Auto Fellatio and Melon-bothering

So the sun resumes.  No more nasty texts; just lovely correspondence from lovely people.

Sunlight filtering through beech trees.  The buzz of single-prop planes dragging gliders into their thermals, and lazy vapour trails being languidly drawn across an opaline sky.

Hair tied for a change, in red indian fashion, and a modest pile of empty blue beer cans tinkling in the breeze at my feet.  Life is good.  Would be better with some company, but I do have you, reader.  And you’ll do fine.

I have today been thinking of panache.  Elan.  Esprit.  Dash.  And how much I respect it.  Heroes I have known; windmill-tilters, and chasers of lost causes.

Take this school acquaintance, for example.

The house is empty.  Our swashbuckler steps into the shower.  During his ablutions his mother returns home, and installs herself silently downstairs.

He gets out of his shower, and with his towel wrapped round his waist he strolls into his bedroom.

Five minutes later, mother bursts into his bedroom to find our venturer upside down on his bed, towel abandoned, all red-faced and trying to fellate himself.

Our hero calmly rolls off the bed, stretches, and tells his mum he’s doing his ‘exercises’.

Bravo.  Now that’s the sort of vim I’m talking about.  You can’t learn it, or fake it.

Or take this chap.  Another school acquaintance (yes, the school I attended was run-down, boys-only and very posh.  And it oozes ridiculous material).

His sister stumbles across this little soldier trying to penetrate (with some urgency) a melon that he’s just warmed up in the microwave.  He brushes this off by sticking his nose in the air and declaring it his ‘homework’. [round of applause]

just heat and serve.
just heat and serve.

I love this stuff.  Bravado in the face of absurd ignominy.  Throwing your gauntlet into the face of shame and ridicule.  I mean look at this blog.  Quixotic.  And not very sensible.

And then I came across some of it on Guardian Soulmates.  She describes herself as a “Gloomy misery guts. No friends. Little joy. Hates cosy nights in.”

She’s looking for a “Miserable old devil. Disillusioned with life, but prepared for further disappointment. Preferably without a huge circle of friends who think you’re great”.

Someone “Fond of uncomfortable nights out, competitive hoovering and wheelie bin admiring. Hands like loaves of bread… No sense of humour, does not enjoy laughing and prefers misery to any abstract notion of “fun” … “

Obviously you’re wondering if I got in touch.

Sadly, no.  Despite your suspicions, I am not a miserable old devil, nor am I disillusioned with life.  And I have LOVELY hands.

But wait.  I haven’t even mentioned her photos.

She attaches three.

#1  her bin

#2 her hoover

#3 a brick

Regarding her style and verve levels, my boat is being floated to somewhere near Mars.

This woman needs to join the circle.  Should we contact her?  What do you think?  At least register our respect.  Or nominate her for an award.

I’m off down the greengrocer’s.

x

ps – Online Dating is Shite is now accepting contributions.  All you need is a nom-de-theatre, lyricism, profanity and a liberal use of the word ‘fuck’.  Perhaps there’s something you can say here anonymously that you can’t say anywhere else.  Contact me at maturin@onlinedatingisshite.com

La Nausée. And Online Dating.

I am a sick man … I am an angry man. I am an ugly man. I believe my liver is diseased. Actually no I don’t. I’m just showing off. Yes. With that endearing mix of self-loathing and self-aggrandisement, plus a quote from Dostoyevsky, it must be another journal entry from your favourite periodical Online Dating is Shite.

But I am sick. Really quite sick. I have THE BOWL next to my bed.

Before you all send flowers, or congratulate yourself on having correctly cast the hexing spell, I am feeling a little bit better. Thank you.

There was a moment on Saturday morning, however, when I would have gladly exchanged a toe, no TWO toes, for another hour in bed, but my son got me out of my sorry pit to play Robin Hood. I tried all the old favourites; “Next week, I promise” through to “Go down and put the TV on and I’ll be down in a minute”, finally down to “Here’s the iPad. And my phone. And the iTunes password”. All failed miserably.

So we settled for playing the bit where Robin dies. He lies on his deathbed and fires his last arrow out of the window. Where ever it lands, that is where he is to be buried. I was Robin Hood.

There is a lot to be said for a bout of something nasty. It reduces the parameters. Your normal landscape draws down to an intimate knowledge of the bumps on the ceiling of your sickroom, and which parts of your pillow are the coolest. And not in a nightclub way, either.

Twenty-four hours ago, it was wonderful: I only had to close my eyes and straight away my head would start buzzing like a beehive: I could recapture the taste of couscous, the smell of olive oil which fills the streets of Burgos at mid-day; I was moved. This joy was worn out a long time ago, is it going to be reborn today?

Actually, no. I’m showing off again. That whole paragraph was Sartre. And I fucking hate couscous. But Jean-Paul knew a thing or two about Nausea. I mean, he went out with Simone de Beauvoir.

At weekends I like to draw all the consequences from a position of consistent atheism.  And going for long country walks.
At weekends I like to draw all the consequences from a position of consistent atheism. And going for long country walks.

The way it creeps up on you. How it installs itself cunningly. Little by little.

And suddenly you know if you see another LifeLiver77, or Cuddle_Bucket, you are going to puke your hot snaking guts all over the keyboard.

Time to reduce your parameters. Time to love the REAL people in your life for a bit.

Don’t worry. You’ll feel better soon.

You’ll be logging on again in a few days.

x

ps  You know, I think it’s only jumping the shark if you come back down again afterwards.

My Arse, the Tell Tale Wasp, and Other Stories

I attended the doctors’ surgery this morning, so that a very polite nurse could stick a large-bore needle into my backside.  There I was, leaning over; my belt line now halfway down my bottom.  And she asked, “left or right?”.  That’s very nice, I thought.  They talk about more choice in the NHS.  This must be what they mean.

It turned out that she was retiring.  Today.  I asked whether I was her last ever arse.

“Yes!” she responded enthusiastically.  And for a moment I thought she was going to autograph her work.  Or add a smiley face.

“Although you never know,” she added, rather mysteriously.

Yep.  You never know when you’re going to see your next arse.  Very profound.

I came home to find THE LARGEST FUCKING WASP doing military-grade aerobatics around my desk.  RIGHT.  The sudden surge of combat adrenaline.  The narrowing of the eyes.  The rolling of the newspaper.  Bring it on, my friend.

Cue a desperate amount of ridiculous wafting and girlish shrieking.  The thing is, I don’t really want to hurt them.  I just want them to go away.  And once my ruthlessness is compromised by my absurd wasp empathy, I make a terrible warrior.  And the worst thing happened.  A half-hearted thrust left the poor bugger injured, and he disappeared into the dust bunnies under my bed.  I think he’s stuck.  And now my keystrokes are punctuated by an awful throbbing buzz.

fucking WASP.
fucking WASP.

Oh the guilt.  Oh the terror.  It’s like that endlessly beating severed heart under the floorboards in that Edgar Allan Poe story.  Sheesh.

Believe it or not, I was once bitten by a bloody great cow-eating spider in the forests of Guatemala.  Alright, maybe it didn’t eat cows.  But it could’ve done.  IT COULD HAVE DONE.  My hand soon assumed the size and shape of a mango.  The guide proffered aspirin, and anti-histamines.  I was extremely grateful.  Thank you, I said.  Thank you.  That’s my headache and hayfever sorted, now what about MY FUCKING GREAT SPIDER BITE.

Sorry.  Rambling.

On to happier things!  The sunshine!  The woodpecker knocking loudly in the woods behind my house.  The buzz of lawnmowers.  The Rustlers microwave burger and the four-pack of Fosters from the one-stop.  Oh sublime, ephemeral nature.  Be my master for the afternoon.  Let me drink from thy Lethean tin.  Carefully crafted to refresh.  In Melbourne.  Since 1888.

And let me wander from Tennyson’s place, “where each man walks with his head in a cloud of poisonous  wasps  flies … And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of online dating …”

Okay, I changed that last line a bit.

But Tennyson would get it.

I’ll leave you alone now, and take my plastic sword to the nettles.

x

Pppffffffffftttt

Things I have learned this week.

  • The British electorate is fickle and capricious.  And lacks empathy.

I saw some of them today, in the park.  With their sunglasses, and Jack Wills sweatshirts.  Their expensive pushchairs, and their stupid tight trousers, and their beards they’ll shave off as soon as someone asks them to.

  • Erotic emails can be intensely sweet*.

Which one would you like me to talk about?

Ha ha!  No chance.  Sorry.

Although I’ll say this.  Check your spelling.

And they do need to happen spontaneously and unexpectedly; out of the blue, and with a ‘how did this happen?’ moment.  Like a Conservative majority.  OH NO now I’ve spoiled it.  Cameron and his shiny face.  Bah.

Anyway, I thought I should say something about the election.  I was thinking of buoying myself up with thoughts of the appalling five years ahead for the Tories.  Within three years they could be facing an internal backbench collapse over Europe, a constitutional crisis in Scotland, and a worsening global economic downturn.  All this with some young rising Labour star tearing the guts out of a tiny, tiny majority in the house.  Yes.  That sounds good.

So here it is.  My informed comment.

Pppffffffffttttt.

I’m glad that’s dealt with.  Back to the rebalancing of my internal chemicals.  I’m going to lie down and chew my pillow.

Drastic action needed.  Wordsworth, possibly.

Normal service resumed shortly.

x

*Send all erotic messages on a ten-pound note.  Care of me.

Advice on your first Guardian Soulmates date …

Right.  Let’s get one thing clear straight away.  Online dating is sick.  And dreadful.

It turns natural law on its head.  It turns you on your head.  And then it walks away, and it doesn’t say sorry.

In the old days, you rarely met a TOTAL stranger.  You knew something about them.  Even if you met on the bus, you knew that they got that bus, at the very least.  And that cocktail of chemicals at the bottom of your tummy knew you were interested in them before you did.  This is how it should work.  You notice.  You fancy.  You work out a few basic facts.  Then *maybe* you approach.

Online dating is fundamentally fucked.  All this happens backwards.  And it’s not healthy.  Usually because your brain will not let go of the old way.  You know nothing, so you speculate.  You daydream.  You invent.  That cocktail of chemicals at the bottom of your tummy is replaced by a drip of dopamine.  Some neurotransmitter rewards you each time you receive a ‘like’, or an affirmative message.  You have become that rat, who dies a slow death because she keeps battering the pleasure button, and forgets to eat.

Good times.

But, the fact is (and don’t I know it), you just REALLY want to meet someone, dammit.  It’s later than you thought.  You’ve got maybe twelve sexy years left.  Just think about that for a second.  Or actually, don’t; because you’ll need to keep the light on when you sleep tonight.

So what the hell.  Let’s pop a coin in the slot.

So, some rules for survival, learned in the trenches, on the front line, under heavy fire and incurring some horrible injuries …

DO NOT OVERSPECULATE.

It can go like this.  You message on Monday.  He replies.  You actually find him funny, which is a surprise (you thought the first few would be twats, natch).  It’s Tuesday, and you find you’re messaging each other at work.  Great stuff.  By Wednesday, there’s a part of you (which you won’t admit to) that is actually thinking of baby names.  And then on Thursday he doesn’t message, and you FUCKING HATE HIM.  You drive around in your car singing “Baby, you’re time is gonna come” really loudly, and wobbling your head from side-to-side in a sister-I’m-liberated manner.  He’s not gonna get one over on me!  HELL NO.

Actually it’s only been fourteen hours since his last message, and you haven’t even spoken to him yet.

See what I mean?

SO KEEP THE MESSAGING RELAXED.

Realise it’s not yet real-life.  You are like two hostage negotiators, and at stake is your self-worth, happiness and emotional security.  Reveal yourself slowly.  Share control.  You don’t want Special Forces bunging tear gas through the windows and shooting the innocents, and demanding statements of romantic intent.

UNDERSTAND THAT THE OTHER PARTY IS AS FUCKING USELESS AS YOU ARE.

Easy to forget.  I have usually assumed that my prospective date is the most laid-back woman on the planet.  Everything is water off her back.  She is ice-cool, and has a list of male reserves so long she needs two handbags.  She can take me or leave me.  She’s dated a load of guys, most of whom were more clever, taller, better-hung and hugely more successful in the arts than me.  This leads me to over-compensate, i.e. the real me (the guy she might have noticed on the bus in the old days) is still as far away as ever.  Sound familiar?

THE OTHER PARTY FEELS THE SAME AS YOU.

He is convinced that, although he would like to be Oscar Wilde, he will, in any phone call, end up mumbling balls to you in a high-pitched squeak.  He is absolutely convinced that when he arrives at the date, he will fall over the next table/leave his flies undone/cough his coffee into your face all in the one same horrible extended slapstick moment.

DON’T JUST TRY TO ENTERTAIN, ALSO TRY TO LISTEN.

Important one this.  You can get so anxious about seeming ‘fun’ that you suddenly realise you’ve just guffawed at his ex-wife’s cancer.  Not everything the other party says will be funny.  Similarly, one date spent some generous effort explaining to me that over-messaging freaked her out.  I sent her fourteen messages reassuring her that I wouldn’t.  And I rue the day.  Is that how you spell ‘rue’?  I’m not sure.  So listen, is what I’m trying to say.

Don’t rue.  It’s not pleasant for you.  And it takes a while to go away.

x