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...

A Porno, A Pizza Chef and a Model

So, as I've explained to my dearest who may or may not be my nearest, this is the year in which it will happen - the goalposts have moved from big 'n' bouncy JLo, to Britney, and now to slim as a reed Jessica Alba - I will get to 8 and a half stone if it's the last thing I do.

And as popular demand dictates that I record my witticisms for posterity, so The Exercise-bike Diaries have begun...and you thought Lemony Snickett was a pessimist...

I've weighed in with Marjorie Dawes, folks let's just say it wasn't pretty - I wore a short skirt, fine denier tights and stood on tippy-toe. A rather rotund teenage boy asked me why I was there, I don't know who he was but it had the Milk Tray Man effect, it made my day but he has to understand that Milk Tray are off my menu.

To kick start this period of high-octane lifestyle enthusiasm I've been to the gym 5 times and snacked on WW Bakewell Tarts, so far so good. Leanne and I have stocked up on moisture-wicking gym kit, aerodynamic water bottles, wrist weights and olympic swimsuits with matching caps and although we look like a pair of over-keen new year's converts I'm determined to drill the pair of us.
I'll let you know when we run on the roadside with a haversack filled with bricks...

There's not been any real reason for this turning point, to be honest I'm in a very similar position to where I was last year:
Spring 04 - nursing broken heart apres split with budding narcissist after slumming it in South Woodford, hot sex in Tenerife for treats.
Spring 05 - nursing broken heart apres hot sex (I have to say that, he could be reading) with the king of narcissists in New York, shopping spree for treats.

So for starters, the only puffing and panting I'll be doing for the foreseeable future is of the treadmill kind, it works up equally as much sweat, but doesn't cause nearly as much trouble!

To kill time in between counting Points (TM) and pumping iron, I've taken to perusing that internet service known as Dial-A-Freak, sorry, JDate.
I feel a little target practice would do me good, except there is a disticnt lack of suitable targets.

Date 1) The Porn Baron
So the opening drinks had gone well, I wasn't sold, but then again didn't want to write him off on first impressions, so on date 2 we went for dinner and it became disturbingly apparent that he is worryingly short, shorter than Tenenbaum, possibly about the same height as me.
From my last experience I have taken away the knowledge that tall men are er, better equipped for certain life skills, so I resolved never to date anyone under at least 5' 9 and El Porno was coming in way under radar.
He basically knew nothing about anything, had no interests other than shopping - let me point out that while that was initially great, a boy who's so slight of frame that he has to have his blazers made bespoke ain't good. He was neither educated nor sophisticated, not travelled or well read, I don't think I even laughed once the whole evening. So when he dropped me home, Iwas not feeling remotely inclined to put out - and let me make it clear it wasn't through tactical play, there was just not one sexually charged proton in the house.
Readers you must understand, for me to blow out a man whose car trunk is filled with porn and silent vibrators, he really really had all the charm of a cardboard cutout.

Date 2)Mr. Greeting Cards
This chap started talking to me on jdate, aged 31 which is about 4 years outside my desired bracket, but I thought, be nice, and chatted back.
We spoke for quite a while, and he told me he worked with family, they run a greeting card company. Very nice, i thought, and provisionally arranged a drink for sunday night.
So the conversation carried on, and on day 2 he told me his name was Kishon.
Yes, that's Kishon.
I don't know the origins for such a word, or what would posses a person to hold a baby in their arms and think 'I now name this child Kishon'. Or as Toby so nicely named him, kishon the tuchus.
He then tells me he just bought a new car from a lease company, to fit stock in - and that he got it for a discounted price.
I'm thinking, sexy, a thrifty jew - mental note to self: on date, order tap water, don't ask for dessert and don't have anything with avocado, liver, veal, swordfish or anything else that costs over a fiver.
He then asks me what other jobs I've had, besides import - I explain I worked in casting, but went pretty much straight into this. I foolishly ask the same question, and after a bit of tiptoing around the subject, Kishon tells me that to raise extra cashflow, he's a manager at Pizza Hut, and works there twice a week.
I don't need to tell you the rest...

Date 2 and a half) The Best Man
Well, it wasn't technically a date, but at the start of the evening I'd have considered putting out. We went to see The Aviator which had its moments of high-brow.
So during the bits when I wasn't giggling, I played with my hair a la Mike Skinner, and moved about to show off my now-pneumatic chest.
Nothing.
I know we're friends and all that claptrap but I thought I'd give it a try - however during the evening several awful things happened:
He burped in the movie
He coughed continually as he's giving up smoking, and then spat phlegm out of the car window on the way home
He didn't know what a dermatologist was.

So, we then move on to project 4 - The Liar
Found in his natural habitat this young fellow attracted me with this fantabulous head shot, and claimed to be a Lawyer who models part-time. The fact that he's working on a £300 million corporate buyout didn't come into question.
Of course, I didn't buy one word of it. For the first hour I must have been incredibly rude, I was utterly convinced it was someone having me on - you just don't get Jews called Dylan.
We chat, and I demand a photo with no soft focus or wind machine enhancement.
What I get is a shot of 4 Jews in wedding attire, looking as generic as everyone else - a plump boiled baby.
To redeem himself from this hot water situation, he says all the right things on cue - that we'll go for dinner in The Ivy when he's in London in a few weeks, and that he owns 30 pairs of trainers.
Well, at that, this worm turned. The man knows his stuff, I'm sure there are more than a few coloured pairs of Pumas in there.
Just when it took an upturn, just the right sprinkling of innuendo, the offer of a snapshot up his kilt that sort of thing, he gives me his work email.
Dylan my arse - his name's Paul.
So now we have on our hands, a well dressed man, who's a terrible liar - I express interest in the movie, The Double Life of Paul Ockrim.
Now I've been down this double life, compulsive liar road before, and wasted valuable jogging time mooning over geographically unsuitable troublemakers, so readers help me out, what do I do?
I mean, all indications point to the fact that I could order Cristal, a punnet of avocados and whatever the hell else I fancy...
On the bright side, he's Glaswegian, so I'd get all the freedom of long-distance, every time we meet would be an absolute dirty weekend experience, and I wouldn't have to come home from work and cook for him!
Yes, I think I will continue to Date 4, but delay it for a fortnight so I've given a 7lb weight loss my best shot. Just in case.