Poor chat has stopped me dating.

Poor chat has stopped me dating.

I’ve decided to make a strategical U turn and deliberately swerve dating on account of the painful chat that is circulating this city.

You’d think in a place so vast, it wouldn’t be too hard to locate somebody who you didn’t have to endure a minimum of 35 minutes of awkward and inane small talk, following which, dick talk moves in as the hot topic of conversation: either that or the enquiries as to what you’re wearing start to flood in, to which I reply with a confidently declared “FAAAAACCCKKKK OFFF!!!”

In all honesty, I have been known to toy with the ‘what are you wearing?’ message with the assistance of mockery and sarcasm. The last time this happened the responding text message read:

“PVC thigh high boots, currently suspended from the ceiling drenched in candle wax and my flatmate’s urine”

Shock tactics never get a response…the desired effect.

These people don’t even exercise subtlety, no cheeky charm, no witty innuendo’s, simply laying on the sleaze about as blatantly as a feminist at Spearmint Rhino’s.

Furthermore, I seem to be regularly deemed as the type of female who needs a hefty collection of ‘I’m not tensing/topless muscle man’ multimedia messages. You know, the ones that always seem to feature the mobile device that is capturing this treasured moment.

It’s quite sweet really, like when you get a Christmas present you don’t really want but are expected to act as if you love e.g. You get a ‘sexy/fucking cringe’ photo, but you would much prefer a punch in the face.

For example.

I went to a bar the other day with a good friend of mine and was a approached by a man dressed like a homosexual Sherlock Holmes with an irritating air of swagger about him. He clearly believed himself to be the holder of ‘The Ultimate Pimp Game’…like an elixir of life for wankers as I kid you not, these are just 3 of the genius comments that left the lips of this class A pleb;  

1.     Hi ladies, my names Cedric and I made a lot of money today

2.     Let me guess, you’re a nanny and you’re a hairdresser (I was the nanny)

3.     So are you coming back then?...I have champagne.

Even more shockingly, an expression of utter surprise and confusion could be read upon his smug face as upon exit I proclaimed:

“Lovely to meet you darling, now if you’ll excuse us, we need to go and adjust our cervical coils”

To conclude.

To be fair, I don’t actually want to be with anyone. Pretty in love with my double bed in my cosy flat in Catford, the mere thought of sharing it with anything other than Eygptian cotton making me mildly furious if there is such a thing.  However, you can’t help but encounter the occasional douche bag.

I met another guy in the infamous Whisky Mist who due to the fact that he was better than average at meandering a spherical pigskin around a pitch for 90 minutes (he was a footballer) he could waltz around the room like some kind of Messiah. 

His opening line was “Do you know who I am?” so I was pretty sure we weren’t going to end up married with children in a 7 bed mansion in Berkshire.

30 minutes of droning babble regarding champagne cocktails and the offside rule and I was dead inside, finally pushed to the limit by him asking if I knew the monetary value of the diamond encrusted ring he was sporting on his little finger: he looked like he just had mugged the cast of Dynasty.

“Do I look like your accountant?! Because unless your going to give me a bag of chronologically arranged receipts to sift through, I suggest you hold off on the asset breakdown and do one”

He shouldn’t have pushed me.