Krek waiter speke forrun

We English are rulers of the language world.  How our little country managed to give the world its primary spoken language I don't know (well I do actually, thinking about it, it was called the British Empire!) but we managed it and as a result are linguistically lazy. Picture the scene; a remote part of Africa, where a plane has come down and news crews have converged to an area where they have barely had human contact in years. A Sky news reporter interviews a local tribesman who gives his eye witness report... in perfect English. Conversely, I once worked for an Englishman who claimed that he was fluent in most languages; all he had to do was speak slowly and shout.

Our language has evolved over centuries and there is a really interesting article by Stephen Fry on the importance of correct spelling and grammar... or not.  Check it out here. Personally, I abhor incorrect use of grammar and spelling but do acknowledge that there is some creativity allowed and this is how new words evolve.  Where space is limited (such as in text messages) then I also acknowledge that "C U ltr m8" is inevitable and quick.  With the younger generations texting like there is no tomorrow, I therefore predict a raft of future news headlines reading something like "K8 and Wils get g/kids" as well as an overload in A&E departments for RSI injuries to thumbs.

Incidentally, have we all worked out the title of this blogpost?  It's written phonetically, so say it out loud if you haven't.*   And this leads me onto the main point of this scribe. In the 1960's there were some "wonderful and innovative" (ahem) new education techniques brought in.  One of these was ITA (Initial Teaching Alphabet), a way to assist the whole reading experience by learning words phonetically. This involved young children learning ITA first and then, when sufficiently proficient in that, transferring to the usual English alphabet. ITA had over 40 symbols and many of them bore no resemblance to our letters (check it out for fun - here's the Wikipedia entry for ITA).  Fortunately, it didn't catch on and died out pretty quickly, leaving our beautiful English language unharmed.

But, not content with that, we went on to create derivatives of other tongues like French and Spanish (which we refer to as Franglais and Spanglish) and have a whale of a time in particular with our Gallic neighbours. Our mickey taking is relentless as we produce comedy shows like "'Allo, 'Allo" and in "Only Fools and Horses", Del Boy never fails to amuse with his lack of understanding in how and when to use various French words and phrases.  One of my personal favourites is in the 2002 episode, "Strangers on the Shore", when there is the following exchange between Del and Rodney -

Del One of my most favouritist meals is Duck à l'Orange, but I don't know how to say that in French.
Rodney It's canard.
Del You can say that again bruv!
Rodney No the French word for duck is canard.
Del Is it? I thought that was something to do with the QE2?
Rodney No that's Cunard. They're the ones with the boats and what have you. The French for duck is canard.
Del Right lovely jubbly. Right, so how do the French say à l'Orange then?
Rodney A l'Orange!
Del What, the same as we do?
Rodney Yes
Del Oh dear, it's a pity they don't use more of our words innit eh?

Anyway, I do believe the French are getting their own back.

The car I currently drive is a Peugeot 5008 and which came from our local automotive park.  This is dominated by a company called Toomey who have main dealerships for not only Peugeot but Nissan, Vauxhall, Renault and Citroen too.  When I collected it, I saw a sign on the wall saying "Toomay Pershow". I thought nothing of it really until I called up to check the car in for a routine check.  "Hello, Toomey Peugeot, how can I help you?" was the phone greeting.  Toomey Peugeot?  Toomey Pershow?  Surely not.

Again, I thought nothing of it apart from maybe assuming that someone had made a monumental spelling error on the sign which had gone up without anyone actually noticing.

However, just recently, a service reminder arrived in the post which was signed off by the Manager and it actually stated on the literature itself "Toomey Pershow".

When I booked the car in, I decided to check it out.

"Anything else I can help with?" said the helpful receptionist.

"Well yes, as it happens.  Your literature is signed off as Toomey Pershow."

"Yes, that's right."

"But you are Toomey Peugeot."

"Yes."

"So what's that about then?  Is there a Mr. Pershow somewhere behind the scenes?"

"No, it's what Peugeot have told us that we have to do."

"I'm sorry?  Pardon?"

"Peugeot have told us we have to put Toomey Pershow on all the literature.  Apparently it stops people pronouncing it Pew-got."

There was a few seconds of stunned silence before I could respond.

"Are you serious?  Peugeot actively want their name to be spelt incorrectly?  It's not actually even phonetically correct, is it?  If they were going to do that, then it should be Per-jo.  It's a bit rubbish, isn't it?"

Embarrassed silence, then...

"Well... err... I don't think many of us like it either, but it's what we've been told to do.  I can't really say much more..."

So there you have it.  The French have decided that we are too linguistically incompetent to pronounce their car manufacturers correctly so have equally incompetently tried to phonetically get it right whilst getting it slightly wrong.  They even have their own Yell entry - click here - unbelievable!  Maybe we'll see a surge of dealerships such as "Toomey Rennow" or "Toomey Sitrun", although if the French are true to form, it will probably be "Toomey Renall" or "Toomey Seetron".  Thank goodness the Japanese haven't decided to follow suit as I'm still trying to get my head around the correct way to pronounce the Nissan Qashqai.

My car is up for renewal in February.  I think I'll get a Ford.


*If you really still don't know what the title is, then you clearly either aren't saying "Correct Way to Speak Foreign.", or you are, in fact, foreign.  Don't worry; just say it slowly and in a loud voice.  It'll be fine.

Does every dog have its day?

If Southend United were a dog, this is what it would probably be...

It's been a while.

When I say that, I'm mainly referring to the date of my last blog, which was back at the beginning of February.  Since then, my life has undergone a series of major changes which have ultimately resulted in me spending the vast majority of my time working, with what little time I have left spent sleeping and doing the Dad's taxi thing.  Oh, and supporting Southend United, a club which I have had an affinity with since 1969 and which makes it the longest relationship (aside from my parents) that I have ever had in my life.

As this blog primarily started out about dating disasters, can I therefore count the regular "dates" with my football club mistress as potential blog fodder?  Rhetorical question, of course. I'm going to.

My love affair at my mistresses home - Roots Hall - started when I was just 8 years old and I remember the day well.  My football mad Dad must have longed for the day when I showed an interest in the"Beautiful Game" and on 30th August 1969 that day arrived.  I discovered Southend were playing against Crewe Alexandra in league division 4, asked him to take me and he duly obliged, paying for us to stand on the South Bank - a big open terrace behind the goal long since replaced by flats and a small, two tier stand - and we cheered Southend onto a 2-0 victory.  Neither of us knew any of the players (he was a Fulham fan) but that day, the names of Billy Best, Phil Chisnall, Gary Moore and Mike Beesley - amongst others - were etched into my memory banks as heroes in blue and white. That was it. I was hooked.

Since then, I have been a fan through thick and thin much to previous girlfriends/wives disgust. I've seen every promotion the club has had and attended most of the "big" games, travelling across, up and down the country to places like Bury, Grimsby and Kidderminster for 90 minute liaisons with the second love of my life.  Seasons have been enjoyed and endured in equal measure, through the dark days of the mid 1980's when the club was within a whisker of folding through to the early 2000's when club legend Steve Tilson took the club to two Leyland-Daf Trophy finals and the League Two play off final at the Millennium Stadium Cardiff and then up to the heady heights of The Championship, claiming the League One Title along the way.

But since those days and the immediate relegation from the Championship, the club has been in a downward spiral and now languishes back in League Two where wily Scot and experienced manager Paul Sturrock nearly oversaw a promotion last season by getting the second highest points total in the clubs history that left us one tantalizing point short of success.  Our route to a higher division was ended in the play offs by - wait for it - Crewe Alexandra, a team we had already beaten twice in the league that season.

This season therefore should have been the first rung back on the ladder of success but, despite an encouraging run of form up to November when Southend were nicely placed for automatic promotion, a series of injuries, suspensions and wretched home performances has seen this year turn into a bit of a disaster.  Promotion now looks extremely unlikely.  However, the club has had some decent performances in cup competitions and won through to the Johnstone Paint Trophy Final at Wembley, overcoming two teams from higher divisions along the way and guaranteeing the club a decent payday.  Paul Sturrock had never been to Wembley as a manager and was, like the rest of us, looking forward to it greatly.

Club Chairman Ron Martin however decided to swing the axe on Sturrock two weeks prior to the Wembley final and in doing so - via a decision that I'm sure was made with best intentions - turned the club into a laughing stock across the football world by saying that Sturrock could still manage and lead the team out at Wembley for the final as he had earned that right by getting us there.

This was something unprecedented in football history and didn't sit well with new incumbent Phil Brown, ex Bolton, Derby, Hull and Preston manager (as well as being an unsuccessful applicant for every managerial post going over the last 18 months).  He was happy for Sturrock to lead the team out, but manage?  There wasn't the same enthusiasm for that and so, after several private meetings and while the club had been ridiculed throughout the national media for days, Sturrock decided that he wouldn't press the point and politely declined the clubs offer.

But every dog has it's day, as the saying goes, it's just that if this little club was a dog, it would certainly be the comedy type such as the chihuahua at the top of the page that would stand more chance of a giant killing by sticking in the throat of it's foe rather than actually causing physical damage.

And so this dog of a clubs day had come, at Wembley on April 7th, and yet again bloody Crewe Alexandra were the opponents, so there was a chance for some revenge to be exacted on the team who had pooped on our potential promotion party last year.

There's a little group of us that follow the team (no, I'm talking about the entire crowd) and between four or five of them had pulled out all the stops regarding the organisation and laid on 2 coaches to take us to the National Stadium via a pub in Upminster called "The Crumpled Horn", who had very kindly agreed to open the bar for our arrival at 9:15 and lay on a full English Breakfast for the 77 visitors.

A big thanks to the pub staff who ensured everyone was served with drinks and food before we had to make our way to Wembley, leaving at around 10:40 to ensure arrival in plenty of time for the kick off at 1:15.

Now some people of  a certain age who had drunk a certain number of pints of lager in just over an hour weren't really able to last the entire journey...

...but we were soon in sight of the landmark stadium and ready for our dog of a club to choke the life out of their higher league opponents.

The sight of all the Shrimpers fans going up Wembley Way and around the stadium generally was a fantastic spectacle.

The trip to Wembley had caught the imagination of everyone in Southend and over 32,000 tickets had been sold, as opposed to the 11,000-odd from Crewe, meaning that the Southend contingent outnumbered their northern counterparts by almost 3-1.  A similar scoreline on the pitch would be nice thank you very much, and our hopes were high when the main Crewe striker was out injured and another of their players, Adam Dugdale, had lost his 6 year old son in the days leading up to the game so wasn't playing either.  Word had got around to both sets of supporters that there would be a minutes applause in the sixth minute to show respect for the poor lad.

The nerve ends were jangling as kick off approached.  The players came out of the tunnel and were greeted by a sea of blue, which must have been a quite daunting sight.  Consequently they froze like rabbits in the headlights as Crewe started out of the the blocks with a proverbial gnashing of the teeth, swallowing up possession and restricting Southend's touches of the ball to hasty and usually poorly placed clearances.

During the 5th minute, Crewe won a corner and Southend were completely undone by a simple training ground routine, with skipper Murphy running 30 yards unchallenged to stroke the ball into the net following a clever dummy. With Southend stunned into silence, there then immediately followed the rather strange feeling of having to break into applause for the Dugdale boy as the 6th minute arrived, when in fact all you felt like doing was throwing the match programme down and screaming at the team to wake up.  And wake up they did, eventually, as Crewe started to ease off and then began to splutter.  Britt Assombalonga was brought down in the box and on another day - any other day in fact - a penalty would have been awarded.  Tamika Mkandawire headed over the bar from 6 yards and a Ryan Cresswell knock down was unable to be touched into the net.

But at half time, Southend had come back into the game and were very much in it, as long as they didn't concede a second goal.

Sadly, that position only lasted 4 minutes, the length of time for maverick and enigma Bilel Mohsni to get caught in possession, allowing the Crewe players to bear down on goal and almost walk the ball in to make it 2-0.

With that, Southend tried to step up a gear.  Assombalonga was brought down again in similar fashion and again there was no penalty; then, GavinTomlin put in a cross from the left that Mohsni and Assombalonga both went for but somehow the ball - headed goalwards from less than 2 yards out - struck a Crewe defender and bounced to safety.

There was more drama - Assombalonga had a goal disallowed for offside and Sean Clohessy was brought down on the edge of the area but yet again no foul was given.  The introduction of substitutes Barry Corr, Ben Reeves and Freddy Eastwood failed to get Southend back in the game and Crewe were coasting.  They had chewed us up, spat us out and ensured that the Trophy was headed north.  Very much in "Crewe's control" you might say.

So it wasn't to be Southend's day yet again.  Maybe that day will come on Wednesday April 10th, because, while the first team will be battling a Rochdale team in Lancashire, Southend Council will be meeting to decide on whether the revised proposal will be passed that will eventually allow the new stadium at Fossetts Farm to be built.  Much has been written and discussed about this long running saga but, in a nutshell, if we can't move to Fossetts Farm, then the club in it's current form is finished.

But if permission is granted, then does that mean everything is rosy?  I think that's unlikely. Nothing surprises me anymore with this club. Following them for nearly 45 years, I am never amazed at their capacity to disappoint.  To draw more analogies with female relationships, it is like they are the wife that is having an affair, then you find out it is with your best mate.  However, the pain doesn't stop there; she throws you out, moves him in and finally you discover that the kids have started calling him Dad.  It eventually wears you down.  One can only hope that at least the battling performance and injustice at Wembley will have enabled some of the "Day Trippers" - probably 20,000 of them - to come down to Roots Hall in the future just to start following the team, just to see what real football can be like in the lower echelons.

I'm still looking forward to when our Dog can have its day again, because when you follow a team like Southend, there are no expectations whatsoever.  Which means that occasionally, just occasionally, when something does happen that is quite mind blowing - like beating Manchester United, Rooney and Ronaldo et al 1-0 in the Carling Cup to become the only team in the world to have a positive record against them - it makes that day so much more satisfying.

Which is the only reason why we all do it.

The Battle of Grand Drive

Sunday evening –  Snow has been falling for most of the day and the scene is picture postcard winter.  The gritting lorries have been out in force though and the roads seem clear-ish.  No more snow is expected.

The girls have been out in the snow today, either sledging, building snowmen or just having fun.  We ask them to get their school stuff ready for the morning; they look at us as though we have just told them we have tortured and then killed the family cat.

“But we’re gahn aht,” one of them says, “there’s a load of us gahn to tahn.” (see blogpost “Uprising” for Essex-speak translation).

“I don’t think you are going out, you’re going to school. If there’s more snow and it’s closed, well, that’s different, but otherwise you’re going.”

“None of our friends are gahn in though.”

“Really?  Well, you are. Sorry.”

This was a cue for much under-the-breath mumbling and a few foot stomps, but there was generally an uneasy truce.  After all, who knew what the morning would bring…

Monday morning – The alarm went off at 6:30am as usual and I went downstairs to make a cup of tea.  I would need as much sustenance as I could get to prepare myself for the inevitable onslaught. A cursory look outside showed no further snowfall.  I turned on the local radio and listened to the school closures… these were almost all in the north of the County or rural areas.  The mainstream areas were fine, with no traffic delays either at that time.  I was sure the school would be open. At 7:00am I climbed the stairs and woke the girls.  This would be their normal rising time anyway but I was expecting some kickback.  I made sure they were properly awake. 

“Come on, there’s been no more snow.  School’s open and you’re going in.”

I went downstairs and waited, finishing my tea.  One of the girls came down to get her uniform out of the pile of ironing (she clearly hadn’t done it the night before as instructed as she probably thought we’d be snowed in) and heard the school closures on the radio… Belfairs was not one of them.  

But wait… there was a chance… the presenter finished the piece with,

“… but this may not be 100% correct so the best thing you can do is to check your school’s website.”

With a look of hope on her face, she made her way to the PC and tap-tapped onto the School Home page which downloaded a few seconds later, showing a huge message on the screen –

Belfairs Academy is OPEN today

The sigh of disappointment and anger resonated around the house. That was it.  The battle had begun.

“Have I got to go in today, Mark?”

“Yep. ‘Fraid so.”

“But why?  None of my friends are going in.”

“I’m sure they are.  School’s open.”

“But the teachers won’t be in.  We’ll have to sit doing nothing.”

“Oh well.  So be it.  Now go and get ready.”

News spread through the troops quickly and there were protests.  Another one came down half-dressed saying she couldn't find any blouses.  This verbal volley was repelled by a quick arm movement and the production of one from the ironing pile, passed across with a smile and a “There you go” message.  She departed back upstairs, tail between her legs.  

Another then came down saying she hadn't any blouses at all. She was reminded that we were nearly halfway through the school year and where were the ones she’d been wearing so far?  Overnight they had apparently become too small/too dirty/ripped (delete as appropriate).  A poor shot which failed to hit any target at all and was dealt with by “If you don’t find one, you’re grounded for next weekend.”

So, three of the four revolutionaries had given it a shot but had failed.  We were standing firm.  The fourth one had yet to surface at all (she is at a different school that opens a bit later and only closes in the event of nuclear attack) but we sensed she may be the most difficult nut to crack.

Girl number one comes down, ready for school.  Well, if you can call ready for school in this weather having no coat, no gloves, no boots or snow shoes and no bag.  She was clearly a scout who had been sent down by the others to test the water… but we were prepared!  Wellies were lined up at the door and a carrier bag for the school shoes produced. There was resistance over the coat and gloves issue but this was overcome and after a few minutes of fierce negotiations where we failed to give an inch, off she went.  One down, three to go.

This had clearly been unexpected by the dissidents as there was confusion in the ranks… two of the remaining girls started arguing over ownership of a pair of Hunters Wellie socks.  Dawn moved swiftly in to resolve the dispute and hurry them along, but the chinks in the armour were there… it was hardly a united front they were presenting.  The resistance was crumbling.

The second one came down, moaning all the time about how she had to walk to school on her own.  Strange that at other times she goes to great lengths to try and convince us that she really, really is grown up enough to get buses and trains everywhere unaccompanied.  There were two more futile attempts to stay at home but these amounted to no more than a rather whiney “Can’t I stay at home, please?  I’ve got no-one to go with.”  There was no real belief behind these attempts though, as she was putting on her gloves and wellies while saying it.  Off she went regardless.

Halfway through the battle and we were winning.  But the two left were wily and persuasive, not to mention the most stroppy of the brood.  Girl four had still not surfaced so she was given an ultimatum to either get up or be grounded which did the trick.  She would be late though and she was nowhere near ready.  Girl three, usually the head negotiator and tactical master, came down the stairs and we feared the worst.  Would this be the battle to end all battles?  No.  She knew the game was up and made no attempt to overturn the decision, unexpectedly leaving without fuss.  Just one more.

However, she made more commotion and noise than all of the others put together.  Her clothes weren't ready, she hadn't made her packed lunch, the butter was hard, it was ripping the bread, why couldn't she have dinner money, the teachers won’t be in, she couldn't find her bag, who’s nicked her gloves… any excuse to stall and delay.  Eventually though, at 8:40am, the white flag of surrender was waved and she made her way out of the house and up the road at a pace that would have given a snail a run for its money.  School starts for her at 8:45 and it’s a 20 minute walk at the best of times, so a detention for late arrival awaits her I expect.

So all is well again… until the next snowfall…

Tales of the Unexpected, Part 3 of 3.

<Deep American voice on>

Previously, Mark’s promised weekend of passion failed to materialise as he was stood up on the Friday night and completely ignored by the online dating community on the Saturday and Sunday.  How much worse can it get?  Find out here…

<Deep American voice off>

On the Monday I awoke in a pretty miserable and crestfallen state.  I never used to tell my staff anything at all about my private life, so I was pretty surprised when I walked into the office and was greeted by an inquisitive receptionist who asked “So, how did the date go then?”

“Eh?  How did you know?”

“There was an answerphone message from your Friday afternoon client. Can you call her as she has a query on her Will and she also asked if your date showed up.”

Good Lord, I hadn’t expected that. 

“Look, for the record I was stood up, but for heaven’s sake don’t let the client know. She said that she’d go out with me herself if my date didn’t show and I don’t even want to try and explain that away to her… she’s in her mid-seventies!  Anyway, if she calls, as far as she is concerned, everything was fine.”

She passed the message around the office and I imagine it provided them all with some amusement for a while.  Amusement was the last thing on my mind… I was still shocked at my apparent invisibility to the female dating community.

I returned my client’s call and sure enough, her first question was “How was your date?”

“Ok thank you.  You had a query with your Will I think?”  Move on, move on. I didn't dwell on the subject of the date and fortunately she didn't push the point either.  It was a minor query – something about a middle name – and it put her mind at ease.  She said it had been worrying her over the weekend and thanked me for my time.

The weather matched my mood as the skies darkened and we had the most almighty storm.  A lightning strike close by knocked the phone system out completely and we could neither make nor receive any calls.  Great.  The day was going from bad to worse.

Fortunately, the fax line was working and we arranged for BT to re-direct all calls through to that one, but this meant that all the receptionist could do was continually answer the fax telephone, explain what had happened and that someone would get back to them as soon as the phones were fixed.

Near the end of the day, the reception was busy; the phone was being answered continuously, files were being put away for the night and the post was being done.  I walked into with the last few letters that I’d signed and the receptionist turned to me and said,

“I've got that client you saw on Friday on the phone again, she has another query and she’s worried about it.  She needs to speak to you urgently.”

“Ok, pass me the phone, I’ll deal with it.” I said.  I took the phone and asked my client how I could help.  At that time I was surrounded by 4 reception staff.

“Hello, Mark here, what’s the problem?  I don’t have the file to hand but am sure I can answer it quickly for you.”

“Oh, hello, well, it isn't really a query but I just wanted to say that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Friday. I’d love us to go out but of course, you may be looking for someone younger…”

The colour must have drained from my face as my staff suddenly stopped what they were doing and looked concerned.  One came up behind me to catch me if I fell backwards. I composed myself, motioning to them that I was ok.

“Err… well, that’s err… very… err... flattering and thank you but, err… well, I don’t think that would be appropriate really, would it?”  What could I say?  The staff obviously then cottoned on and a whole series of muffled sniggers went on behind me. How embarrassing was that!

The client said she understood and said goodbye, leaving me to deal with the now very amused staff.  Oh great. 

So not only had I been ignored by my peers, but I’d also been hit on by someone nearly 30 years my senior.  Was that how it was going to be from now on?  Was I past my sell by date?

Fortunately not – I’ll soon recount the most requested blog story of all, which is how I met my lovely partner Dawn – but that one week in the summer of 2008 took me through all the emotional highs and lows the Internet dating scene can provide.  

But the last non-internet bit was just cruel.

Tales of the Unexpected - Part 2 of 3

<Deep American Voice on>

Previously in this Blog, Mark has the hots for a cutie from a town 20 miles away, she cranks up the heat and promises him a weekend of passion but lets him down by failing to show.  He has a whole weekend at his disposal.  How will he spend it?  Stay tuned to find out...

<Deep American Voice off>

The story continues...

So I'd had a pretty rotten Friday night and was determined not to let the weekend's dating opportunities slip away from me.Therefore, just after 7:00am on Saturday, I was awake, up and on the laptop.  It was a blitz; every single dating site I'd ever registered on was launched and I was shown as available to chat.  The search filters were set slightly wider than usual and I began to trawl. By the way, that's generally what men have to do; trawl.  Women can fish. They sort through the offers they have and pick the ones they like, whereas most men (unless they are George Clooney lookalikes) have to be a bit more, well, shall we say flexible?  Look at her photo... does she have just the one head?  Are the eyes and ears in the right place?  Check the profile notes... does the word "deceased" appear anywhere in there?  No?  Then she's a possibility.

It was early and I didn't really expect anyone to be up and about at that time in the morning, so I sent a few messages and winks (for an explanation of a wink, see my blogpost "A Toe in the Water") before heading for a shower and then some shopping, returning at about 11:00 am.  I rushed to the laptop before even unloading the car.

But wait... that was strange...  my email account showed "0" new messages.  Was it broken? Offline? It must be... there weren't even any of the SPAM emails or usual messages from Russian Prostitutes (they always seem to be aged 28), 65+ year old rich widows promising me all sorts of riches if I became their lover or anyone at all from Africa. Ok... reboot required.

I made a cuppa while waiting (it's a Windows machine - say no more) and tried again.

Launch Internet Explorer.

Open email account.

Ah, that's better, 8 new messages.  But, hang on, we have 3 from companies offering me loans, 1 from the football team I support telling me that tickets for the pre-season friendly are going on sale soon, 1 from a travel company offering me discounts on package holidays, 1 from a mate about a party next week and the other 2 were trying to sell me Viagra (Who told them? That's what I want to know!).

There was absolutely nothing from anybody on any dating site.

Maybe it was still early, after all, it wasn't even lunchtime! I logged on again and saw a whole lot of different people online, but despite trying to chat, none of them were having it. What was wrong with me for God's sake!

More messages and winks were sent and I went out again, trying to kill some time.  I got back at about 4:00 pm and again logged on.  There were 10 new messages this time, but sadly all of them were SPAM.  Time was running out if I wanted a date tonight... I sent more winks, messages and chat requests but not one - I repeat, NOT ONE - got back to me.  My browser was zipping back and forth between dating sites as, one by one, people went offline (Probably going out on dates. Humph.) and as it crept toward 7:00 pm I had to admit that it was highly unlikely that I would be going out with anyone that evening.

For my own sanity I gave up, vowing to try again tomorrow and ended up spending a very lonely evening in front of the TV watching rubbish... there wasn't even football on as it was the close season!

Sunday morning saw a repeat of the same routine and got the same response.  Zero. The early morning and lunchtime trawl was completely fruitless and then I decided to break my own rule; I started contacting people without profile photos.

Now this isn't as shallow as it sounds; the general rule is that if someone doesn't put a photo on their profile, then they may be trying to hide something, possibly the fact that they are married, in a relationship, or not who they say they are.  But by now I'd got to the desperate stage where I just wanted to go out.

Finally, FINALLY, I got a response.  It was about 6:00 pm, her name was Linda, she said she was 48 and was about 15 miles away.  She couldn't really give me a reason why her profile didn't have a photo, so I asked if she'd email one and she agreed.  And then I saw the reason. If she was 48, I was Margaret Thatcher.

Anyway, at that stage I really didn't care as just wanted to get out of the flat. It got to about 7:00 pm and so I wondered if she wanted to go out for a Sunday night drink in a Pub somewhere?

However, that was met with a refusal; she was already going out on a date and now had to get ready. She therefore said her goodbye's and logged off.

So how bad was that?  The previous week, I was in a state of near euphoria at my potential weekend of passion with Charlotte, but in the space of 2 days that feeling had been quashed and I had been ignored - not turned down, but ignored - by the entire online dating community.  My self esteem was at an all time low, worse even than when I first left my marriage.  I was wondering if I would actually ever have female attention again.

Unbelievably, the pain still wasn't over and yes, it was possible for it to get even worse. Read about the tragic but comical conclusion in part three, to follow...

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.