almost witty

brought to you by the UK’s largest (in what sense ?!) naked dating agency, who organised a naked speed-dating event in Brighton a couple of weeks ago. Drat and blast, I missed it.

And there was me thinking it’d only be those wacky Yanks who’d do this sort of thing.

My friend, newly on the single scene, asked me what I thought of this photo.

I thought she looked great (hubba hubba!), but what do you think?

I’ve only just realised that my friend who went speed dating with me actually picked up while speed-dating, and is now going out with someone. So it works for some people.

I’ll have to find someone else to go sharking with now. Even my flatmate appears to have hooked up wtih someone. Darn.

Last night becomes another drinking night in Cardiff. Well, my first drinking night for a while to be fair, after helping flatmate#2 move in to take the spare room. Slightly bizarre being the only man in an otherwise all-woman all-lesbian moving crew but the job was done quickly, then time for drinks.

Fast-forward past earnest conversations about Welsh nationalism, dreams of American road-trips and other trivia, until it’s just down to me and H in a bar. H has often complained/observed about my lack of social skills when it comes to strangers in bars, and has apparently taken it on herself to be my Fairy Godmother and sort that side of life out.

So somehow, someway, a mother/son combo are brought to the table. Just at the point when my eyes are closing and I’m ready for bed.

H tells me - in a slightly unsubtle manner off-table - that the mother is someone who is much more attractive than my previous girlfriends, and a fascinating woman to boot so I really ought to chat her up. Not quite an observaton I’m inclined to agree with, since she’s an earnest Earth-mother type with dyed red hair not quite hiding the grey roots, but she’s not terrible. Not my type either.

The main problem is the son. I’m not fazed by young people with wild black hair, ear-rings up the wazoo and a sharp metallic point under his chin. It was more his simultaneous “just escaped from a mental asylum” and “I’m a 14-year-old boy who needs my mommy” attitude which really scared the bejesus out of me. And he just gave me a really creepy feeling.

On the way out of the pub, his conversation went from trying to get me to see his band to suddenly something involving knives and guns. And it was at that point I realised that we’d all walked to my house, which is just opposite the pub. Oh dear.

So this is why I don’t like drinking in Cardiff.

Disclaimer: This post was paid for via fleetingmeeting.com

After my last dribbling dabblings with speed-dating in Cardiff, fleetingmeeting.com offered to give me a free ticket to a future speed-dating event. An offer I finally took up last week with a friend, by way of contrast.

Six months ago, the bar was packed full of women and men, and every second was precious. Last week, there were 7 women and 8 men so the bar did look pathetically empty. This obviously had a major impact on the speed of the speed-dating, and the consequement enjoyment factor.

In between, I was chatting to the amiable and friendly head of it all, who flattered me by terming this humble blog the “Oracle of Cardiff” (presumably by which he means it’s in blocky ASCII text that flashes and tells a punchline when you hit reveal). He also revealed that there was a bit of a shortage of men, and the last session he had to postpone because there were 20 women to 2 men. Which would have been interesting odds.

anyway, I will be very very surprised if anything comes of this particular speed-dating round. One woman was at least twice the age of everyone else around, and kept grouching at how terrible it all was. Then again, I think she did the same job that Pauline does in The League of Gentlemen - and of course, she never got the reference. Strike one.

There were two other amazingly quiet women there, and a gaggle of three teachers. Men being what men do, afterwards there was a horrible display of cockboxing with men trying to out-flirt each other to get their attention. Not something I particularly like being part of.

As the evening got on and we got even more drunk, it became just like High School all over again - with the ladies telling us they were going to pub , the ladies of course not being there, and we catch them at another pub later on where they pretend not to acknowledge our existence. Which they have the perfect right not to do of course, but it’s just a messy reminder of all the horribleness of dating, speedy or slow.

I hope this particular low-show was a bit of a blip, but all fads must end and I imagine Cardiff being the Chardonnay-sophisticated-enclave that it is, people have gone back to getting drunk in bars, and getting into fights on a Saturday night.

Prove me wrong?