It was the day of the big date. If you can call it a ‘date’. The word ‘viewing’ may have been somewhat more appropriate. If you’ll recall Tuesday’s entry, the plan was to meet up with my friend, who would act as a marker for my potential date to approach us, should she not find my physical appearance nauseatingly repulsive. This matchmaker stuff is not the sort of childish antic I would normally dream of indulging, but for the sake of this blog, I am trying to develop a ‘say yes’ attitude (which you may recall being employed when I arranged to meet my financial advisor). Otherwise, each entry would run something along the lines of “Went to work. Got home. Cried myself to sleep”… ad infinitum.
Now - I appreciate that meeting a financial advisor or being ‘match-made’ are hardly the most spectacular of human triumphs. In fact these are just things that normal things that human-beings manage to achieve on a day to day basis (thinking about it, technically I never even actually ended up meeting my financial advisor in the end, did I? But at least the thought was there). Basically before attempting anything too spectacular, I figure I first need to catch up on the basic skills of social interaction that all you lot seem to manage so effortlessly. It’s best to start with small incremental steps – there’s no sense in drastic recklessness.
I was due to meet my friend in the pub at 6pm. By 6.45 I was still sitting alone nursing an empty bottle. To be stood up by a date who may naturally be acting with uncertainty might be a bit damning to a fragile ego. But when even the matchmaker who is supposed to be your friend fails to show – well -should that be considered even more damning?
I had been sitting in the pub like Billy No Mates for close to an hour before my (now-borderline) friend finally arrived. We sat together a-while engaged in frivolous small-talk, whilst my eyes fidgeted nervously around the room, wondering exactly who this mystery woman might be. There are fewer things to make oneself feel so self-conscious than to know you are under scrutiny, but not know who your scrutinizer is. Even simple acts like subtly picking your nose become minefields of paranoia. But I needn’t have worried. All the nose restraint in the world could not inspire the young lady to come forward and introduce herself.
“She’s just a bit busy at the moment.” my friend sympathetically proffered, as I faced the abyss of my failed prowess. Naturally I assumed her words were intended to make me feel better about my rejection. But when the mystery woman’s identity was revealed, I realized my friends words had actually all been rather too literal. I also became aware that I’d already approached and spoken to this woman previously; specifically with the words, “One bottle of Corona please”. Yes, that’s right - it had been a set-up with one of the pub’s bar staff.
I’m sure I don’t need to point out the flaw in the conception of this plan. It’s just plainly wrong on so many levels. I’ve always been under the impression that when a gentleman takes a lady on a date, he is supposed to buy a drink FOR her, not FROM her. Due to the constant queue of people waiting to be served, it would be difficult to procure even the most rudimentary conversation, never mind a date. Surely a man trying to seduce a bar-maid in a busy town centre pub cannot be definined as a romantic liason. If anything, this scenario appeared more accurately, little more than a man sitting a busy town centre pub, trying to lech at a bar-maid.
Given the evident futility of the situation, I left shortly after, assessing the sum total of what I had managed to achieve this evening - specifically making any future uses of this particular establishment slightly more awkward. The barmaid clearly had not been interested in me, but would henceforth know who I was, and my intentions in turning up there with my human ‘marker’. For this reason, I imagine it is not a pub I will so readily frequent when drinking in town. It’ll just be slightly embarrassing now whenever I want to order a drink. I suppose I could try to discover her shift patterns in order to avoid her, but this type of behaviour would only arouse an impression that I am somehow obsessed with her.
I bid my friend goodbye and headed out of town and into the village my Dad and his friend were out for drink. When I found them, they were propped on barstools talking to a woman in her early-thirties behind the bar. My Dad was trying to tell her how much he reckoned she looked like actress Jenny Agutter. Unsurprisingly, this flattery was received with a degree of uncertainty, since the young girl had been a bit too young to remember Jenny Agutter. As I took a seat alongside them, I immediately felt more at ease. If I was fated to spend the night leching at barmaids, at least it took away the impending sense of loneliness to have a bit of company whilst doing so.
I tried to order a drink, but irritatingly, the young girl seemed too preoccupied by the screen on her phone to bother serving me. After waiting patiently for a while, I tried grabbing her attention with some subtle harrumphs. She looked up rather sharply, but it was not my presence which had aroused her attentions. She suddenly stormed over to my dad, holding her phone out at towards him.
“Well THANK YOU VERY MUCH! You saying I look like THIS?” she exclaimed in an insulted manner.
On the screen, there was a ‘Googled’ picture of the Jenny Agutter - except it was a picture of what she looks like now, rather than in her 60’s and 70’s acting heydays. Inevitably she had interpreted my Dad’s intended flattery as being told she looked like an old woman. His comments had been met with much chagrin, which she was not too shy to address rather publically.
At least I now know which side of the family I have inherited such hapless flirtation abilities from.
Wed 25th Feb 2009
There is a popular brand of confectionary I am still unable to face. Last year my mate Al came round and we watched "50 Greatest Television Dramas". I cannot recall whether it was whilst Scum, Cracker, Our Friends In The North or Prime Suspect that was being analysed in the countdown when Al offered me a Fruit Pastille. I began to explain to him about a time I had been with my parents visiting my Nan and was preparing to leave. She was out of the room and so we had to wait for her return so we could bid our farewells. When she eventually returned to the room she bent over to pull open one of the drawers to her dresser to give me an obligatory tube of Blackcurrant Pastilles. I don't think Blackcurrant Pastilles were really available in the mainstream Newsagents, but please allow a moment to become acquainted to the concept. They're basically a tube of Fruit Pastilles but just ALL the Blackcurrant ones. I think you'll agree that they sound absolutely amazing. And indeed they were. So much so, that before out car journey home had ended, I had already scoffed a good two thirds of them. It was only then that I spotted a small, thin line of moist brown goo down the wrapping of the packet. It didn't take me long to realise that my Nan was out of the room having a shit before we left and had not taken the chance to wash her hands. This, I explained to Al, is why I can no longer eat Fruit pastilles.
"How did you know what it was?" Al enquired, "Did you smell it?"
For a brief moment, telling the truth became a bit of a dilemma. But then, if I'd said no, I knew he would inevitably tell me that it was time to get over my paranoid fear and enjoy one of his glazed chewy delights. After all, how could I ever be confident in my conclusion of the particular specimen all those years ago? But saying no wasn't the truth. I concluded that at least by admitting that I'd once had my curious nose perched centimetres away from my own Grandmother's poo, I had somehow participated in a real Modernist act that could be considered as a smashing-down of some sort of taboo. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't. The only definite conclusion I can take away from the incident is that I am not keen on Fruit Pastilles.
"How did you know what it was?" Al enquired, "Did you smell it?"
For a brief moment, telling the truth became a bit of a dilemma. But then, if I'd said no, I knew he would inevitably tell me that it was time to get over my paranoid fear and enjoy one of his glazed chewy delights. After all, how could I ever be confident in my conclusion of the particular specimen all those years ago? But saying no wasn't the truth. I concluded that at least by admitting that I'd once had my curious nose perched centimetres away from my own Grandmother's poo, I had somehow participated in a real Modernist act that could be considered as a smashing-down of some sort of taboo. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't. The only definite conclusion I can take away from the incident is that I am not keen on Fruit Pastilles.
Tue 24th Feb 2009
A friend of mine has been suggesting I meet one of her friends in the hope that there may be some romantic potential between us. She has even offered to set us up, suggesting I head over to the pub after work on Thursday, under the premise that I am meeting my friend for a drink. The idea is that this girl will happen to be in the pub at some point too, where she would see me sitting with our mutual friend and could then decide if she was interested in me or not. If she is interested, she will come over to us; and if not, she will leave – no harm done. As you can see, this was a flawless plan - a no lose situation.
At least it would be for her!
It is nice to know who out of the two parties my friend automatically gave the power of initial refusal to. The way in which the procedure has been mapped out suggests that out of the two, she believes I somehow look the loneliest and lowest in self-esteem - which seems a bit presumptive, don’t you think? In fact, I’d go as far as saying it’s quite insult. Fair enough, there’s probably a truth, given the evidence both here and here, but as far as I know she’s never read this blog. It seems alarming and slightly depressing that she’s worked it out all by herself! I may be desperate, but I always prided myself on the belief that at least my desperation is quiet.
Exactly what benefit is there for me in this arrangement? Basically, I am being offered a chance to be put on display, then vetted and assessed by a stranger, as if I am some gallery artifact or zoo animal (When will women learn that men are not just pieces of meat, we are real human beings too? I can only dream of day where we will see sexual equality in our society). Then, if I do not get refused on grounds of how aesthetically pleasing I am, I will be awarded a chance for my personality to be assessed in some sort of interview procedure. Body & mind. How brilliant –I am shy and awkward when meeting strangers at the best of times, so what better way to put me at ease than lauding a first conversation with the pressure of a sensitive, undisclosed agenda. So - not one, but 2 opportunities for me to yet again experience the humiliation of rejection, then? Even to the least cynical minds, the whole thing sounds pretty grim don’t it?
I’ll let you know how it goes on Thursday.
On the plus side, we actually won the jackpot on the swindling quiz machine. That’s right, read it again. WE WON THE JACKPOT; and did so irrespectively of the fact that it tried to cheat again by using near impossible questions (“What was the 600th Number 1 single?” What? You don’t know? Ha - you stupid idiots! – I do!). There were five of us who shared the £10 prize. I tell ya, there is no sense of pride quite like the feeling of winning a jackpot – it makes all those hundreds of pounds we’ve collectively spent over the last few years feel all worthwhile.
Beating the machine might even give us the necessary confidence boost to enter the proper Quiz Night again next week. With real human beings and everything.
At least it would be for her!
It is nice to know who out of the two parties my friend automatically gave the power of initial refusal to. The way in which the procedure has been mapped out suggests that out of the two, she believes I somehow look the loneliest and lowest in self-esteem - which seems a bit presumptive, don’t you think? In fact, I’d go as far as saying it’s quite insult. Fair enough, there’s probably a truth, given the evidence both here and here, but as far as I know she’s never read this blog. It seems alarming and slightly depressing that she’s worked it out all by herself! I may be desperate, but I always prided myself on the belief that at least my desperation is quiet.
Exactly what benefit is there for me in this arrangement? Basically, I am being offered a chance to be put on display, then vetted and assessed by a stranger, as if I am some gallery artifact or zoo animal (When will women learn that men are not just pieces of meat, we are real human beings too? I can only dream of day where we will see sexual equality in our society). Then, if I do not get refused on grounds of how aesthetically pleasing I am, I will be awarded a chance for my personality to be assessed in some sort of interview procedure. Body & mind. How brilliant –I am shy and awkward when meeting strangers at the best of times, so what better way to put me at ease than lauding a first conversation with the pressure of a sensitive, undisclosed agenda. So - not one, but 2 opportunities for me to yet again experience the humiliation of rejection, then? Even to the least cynical minds, the whole thing sounds pretty grim don’t it?
I’ll let you know how it goes on Thursday.
On the plus side, we actually won the jackpot on the swindling quiz machine. That’s right, read it again. WE WON THE JACKPOT; and did so irrespectively of the fact that it tried to cheat again by using near impossible questions (“What was the 600th Number 1 single?” What? You don’t know? Ha - you stupid idiots! – I do!). There were five of us who shared the £10 prize. I tell ya, there is no sense of pride quite like the feeling of winning a jackpot – it makes all those hundreds of pounds we’ve collectively spent over the last few years feel all worthwhile.
Beating the machine might even give us the necessary confidence boost to enter the proper Quiz Night again next week. With real human beings and everything.
Mon 23rd Feb 2009
I actually forgot to mention - my mom gave me a haircut when I visited yesterday. Today was the “debut” when I would actually show my new barnet to the world outside. This was not too daunting. My mother is a very good hairdresser, having been one all of her working life. Admittedly, she has been a women’s hairdresser all her working life. But even this once had a certain era of advantageous synchronicity. When I went through my teenage rebellion years of long hair she was able to put a lovely perm in my locks.
I consider myself very fortunate to have bypassed the hairdressing salon throughout my life. Aside from all the money I’ve saved over the years (which is a MASSIVE plus), I have avoided being forced into an obligatory awkward one-on-one stilted conversations with strangers cutting my hair (this is most convenient as it is my ultimate ambition to eradicate all conversational exposure to service-providing human-beings completely. I have long intended to start convincing my dad to become a taxi driver). Also, I have never had to take any responsibility for my hair. If I’d had to book my own hair appointments, I doubt whether anything would ever actually happen to my hair at all. I once managed four years without seeing a dentist, by all but forgetting about dentists. If the thought of dentists happened to crop up into my mind I’d simply make it go away by telling myself I ‘really should genuinely make an appointment and definitely might do so tomorrow’. As it happens, I can just allow hair to sort of hang there, paying it little heed until one day my Mom will suggest giving it a trim. Like I said, no personal responsibility - it is a great arrangement!
Or at least it used to be. In my twenties, my unkempt style seemed boyish and scruffy. But in my thirties, my frontal receed has become such that thin strands of hair hang limply down an ever-inflating dome of forehead. Recently when I caught sight of myself in a shop window, the best I hoped for my appearance was one of a mildly eccentric train-spotting. I am not a vain man. I could live with this, if it wasn’t for the nagging doubts that my hair is fast-becoming something more sinister; like the archetypal style that a stereotypical paedophile might fashion. This is clearly not a good look, either personally or professionally.
Ideally, I’d like to just have done with it and get her to shave it really short, but my Mom always refuses to oblige my wish. I suppose for a hairdresser, shaving a head is much like admitting defeat, but she maintains she is more concerned I’ll look like some sort of Nazi thug from the late seventies. I keep telling her not to worry about it, and how confident I am that given time, we’ll be able to adapt to the look. Obviously, it’d be better all round if I wasn’t going bald, but now it’s happening, I’m sure I can manage a bit of Nazi ideology if it’s necessary to fit an easily managable hairstyle.
So now I’ve got this hairstyle which sort of self-consciously acknowledges my receed but avoids either paedophilic or Nazi territory. The trouble is that I now need to ‘maintain a look’ using ‘hair products’ and all that hassle. It is short round the back and sides but needs to be made spiky on the top so it doesn’t start spindling down the front of my cranium.
So… as I mentioned at the start of this entry, today I debuted this new look. How did it go you ask? Well the response was positively underwhelming (which is actually more favourable to me than you might be assume – in fact, I’d say it was close to best-case scenario). There was slight derision half-way through the day, when I re-applied the mousse as my mother had instructed. I was gleefully informed how my hairdo was reminiscent of Steve McDonald, the hapless clown-figure from Coronation Street. Clearly, I had not been the only one who’d been inspired by watching the soap yesterday.
I consider myself very fortunate to have bypassed the hairdressing salon throughout my life. Aside from all the money I’ve saved over the years (which is a MASSIVE plus), I have avoided being forced into an obligatory awkward one-on-one stilted conversations with strangers cutting my hair (this is most convenient as it is my ultimate ambition to eradicate all conversational exposure to service-providing human-beings completely. I have long intended to start convincing my dad to become a taxi driver). Also, I have never had to take any responsibility for my hair. If I’d had to book my own hair appointments, I doubt whether anything would ever actually happen to my hair at all. I once managed four years without seeing a dentist, by all but forgetting about dentists. If the thought of dentists happened to crop up into my mind I’d simply make it go away by telling myself I ‘really should genuinely make an appointment and definitely might do so tomorrow’. As it happens, I can just allow hair to sort of hang there, paying it little heed until one day my Mom will suggest giving it a trim. Like I said, no personal responsibility - it is a great arrangement!
Or at least it used to be. In my twenties, my unkempt style seemed boyish and scruffy. But in my thirties, my frontal receed has become such that thin strands of hair hang limply down an ever-inflating dome of forehead. Recently when I caught sight of myself in a shop window, the best I hoped for my appearance was one of a mildly eccentric train-spotting. I am not a vain man. I could live with this, if it wasn’t for the nagging doubts that my hair is fast-becoming something more sinister; like the archetypal style that a stereotypical paedophile might fashion. This is clearly not a good look, either personally or professionally.
Ideally, I’d like to just have done with it and get her to shave it really short, but my Mom always refuses to oblige my wish. I suppose for a hairdresser, shaving a head is much like admitting defeat, but she maintains she is more concerned I’ll look like some sort of Nazi thug from the late seventies. I keep telling her not to worry about it, and how confident I am that given time, we’ll be able to adapt to the look. Obviously, it’d be better all round if I wasn’t going bald, but now it’s happening, I’m sure I can manage a bit of Nazi ideology if it’s necessary to fit an easily managable hairstyle.
So now I’ve got this hairstyle which sort of self-consciously acknowledges my receed but avoids either paedophilic or Nazi territory. The trouble is that I now need to ‘maintain a look’ using ‘hair products’ and all that hassle. It is short round the back and sides but needs to be made spiky on the top so it doesn’t start spindling down the front of my cranium.
So… as I mentioned at the start of this entry, today I debuted this new look. How did it go you ask? Well the response was positively underwhelming (which is actually more favourable to me than you might be assume – in fact, I’d say it was close to best-case scenario). There was slight derision half-way through the day, when I re-applied the mousse as my mother had instructed. I was gleefully informed how my hairdo was reminiscent of Steve McDonald, the hapless clown-figure from Coronation Street. Clearly, I had not been the only one who’d been inspired by watching the soap yesterday.
Sun 22nd Feb 2009
Today I called around my Mom’s to pick her up for our obligatory Sunday lunch. When I arrived, she was watching the Coronation Street omnibus and we had to wait until it finished before we could leave. Sitting through this popular long-running soap was mentally torturous. I was already very hungry, and to make matters worse, the Barlows were having a dinner party; although truth be told, from what I could tell Ken’s heart wasn’t really in it. This seemed a shame, as during a disagreement between the couple, Deirdre was preparing what looked like a wonderful prawn cocktail and even though this dish wouldn’t ordinarily be my first choice, at that moment I’d have given anything to eat old Deidre’s starter. I wondered if anyone had ate this in real life, but I suspect they just threw it away after they’d finished filming the scene. Gutting.
Eventually the show finished and we could finally head off to the restaurant to get our Sunday grub. As the Menus arrived I’d already decided this was certainly a day for multiple courses. I perused through the starters and noticed they had Prawn Cocktail (which shouldn’t have been too surprising, given how common the dish is). As I’ve already mentioned, this is not usually my first choice of dish, but today I found myself really wanting to order one. So I did.
This largely, is all I have to say about the matter. I’ll concede it is not the most epic or exhilarating yarn in the world. There are no hidden allegorical meanings to my tale. In a nutshell, I am merely telling you that the fictional soap character Deidre Barlow, inspired me to eat a Prawn Cocktail. A humble message yes, but nevertheless one I believe to be indicative of the certain charming surprise one can discover by keeping a blog. And yes, I did just use the word ‘surprise’. Ok, it may not be a twist befitting of Hitchcock’s most masterful works, I grant you. But when I woke up this morning, never in a million years would I have guessed I’d be typing the (slightly intriguing) words “Deidre Barlow inspired me to eat a prawn cocktail” at some point!
And anyone else who reckons they foresaw this entry is lying.
Eventually the show finished and we could finally head off to the restaurant to get our Sunday grub. As the Menus arrived I’d already decided this was certainly a day for multiple courses. I perused through the starters and noticed they had Prawn Cocktail (which shouldn’t have been too surprising, given how common the dish is). As I’ve already mentioned, this is not usually my first choice of dish, but today I found myself really wanting to order one. So I did.
This largely, is all I have to say about the matter. I’ll concede it is not the most epic or exhilarating yarn in the world. There are no hidden allegorical meanings to my tale. In a nutshell, I am merely telling you that the fictional soap character Deidre Barlow, inspired me to eat a Prawn Cocktail. A humble message yes, but nevertheless one I believe to be indicative of the certain charming surprise one can discover by keeping a blog. And yes, I did just use the word ‘surprise’. Ok, it may not be a twist befitting of Hitchcock’s most masterful works, I grant you. But when I woke up this morning, never in a million years would I have guessed I’d be typing the (slightly intriguing) words “Deidre Barlow inspired me to eat a prawn cocktail” at some point!
And anyone else who reckons they foresaw this entry is lying.
Sat 21st Feb 2009
Another cop-out entry today, where rather than trying to write stuff of my own, I just link to something interesting or amusing I’ve found on the internet.
http://foundobjectpublications.blogspot.com
and here’s another
http://www.pontoon21.com/
http://foundobjectpublications.blogspot.com
and here’s another
http://www.pontoon21.com/
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