Tag: The Undateable Gay

So, I’m laying in bed the morning after the night before.

In case your memory needs jogging, the night before was when Houdini, AKA Michael twat bag wank piece, vanished from sight on our first date. Ooh, if my mum is reading this, she will wash my mouth out with fairy liquid.

I roll over and pull open the curtains. Cor, the sun hits my eyes like a slap around the chops with a wet cod. And the realisation dawns on me that the previous night’s date was not a dream. It was a harsh reality. What could have happened to him?

I suddenly become all drama queen. What if he was kidnapped? What if he’s laying in the bottom of the Thames, with bricks tied to his feet? Before my imagination runs anymore wilder than John Wayne’s stallion, my phone beeps with a text message. My jaw slaps down on my blue pillowcase like a sack of potatoes. It’s only from Michael.

My first instinct is to lob my phone out of the window. But my calm, non-drama queen side kicks in and I decide to press open on the message instead. what a novel idea.

“I’m really sorry about last night. Everyone decided to move on to another club and we couldn’t find you to tell you.”

Mmm, my mind starts ticking. It seems a plausible excuse but then I think, why didn’t you just text me last night to tell me where you were?? I quickly text him my thought and he replies,

“I was just so drunk. I didn’t think. Sorry again.”

At least I now know he’s not a captive on some pirate ship or fish food at the bottom of the Thames.

As I drag myself from my pit, he texts again.

“Do you wanna do something tonight?”

My nostrils flare like George’s dragon. The bare-faced cheek of the man. Actually, not man. Boy.
But then I suddenly think to myself, I can’t be a bitter old queen for the rest of my living days.

“I’m going to an aerobics class with my mate tonight. You’re welcome to join.”

He accepts. But how events unfold later, it’s a decision he comes to regret.

Cue my very long and dear best friend, Tullene. Hell hath no fury like this girl when her gay best friend has been scorned by a boy.

I drive to Michael’s house and he jumps in the front seat. He is very bashful but he starts talking and I decide to let bygones be bygones. As we pull up outside Tullene’s house, I see her walk towards the car abnormally and uncharacteristically fast. She throws a death glare at Michael. If looks could kill, he’d been ten foot under. I can’t work out whether it’s her protective nature or the fact that she’s had to sit in the back of the car.

The car journey to the leisure centre is rather frosty and for a girl with a gob the size of the Grand Canyon, it’s also very quiet. I break the awkward silence.

“Tullene! This is Michael.”

Her nostrils flare. And if you know Tullene, this is a very scary prospect and sight.

“So you’re Michael? That scrawny little runt who just upped and left mark in a London club.”

She barked worse than a Jack Russell.

As if the car ride wasn’t awkward enough. I look in the rear view mirror and see Tullene’s ears doing an impersonation of a kettle.

Michael seemed lost for words which didn’t help his case against Tullene. She hates to be ignored. I see her arm reach for the seat belt and she goes to tug on it. I gasp and shout, “TULLENE!”
Phew! I saved the poor boy from seat belt strangulation.

In my capacity as peace maker, I defuse the situation.

“I’ve given Michael a second chance. So I’d really love it if you did too. For me.”

Her nostrils start to deflate to a normal size and I can see her starting to calm down. She also loosens her grip of his seat belt.

As we enter the aerobics class, I start to take a dislike to Michael’s personality. He’s very cocky and he actually begins to get on my moobs.

We manage to get through the aerobics class without talking and towards the end, he gets a stitch. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer person.

As we dab the sweat from our brows, I decide I can’t bear to spend another minute in the presence of Michael. I feel like I might develop a rash just by breathing the same air as him. We all go to get in the car and I turn to Michael.

“There’s only enough room for me and Tullene.”

His jaw drops.

“There’s a bus stop over there!”

Tullene high fives my orange palm and we drive off, leaving Michael doing a very impressive impression of a fish.
Now that’s gay power.

 

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He looked like Roy Cropper it was never going to work out.

I’ve had a flashback to a date I went on when I was just a young whippersnapper of a 19-year-old.

Christ, that means I’ve been undateable for a total of 14 years. Yes, I hear the sound of shocked voices. That man can’t be 32! But yes readers, I am. It’s amazing what a bit of exfoliation can do for your skin. Oh, and not forgetting the needle full of Botox I regularly get pricked with. Well, I have to get a prick from somewhere. (Clears throat)

Anyway…

Back to my flashback which takes us back to the wonderful year of 2002. The year that bought us the Queen’s Golden Jubilee and Girls Aloud! The latter being my most memorable and personal favourite. But back to something else that wasn’t my particularly most favourite memory of that year, the date that was organised by my friend’s 50-year-old mum.

So, there I am this one morning, having coffee with Gwen. I mean, she isn’t the most sane of people you’ll ever meet, but I’ve had my fair share of mental institute moments over the years myself. So who am I to judge? As I take a sip on my mocha. I’m sure I would have been drinking a mocha. It’s only since I’ve hit my 30s have I become partial to an espresso. So as I sip the mocha, she announces she’s set me up on a date with this lovely man she works with on check in.

An airport worker.

Now, my dear Nan, God rest her soul, taught me I should never sit in judgement of others. But sometimes I find that piece of advice very hard to swallow. For some reason, in my sinful judgemental mind, I associate anyone working at the airport as a slag and having a man in every country. I know my face needs a slap as obviously he only works on check in, so unless he has a very long lunch break, I rationalise that he can’t make it to other countries.

After I’ve given my chops a quick swift slap, I take in the details of the date. It’s this Saturday, at 7pm and I’m to meet him at the Birdcage. Cor, the Birdcage in Chiswick, now that is showing my age. As I take the final chocolatey sip of my mocha, she throws the final, and possibly most vital, piece of information at me.

My new date is 50-years-old. My jaw slaps the ground, like a concrete slab thrown from the top of Big Ben.

As I look in the mirror at my fresh, youthful, wrinkle free face, I tell myself age is but a number. I mean, what does it matter that he’s 31 years older than me? Not a problem. He could be the man of my dreams, I shouldn’t be ageist, I tell myself. As the stark realisation dawns on me that he’s the same age as my dad, I begin to gag but a shot of vodka and a Marlboro Light soon slaps that image out of me.

I walk up to the bar of the Birdcage. I’m unfashionably early, purely because my best friend booted me out the car as she wanted to get back to see the Pop Idol final. I order a pint of Fosters. I decide beer is the best drink for me to consume this evening, it gets me less pissed and if I’m dealing with a senior citizen, I must keep my wits about me. I grab my pint and take myself to a small round table and perch myself on a bar stool.

As I finish off my first pint of Fosters, a man with a shopping bag approaches me. He asks me a question but my eyes are firmly placed on his shopping bag. Had Roy Cropper just walked in? (For those of you who have never seen Coronation Street, Google this man and you will have the image of my date).

Let’s call my date Roy from now on, as his actual name escapes me. Call it the early onset of Alzheimer’s or even just my own mind’s ability to block it out. As this is a date I have tried to forget all through my twenties. And it’s also the date that set the precedent: never let your friend’s mum set you up on date.

Now I wouldn’t have minded being on a date with a 50-year-old, had Roy not acted and looked like he was 75! I know I’m partial to being a little dramatic, but on this occasion I really don’t think I am being. I mean, the shopping bag said it all! He bought me a pint of Fosters, so that’s a point in his favour but I needed another one to block out the dull tone of his voice as he discussed trains and planes that he liked to spot. Wonderful, I’m sat with a train spotter. I really should have remembered to cross dear old  Gwen off my Christmas card list. But I don’t like to think of myself as a bitter old queen.

Five pints of fosters later (all bought by Roy, may I add), and I am somewhat tipsy. I notice his body language. He starts to touch my hand, then my arm. He must have thought all his Christmases had come at once. This young pretty boy sat in front of him, pissed on Fosters, who needed looking after. After the sixth pint (also bought by Roy) I started to feel myself returning his body language gestures. A metaphoric slap later and I was in the toilet, on the phone to my best friend.

“You must pick me up!” I pleaded with her.
“But the winner of Pop Idol hadn’t been announced yet.” Came her reply.
“Oh, don’t worry about your best friend, sat here, about to be taken advantage of by Roy Cropper”, I barked back.
Luckily for me, I heard Girls Aloud be announced the winners, so she left her house to rescue me. Whoever thought I’d owe Cheryl Cole for saving me from Roy Cropper?

As I returned to the table, I saw my seventh pint of fosters slammed down on the table by Roy.

Phew! I’ve made the right call by phoning my best friend, pardon the pun. I see the intentions in Roy’s eyes. They’re glistening like a magpies whose just seen a diamond ring. Just as I pick up the fosters, my best friend runs in, like the hero of the hour.

“You must come quickly! My mum’s been taken ill and I need you!” She screams.
Oh the lies and drama of the youth.
I look at Roy, feigning upset.
“I’m so sorry, but I must go!”
“Will I see you again?” Roy is like a lost puppy dog.
The lies of the youth came rolling out of my mouth like a red carpet at the Oscars.

“Of course, give me call. I’ve had a really lovely evening!”

I’m going straight to hell, I tell myself.
My best friend drags me from the Birdcage, and I notice Donna Summers has started playing. I join in on the chorus, rather loudly and as we leave, Roy is following us. I turn round and in my Fosters induced state, I sing at him,
“Enough is enough is enough, I can’t go on, I can’t go on no more, no!”

 

@MarkyWoollard83

 

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So I’m out in a gay club, dancing the night away in my best new loafers. I’ve a wine in my right hand but no man in my left. Someone get the violins out. It’s Saturday night and the only love in my life is Sauvignon Blanc from the Marlborough estate. But as if Paul Daniel’s just waved his magic wand, a potential date is suddenly upon me like a fly on sh*t.

The music is loud and as my friends will inform you, my hearing is not the best. Many a time I have the television on so loud, the neighbours from two doors down bang away on my front door. Anyway, I struggle to hear this potential beau’s name but my inhibitions have been lost in a bottle of Blossom Hill. So I go straight in for a kiss.

And in the profound words of Cher, it really is in his kiss. Instantly I feel a connection and I swoon. Maybe my long line of frog kissing is finally over, I excitedly decide. From this moment on, we spend the entire evening locked lipped and it reiterates my feelings that no more amphibians may cross my luscious lips.

The end of the evening draws near and I sense mini me getting a little aroused. He thinks he’s going to be getting some action from this nameless man. My future beau walks to his taxi and I presumptuously attempt to join him inside the taxi. But to mine and minime’s dismay, he puts his hand up to signal no entry. Instead he slips me his phone number on a piece of paper. Not what I’d hoped he’d be slipping me tonight.

I wake up with a start and quickly roll over, anticipating a Sunday morning session. My hopes are instantly dashed when my memory kicks in and I remember I ended up in bed alone. I pick my phone up, hazy eyed. I have a text from an unknown number. It’s from a bloke called Simon. Oh my god, so that was his name! The stark realisation hits me that my last attempt at romance was with that tosser from Mulberry. Also called Simon. Not a good omen but I remind myself of my religious upbringing and I promise not to judge a man by his name.

We arrange a date for the following and he suggests a restaurant in Uxbridge, close to where he lives. Judgmental Mark kicks in and I decide he doesn’t have a lot going for him. One, his name is Simon and two, he lives in Uxbridge. But the memory of my Christian upbringing kicks in again, I will not sit in judgment.

The following evening arrives and I find myself with sweaty palms and shallow breathing to deal with. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about, being in Uxbridge town centre or going on a date. And then something hits me like a wet cod around my boat race. I haven’t a clue what Simon looks like as I was so intoxicated, that part of my memory seems to have been erased by Sauvignon.

Fingers crossed he’s not a dog. I walk in and I see a figure stand and wave. I’m no intellectual giant but I conclude this must be him. Not bad on the eye. I wouldn’t kick him out of bed.

The conversation flows between us but unfortunately for my date, so is the Sauvignon blanc. As each glass glides down, my voice raises a decibel. We laugh, we talk, we eat. I really think it’s gone well. This is my future prince. Frogs are a distant memory. Boy, am I delusional. As I ask, “when shall we see each other next?”, he replies deadpan, “once was enough!”

Open mouthed, I get deserted by him at the table. Note to self, avoid Simons.

@MarkyWoollard83

 

Opinions expressed in this article may not reflect those of THEGAYUK, its management or editorial teams. If you’d like to comment or write a comment, opinion or blog piece, please click here.