Exasperdating | Metro Boy

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Exasperdating | Metro Boy

Age: 28
Height: 5’7
Build: Slim
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Sandy-brown
Job: Town planner

I remember being gutted when I had to add this guy to my list of dating disasters. Reason being, I really, really liked him. It all took place when I was living in Paris. We met due to some fast – okay, sneaky – thinking on my part.  I first clocked him having a cigarette outside a metro station. I wondered how I could instigate a conversation so I made out that I needed some help navigating the metro. In a BAFTA-worthy performance, I pulled out some choice lines in broken French à la Officer Crabtree in Allo Allo.

 
Metro
 

Sure enough, my little ruse worked and it wasn’t long before we were sharing a bottle of vin blanc in a nearby café. A string of dates followed, although from the off it wasn’t plain sailing. The first time we were due to meet up he cancelled on the day – apparently he had to go and give his friend some moral support post a break-up. He made good though and engineered a spontaneous date later in the week.
 
Another ‘moral support’ episode followed – this time half an hour before our rendezvous. After that I asked him outright, ‘are you interested or not, because I’m getting some very mixed messages here’. To which he replied, ‘oh yes, but I know you won’t be here for that much longer so am spacing out our time together’. Which I kind of understood.
 
A third and final date took place at his pad. I’d forgotten that the majority of Parisians live in matchboxes. There’s nothing wrong with that in itself – except if you’re a hoarder. You couldn’t see the floor of his room for books, clothes, magazines and… pots of Nutella. Honest to God, pots of Nutella. Apparently he ate a jar a week. But my OCDs melted away into this sea of mess the moment he flashed me his cheeky smile.
 
After that encounter, I decided I’d treat him to a surprise date that would include a bottle of bubbly and three mystery envelopes – the idea being each envelope would contain a romantic Parisian spot where we’d glug the fizz. But my grand gesture was wasted. He texted me to say that he was too busy and tired to meet up and would call me ‘soon’. And, much as I didn’t like to admit it, I knew that ‘soon’ was dating code for ‘never’. C’est la vie.
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Exasperdating | Victoriana Fella

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Exasperdating | Victoriana Fella

Height: 6’1″
Build: Broad
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Job: Architect/Interior Designer

So there I am, waiting anxiously for my name to be called. I’m doing everything I can to ignore the mosquito-like high-pitched buzz emanating from the consulting room (read as torture chamber). In a desperate bid to try and take my mind off things, I reach out and grab one of the well-thumbed glossies on the coffee table. Result! It’s OK! Magazine. And, as we all know, lightweight celebrity fluff is the perfect antidote to the terror that is the dentist’s chair. 

Open wide...

Open wide…

What’s that got to do with a date? Well, as I was flicking through said mag, my eyes suddenly shot to a picture of a bloke I thought I knew. But just who was he? And what the hell was he doing in a celeb rag? So with one eyebrow arched quizzically à la Inspector Clouseau, I went on the hunt for clues.

First off, the caption. No bells ringing there. While his name wasn’t beige, it certainly wasn’t standout. So I carried on, scanning the article proper. An architect slash interior designer. Hmm, doesn’t narrow things down as I’ve known a few of those in my time. But hold up! Currently working for a very high-profile member of the royal family. Now, you’d have thought a nugget of info like that would have sparked some kind of memory but, alas, nothing.

“Monsieur Torres?” It was my turn for the chair. Clearly my brain was still running a Ctrl+F search because the penny dropped just as I was invited to open wide.

I’d gone on a date with this chap about five years ago. He was fairly well spoken (not to mention well off) and was, to my mind, just a stumble from plummeting headfirst into the ravine of posh. I remember he invited me over for dinner at his place one night. His gaff was decorated in what I call ‘try-hard Victoriana’ – a deer-stalker nonchalantly placed here, a pile of dusty old books stacked casually-on-purpose there.

Suffice to say, we didn’t go beyond dinner as it was clear the class gap between us was just too great. I mean, the idea of him dancing manically to Morrisey at Duckie was just as at odds as the notion of me genuflecting to some Duke and Duchess on a pheasant shoot – which seems to be exactly what he’s doing right now. Damnation. If only I’d played my cards right – I could be hanging with Wills and Harry right now. More so Harry, I think…

Exasperdating | Cockney Signor

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Exasperdating | Cockney Signor

Height: 5’8”
Build: Toned 
Hair: Blond
Eyes: Blue
Job: Cabin Crew

Doing the Lambeth walk - oi!

Doing the Lambeth walk – oi!

A friend of mine once told me that there are 3 sorts of boy you should never date:
  • a club DJ
  • a barman
  • cabin crew

According to my mate, these sorts of gays don’t make good boyfriend material. The hours they work mean they tend to be creatures of the night. So, while most of us are tucked up in our beds, they’re usually out on the town getting jiggy with some nightclub groupie, a flirty bar-hopper or a fellow trolley dolly on a stopover.

Well, I made the mistake of hooking up with an air steward. Normally, I wouldn’t touch one with a bargepole for the reasons mentioned. However, this particular fella was the spit of David Beckham. Plus he was half Italian – and I’m a sucker for a guy that can speak another language.

The really funny thing was that when he spoke Italian, it was with the most beautiful, eloquent Florentine lilt. Bizarrely though, when he spoke English, he sounded like an extra from EastEnders – he had the most pronounced cockney accent I’ve ever heard. Seriously, Peggy Mitchell had nothing on him.

While he ticked two boxes – looks and linguistics – let’s just say he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. But give him his due, he was pretty – very pretty. But that couldn’t outweigh the fact that he was fundamentally thick as pigsh*t. Plus, I got the distinct impression this guy had Mile High Club platinum status. He may work for Virgin, but the similarity ended there.
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Exasperdating | Mr Wet Lettuce

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Exasperdating | Mr Wet Lettuce

Age: 39
Height: 5’10″
Build: Toned
Hair: Grey
Eyes: Brown
Job: Teacher

Lettuces

Lettuces

I’ve always had a bit of thing for fellas with salt and pepper hair. Granted, this guy’s barnet was more on the salty side, but it just made him look all the more distinguished. And the fact he was a piano-playing music teacher was a big plus point, too. I’ve always been in awe of people who can tinkle the ivories (learning to play the clarinet at school was a major-league error on my part – it’s really hard to sing along at the same time).

Now, I should mention something quite important at this point. When I spotted this guy’s online profile, I couldn’t help but think ‘I know you from somewhere’. I actually asked him outright if we’d met before, but the closest we could get to crossing paths was that we used to go to the same nightclub years ago. Anyhow, the date had the potential to be good – a riverside walk with takeaway coffees on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

However, it wasn’t long before I realised this guy was a bit beige – he really didn’t have much to say for himself. Our rendezvous finished rather bizarrely with him taking me to a Marks & Spencer food hall. I had to follow him around while he loaded up his shopping basket for his dinner. Hardly the stuff of a romantic encounter.

Just before we parted company – somewhere near the cucumbers – I had another I’m-sure-I-know-you moment. “So you used to go to Ghetto nightclub?”, I quizzed. “Well, once or twice. And not really through choice. A guy I dated used to drag me down there.” All of a sudden the supermarket shelves melted around me, my insides churned in exam-style panic, and an invisible film camera whizzed down the aisle towards me for that penny-dropping close-up. OH. MY. GOD. This guy used to go out with my best friend! How could I have forgotten? Fair-dos, it was really going back some, but it was me that had branded him Mr Wet Lettuce.

Exasperdating | Posh Doc

I’m reblogging this Exasperdating tale as I’ve had a few comments from people that it got a bit lost in yesterday’s post about the new Doctor Who, Peter Capaldi. So, just in case you missed it, here’s my story about the Posh Doc

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Exasperdating | Posh Doc

Age: 27
Height: 5’9
Build: Slim
Hair: Black
Eyes: Blue

Job: Doctor

Doctor! Doctor!

Doctor! Doctor!

I’m munching on a Granny Smith as I pen this installment because, as the old saying goes, ’an apple a day keeps the doctor away’. And trust me, after this encounter, I’m steering well clear of men in white coats.

The Posh Doc wasn’t a one-off date. We’d kind of seen each other for about a month and a half earlier in the year but it had fizzled out. He wasn’t my usual type at all. While looks-wise he ticked all the right boxes – blue eyes, dark hair, a bit of stubble and geek-chic glasses – on the personality front, he was a bit too ‘rah’ for me.

Case in point: he had a nasty habit of saying ‘maaarvellous’ in a terribly high-pitched, horsey-teethed way that only people who’ve gone to private schools seem able to do. Plus he lived in a super-posh flat in an extremely exclusive part of London which I swear mummy and daddy had set him up in. Talking of which, and given that he was a doctor, you would think he’d have kept the gaff a bit cleaner. Frankly, some Cillit Bang wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Anyhow, fast forward six months and, out of the blue, he invites me over for dinner. One fish supper and two bottles of rioja later and we were, well, getting ‘reacquainted’. A couple of days later I dropped him a text to say I’d had fun and would he like to go out for drinks. To which he replied, “I’m a horny drunk. Sorry.” Now, while I may not be a doctor, I think this guy’s self-diagnosis was off the mark. Horny drunk? No, I think he was actually suffering from a nasty affliction called Complete Wankeritis, for which I’m pretty sure there’s no cure.

Capaldi, Copycats & (Tenuous) Exasperdating

My geeky Dr Who T-shirts

My geeky Dr Who T-shirts

Well thank Gallifrey for that! After weeks of speculation (which even included Dame Helen Mirren being thrown into the mix) the identity of the new Doctor Who has finally been revealed.

Tah-dah!

Sunday night saw the BBC spill the beans as to who will play Doctor No.12 in a slightly spangly – and dare I say it, naff – one-off show. To be honest, Doctor Who Live seemed to have more in common with a brand launch than a casting announcement. And to top it off, it was hosted by that most dedicated and famous of Whovians, erm, Zoe Ball.  But I digress…

Star Appeal

The good news is that Peter Capaldi will be taking the helm of the Tardis when the present incumbent, Matt Smith, bows out on Christmas Day. I’m over the moon with this choice of actor. Anyone who’s seen Capaldi in The Thick Of It as the potty-mouthed spin doctor Malcolm will agree that he’s super-talented. His CV includes a BAFTA and an Oscar scoop.

Copycat Docs

Impressive credentials aside, I like the fact that Capaldi’s an older guy. Since Who’s return to telly in the noughties, there’s been a propensity to plump for younger actors in the lead role. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against younger actors playing the Time Lord – after all, my childhood Doctor was a then fresh-faced Peter Davison – but recent casting choices have, in my opinion, resulted in a blur of twenty-something, overly-similar Doctors. When Matt Smith took over from David Tennant I felt there wasn’t enough ‘difference’ between them. It’s as though the Beeb had found a winning formula by way of Tennant and so ran with it again…

WANTED!
Young and slightly gawky-looking foppish geek.
Must wear Shoreditchy outfits and have quiffy hair.
Love of running around quarries a distinct advantage.
Apply to BBC Drama.

Total Antithesis

I believe you need to have a break with the past to be truly memorable. Peter Davison’s Doc is a case in point. The main reason his incarnation worked so well was because it was so fundamentally different to what had come before. Davison’s portrayal as a preppy older brother stood in complete contrast to Tom Baker’s more bohemian-broody figure. The production team of the day knew that replacing Tom Baker with Tom Baker Mark II just wouldn’t work – instead there needed to be a real rupture. So fingers crossed the powers-that-be have got it right this time around and we’ll get a real shift when Smith regenerates into Capaldi later in the year.

Who’s Who?

Here’s the roll call of actors who’ve played the TV Time Lord over the years – it comes in handy at pub quizzes, let me tell you!

1) William Hartnell (1963-1966)

2) Patrick Troughton (1966-1969)

3) Jon Pertwee (1970-1974)

4) Tom Baker (1974-1981)

5) Peter Davison (1981-1984)

6) Colin Baker (1984-1986)

7) Sylvester McCoy (1987-1989, 1996)

8) Paul McGann (1996)

9) Christopher Ecclestone (2005)

10) David Tennant (2005-2010)

11) Matt Smith (2010-2013)

12) Peter Capaldi (2013 – ?)

Date With The Doctor

In (slightly tenuous) honour of Peter Capaldi’s unveiling as the Doctor, here’s an Exasperdating tale about a rendezvous I had with a real-life doctor…

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Exasperdating | Posh Doc

Age: 27
Height: 5’9
Build: Slim
Hair: Black
Eyes: Blue

Job: Doctor

Doctor! Doctor!

Doctor! Doctor!

I’m munching on a Granny Smith as I pen this installment because, as the old saying goes, ’an apple a day keeps the doctor away’. And trust me, after this encounter, I’m steering well clear of men in white coats.

The Posh Doc wasn’t a one-off date. We’d kind of seen each other for about a month and a half earlier in the year but it had fizzled out. He wasn’t my usual type at all. While looks-wise he ticked all the right boxes – blue eyes, dark hair, a bit of stubble and geek-chic glasses – on the personality front, he was a bit too ‘rah’ for me.

Case in point: he had a nasty habit of saying ‘maaarvellous’ in a terribly high-pitched, horsey-teethed way that only people who’ve gone to private schools seem able to do. Plus he lived in a super-posh flat in an extremely exclusive part of London which I swear mummy and daddy had set him up in. Talking of which, and given that he was a doctor, you would think he’d have kept the gaff a bit cleaner. Frankly, some Cillit Bang wouldn’t have gone amiss.

Anyhow, fast forward six months and, out of the blue, he invites me over for dinner. One fish supper and two bottles of rioja later and we were, well, getting ‘reacquainted’. A couple of days later I dropped him a text to say I’d had fun and would he like to go out for drinks. To which he replied, “I’m a horny drunk. Sorry.” Now, while I may not be a doctor, I think this guy’s self-diagnosis was off the mark. Horny drunk? No, I think he was actually suffering from a nasty affliction called Complete Wankeritis, for which I’m pretty sure there’s no cure.

Exasperdating | Tooth Fairy

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Exasperdating | Tooth Fairy
Age: 42
Height: 5’10
Build: Slim
Hair: Grey
Eyes: Blue

Job: Photographer
Captain Bucky O'Hare - Goes Where No Ordinary Rabbit Would Dare!

Bucky! Captain Bucky O’Hare! Goes Where No Ordinary Rabbit Would Dare!

I hate it when you proffer up a cheek and they go in for a full-on pash. Then, as they try to kiss you, you recoil in slow-motion horror. All that’s missing is a nightmarish cry of ‘noooooo!’ as they lick your face like a dog. Well, that’s exactly what happened on this date. As I said goodbye, this bloke mistook my Continental peck for the real deal.

As for the rendezvous itself, for starters, he looked nothing like his profile pictures. But then I guess I should’ve bargained for that, what with him being a professional photographer. Online he looked like a suave older guy. In reality he was the bizarre love-child of Ken Dodd and Bucky O’Hare – too many teeth, not enough mouth. But credit where credit’s due he was really nicely turned out. Quite a dapper dresser, actually – stripy French top, cream chinos, brogues and a flash of colour courtesy of fuchsia socks.

Okay, so being totally objective, it was one a piece on the pros ’n’ cons front at this point. So what swung things out of his favour? A couple of issues. Number one, he was camper than a row of pink, diamante-encrusted tents at a Liza Minelli-themed jamboree. Number two, he didn’t drink – and I don’t trust people who don’t drink.

Thankfully, because of his job, he had loads of his photos on his iPhone which provided some much-needed conversation. But just when I thought I was out of there, he unleashed that clam-mouth kiss. Horrific. Just horrific.