You Knows It Clart!
And so it was written, and I was positively bowled over with feedback - the women loved it, they laughed, they cried; and the men....well some listened and learned while others retched in fear of my impending candidness.
However, my smile of Cat Deeley smugness was wiped from my face when I got to the response of my very own Mr. Big - I'd had elaborate visions of phasing in this short, but try-hard mystery man - apparently I'm a disgusting, revolting pea brain.
In some quarters I'd thought that was called Journalism. Ho Hum.
Let's all just have a moment of quiet contemplative reflection, to commemorate the end of 10 years of 'Will they, won't they', 'Have they done it?' chemistry.
As a mark of respect, I decided to give JDate a bit of a rest and searched through my little black book in search of a Real Live One.
Brace yourselves, put on your incontinence pants and sit good selves down....because here comes:
5) Fried Green Onions at the BB Cafe
I've never been one for blind dates or blind faith, so when an old friend and contingency snog proffered me his cousin's number my gut reaction was 'stay away'.
But then I weighed up the fact that his cousin had soft lips and a great kissing technique, and that his brother had kept me amused with a reasonable kissing technique - I've started, so I'll finish.
I took the bull by the horns and dropped him a line to say I had tickets to a BB eviction, and would pick him up.
As the intermediate days passed, I was feeling increasingly optimistic, and dressed in my usual inimitable style of a sherbet lemon (just in case I got on the TV). There were rumours of big screens and Jeremy Edwards showering in white pants, so regardless of the actual appeal of my impending liason, I had high hopes for cheap thrills.
So, I get to Mill Hill...and I see this shuffling thing, like Paddington Bear on Valium approaching the car...I swear to you all I'm not really that evil, but had it not been for my personal numberplate all I can say is Bat Out of Hell.
The car door opens, and in he gets, faux sheepskin anorak, mis-shapen knitwear and all. Now I'm never one for a rumour, but from the aroma which filled the air there is no way he works in off-plan property - he's moonlighting as chief taster for Herta's Furters.
Perhaps some kind soul had tipped him off that I'm the founder member of the Clean Plate Club, because he obviously thought that onion-esque whiffs would make me a sure thing.
I navigate us to Elstree Studios, proving right my theory that I can get myself anywhere in London if it's near a food-related landmark - I hadn't been there for 10 years, and yet instinctively knew it was next to a Tesco Superstore.
We stop for snacks, and I fly about like Marjorie Dawes incarnate, in search of the savory snacks aisle - Snack A Jacks, a fad dieter's staple...When I finally collect myself, and a bag of Kit Kat Kubes to serve as nosegay and pick-me-up, I find Paddington in the toothpaste aisle. Call me old fashioned, but an overnight kit is a bit presumptuous on a first date, even by my standards!
He decides he'd like an apple, so we mosey on up towards fruit. He takes one, and puts it on the antique weighing scales.
At this point I feel he's testing my nerve, and I gently suggest that if he twists off the stalk and re-weighs, it may come in slightly lighter, giving a saving of 0.1p.
The things you learn being a Jewish Weightwatcher....
We get to checkpoint charlie, and I hand over the tickets to be told that as this eviction was a surprise, would we all mind standing in silence until the point when the House door opens. All I can say, sorry whisper, is that I clapped my hands together with glee. His poor little face, it looked like Patrick Swayze plugging The Silent Hunter.
I can only imagine how we looked, Paddington Bear and Sherbert Lemon mooching into the enclosure, but it must have been infinitely more amusing when he came over all lothario, and starting massaging my back through my bodywarmer.
I stood there, stock still, thinking there must be some way of asserting the platonic boundaries, but my wisecracking in whispers failed me, and when Davina went to a commercial break he threw himself at me in a ridiculously contrived bear hug, and rested his head on my shoulder.
It felt like an eternity, and like a child being hugged by an aged and bristling great aunt, I just stood there, like a soldier, rigid.
As Lisa came out, we boo-ed and jeered, which almost saved him from being a total reject. But alas, what came next sealed his fate.
We get back to the bear lair, and he asks if I'd like a cup of tea.
I must stop forgetting that tea doesn't mean tea and that it's code.
I cross the threshold, sniffling while my nose defrosts, and as I get into the kitchen-living area, out of the corner of my eye I spy plump flesh, clad only in boxer shorts.
I was ready to bolt for the door, when a head pops up, it was an equally gloomphy flatmate cooking dinner.
As a calming measure I phoned Riva, while said flatmate scarpered for some threads, and my fragrant Romeo made a brew.
I hadn't taken off my beanie hat nor my bodywarmer, as a preventative measure - if it had been the cinema I'm sure there would have been a bit of a popcorn trick going on...
He asks me for a massage, and I tried my best to be gracious in decline.
He plops his arm on my lap, I try shuffling politely to the edge of the chair and drink my hot tea very very quickly.
He leans back and flips up a footrest in the Joey Tribbiani style, reaches over and takes my hand.
At that, I jump up, mumble something about blocked drains in the road, raw sewage outside the streetdoor, must get home in case there's torrents of it, environmental health, so sorry, must go. Now.
He leans in for a kiss, so I crane my head to hit his left cheek. He bearhugs me again in his signature style, and I can feel every lump and bump pressing as he squeezes me - any harder and he'd have squeezed my lunch out of me one way or the other - he puckers up and goes in for the kill...I crane again and hit the right cheek, backing out of the door, grabbing the banisters ready for a pole vault.
He takes my hand and says how lovely it was to meet me - I shake his hand like a bank clerk and shoot down the stairs.
All together now...Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone, gone, gone.
So now I'm back to the drawing board, cooking up a new masterplan, just you wait....
Dating aside, I've had a very special week, as I have procured a pair of rare Hi-Tec sneakers, pair no.2 out of 100. The GLC have hijacked my and taken over my life for the moment -I sent the old Greenie out on a lunchtime misson to Old Compton St., convincing her that if she walked briskly, there'd be a Bonus Point (TM) in it for her.
So I am now tiptoing around indoors, on clean surfaces only, in the finest pair of Silver Shadows known to man. Hurrah!!
Big up to my fellow Goldie Lookers...they know who they are!
And to the rest of you, you've got another week of peace and quiet until the next installment...
However, my smile of Cat Deeley smugness was wiped from my face when I got to the response of my very own Mr. Big - I'd had elaborate visions of phasing in this short, but try-hard mystery man - apparently I'm a disgusting, revolting pea brain.
In some quarters I'd thought that was called Journalism. Ho Hum.
Let's all just have a moment of quiet contemplative reflection, to commemorate the end of 10 years of 'Will they, won't they', 'Have they done it?' chemistry.
As a mark of respect, I decided to give JDate a bit of a rest and searched through my little black book in search of a Real Live One.
Brace yourselves, put on your incontinence pants and sit good selves down....because here comes:
5) Fried Green Onions at the BB Cafe
I've never been one for blind dates or blind faith, so when an old friend and contingency snog proffered me his cousin's number my gut reaction was 'stay away'.
But then I weighed up the fact that his cousin had soft lips and a great kissing technique, and that his brother had kept me amused with a reasonable kissing technique - I've started, so I'll finish.
I took the bull by the horns and dropped him a line to say I had tickets to a BB eviction, and would pick him up.
As the intermediate days passed, I was feeling increasingly optimistic, and dressed in my usual inimitable style of a sherbet lemon (just in case I got on the TV). There were rumours of big screens and Jeremy Edwards showering in white pants, so regardless of the actual appeal of my impending liason, I had high hopes for cheap thrills.
So, I get to Mill Hill...and I see this shuffling thing, like Paddington Bear on Valium approaching the car...I swear to you all I'm not really that evil, but had it not been for my personal numberplate all I can say is Bat Out of Hell.
The car door opens, and in he gets, faux sheepskin anorak, mis-shapen knitwear and all. Now I'm never one for a rumour, but from the aroma which filled the air there is no way he works in off-plan property - he's moonlighting as chief taster for Herta's Furters.
Perhaps some kind soul had tipped him off that I'm the founder member of the Clean Plate Club, because he obviously thought that onion-esque whiffs would make me a sure thing.
I navigate us to Elstree Studios, proving right my theory that I can get myself anywhere in London if it's near a food-related landmark - I hadn't been there for 10 years, and yet instinctively knew it was next to a Tesco Superstore.
We stop for snacks, and I fly about like Marjorie Dawes incarnate, in search of the savory snacks aisle - Snack A Jacks, a fad dieter's staple...When I finally collect myself, and a bag of Kit Kat Kubes to serve as nosegay and pick-me-up, I find Paddington in the toothpaste aisle. Call me old fashioned, but an overnight kit is a bit presumptuous on a first date, even by my standards!
He decides he'd like an apple, so we mosey on up towards fruit. He takes one, and puts it on the antique weighing scales.
At this point I feel he's testing my nerve, and I gently suggest that if he twists off the stalk and re-weighs, it may come in slightly lighter, giving a saving of 0.1p.
The things you learn being a Jewish Weightwatcher....
We get to checkpoint charlie, and I hand over the tickets to be told that as this eviction was a surprise, would we all mind standing in silence until the point when the House door opens. All I can say, sorry whisper, is that I clapped my hands together with glee. His poor little face, it looked like Patrick Swayze plugging The Silent Hunter.
I can only imagine how we looked, Paddington Bear and Sherbert Lemon mooching into the enclosure, but it must have been infinitely more amusing when he came over all lothario, and starting massaging my back through my bodywarmer.
I stood there, stock still, thinking there must be some way of asserting the platonic boundaries, but my wisecracking in whispers failed me, and when Davina went to a commercial break he threw himself at me in a ridiculously contrived bear hug, and rested his head on my shoulder.
It felt like an eternity, and like a child being hugged by an aged and bristling great aunt, I just stood there, like a soldier, rigid.
As Lisa came out, we boo-ed and jeered, which almost saved him from being a total reject. But alas, what came next sealed his fate.
We get back to the bear lair, and he asks if I'd like a cup of tea.
I must stop forgetting that tea doesn't mean tea and that it's code.
I cross the threshold, sniffling while my nose defrosts, and as I get into the kitchen-living area, out of the corner of my eye I spy plump flesh, clad only in boxer shorts.
I was ready to bolt for the door, when a head pops up, it was an equally gloomphy flatmate cooking dinner.
As a calming measure I phoned Riva, while said flatmate scarpered for some threads, and my fragrant Romeo made a brew.
I hadn't taken off my beanie hat nor my bodywarmer, as a preventative measure - if it had been the cinema I'm sure there would have been a bit of a popcorn trick going on...
He asks me for a massage, and I tried my best to be gracious in decline.
He plops his arm on my lap, I try shuffling politely to the edge of the chair and drink my hot tea very very quickly.
He leans back and flips up a footrest in the Joey Tribbiani style, reaches over and takes my hand.
At that, I jump up, mumble something about blocked drains in the road, raw sewage outside the streetdoor, must get home in case there's torrents of it, environmental health, so sorry, must go. Now.
He leans in for a kiss, so I crane my head to hit his left cheek. He bearhugs me again in his signature style, and I can feel every lump and bump pressing as he squeezes me - any harder and he'd have squeezed my lunch out of me one way or the other - he puckers up and goes in for the kill...I crane again and hit the right cheek, backing out of the door, grabbing the banisters ready for a pole vault.
He takes my hand and says how lovely it was to meet me - I shake his hand like a bank clerk and shoot down the stairs.
All together now...Like a bat out of hell I'll be gone, gone, gone.
So now I'm back to the drawing board, cooking up a new masterplan, just you wait....
Dating aside, I've had a very special week, as I have procured a pair of rare Hi-Tec sneakers, pair no.2 out of 100. The GLC have hijacked my and taken over my life for the moment -I sent the old Greenie out on a lunchtime misson to Old Compton St., convincing her that if she walked briskly, there'd be a Bonus Point (TM) in it for her.
So I am now tiptoing around indoors, on clean surfaces only, in the finest pair of Silver Shadows known to man. Hurrah!!
Big up to my fellow Goldie Lookers...they know who they are!
And to the rest of you, you've got another week of peace and quiet until the next installment...
posted by GWhizz at 7:12 AM
2 Comments:
Eve its H...very funny!!! What more can I say... x
Sorry, did someone say very funny? Its not funny or clever to take the piss out of people (especially in public) in the name of "humour". This kind of high school spastic behaviour is quite tragic really. The possibility that people may actually be reading this blog and thinking it is witty, entertaining, intellectual, interesting or anything other than absolute shit really depresses me.
The sad part is that Ms "I'm the centre of the fucking universe" blog writer will probably thrive on this comment as some intriguing sub plot to her bullshit blog. Tip: Forget about it, no one gives a shit...
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