, they were going to think I had lost the plot. The client probably thought I had been working too hard and obviously needed whatever holiday was being planned. In a worst case scenario, they were probably trying to mentally find some really kinky use for earplugs, and my wife's friend's daughter probably thought I was having an affair and jetting off to sunnier climes with my secretary.

Maybe I should have taken that holiday...