Category Archives: Dating

Back from the dead

nggggggueuuaarrrrrgh

nggggggueuuaarrrrrgh

Dear God where have I been?!

Hello fellow blogospherers.

I am full of that insipid foisty guilt you feel when you discover a half filled journal at the bottom of your knicker drawer, and realise the keen ruminative diarist you imagined yourself being on January second has becoming yet another unfulfilled pipe dream in life’s smug chalkboard of disappointments.

Bad Maggie.

I’m not sure how or why I’ve been absent for the past six months – this blog was something that I’d become rather addicted too – and I certainly think it was helping me work through the mess of shite that poses as my life. I think all of that shite just rather got in the way and I fell out of the habit.

But here I am. I’m back. Hurrah.

Gosh – I’m close to deafened by the rapture of your silent applause. I hope some of you are still around – it was nice knowing my thought haemorrhaging was answerable to an invisible audience. I think it helped me be more objective about all the self pitying crap I inevitably at times resort to!

So what’s gone on in the past six months I hear you cry  – well the potted version:

Number of birthdays celebrated: 1

Number of years accrued that are now to be mourned: 29

Number of risable fringe productions playing a part I should have run a mile from: 1

Number of times I had to get my bottom out to London audiences: 36

Number of profitable adverts selling my soul and face in the promotion of slightly dubious products: 1

Number of months tormented by the a) piss taking of friends thanks to said dubious product touting, and b) being recognised in the street/bar/workplace as being the girl off ‘that’ ad: 3

Number of night courses taken: 1

Number of short lived jobs I’d rather not have taken: 15

Number of friends I’ve pissed off: 2

Number of soul mates I’ve not had contact with: 1

Number of shags*: 3 (and a half **)

Number of meaningful relationships: 0

[*for the sake of clarity by number of shags I mean number of men with whom I have engaged in the act of sexual intercourse, NOT how many acts of sexual intercourse have taken place. I am very happy to report that this amounts to far more than the said number.

** This shall be explained at a later date – but in this case I am referring to the sexual act as a fraction rather than the man. I did not shag a halfling. I’m tall – so this would be alarming and neck crunchingly awkward. And as much as a self professed geek as I am I would not take my love of Tolkein this far.]

Aaaaah so much to catch up on – and I shall – inevitably. But right now it just feels good to put fingers to keypad once more.

Laters potatoes

M xxxxx

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Confession

could this be the future...

could this be the future…

So I have an confession to make. I’ve hinted at it here and there but I’ve never said the words totally bald and clear.

I have never had a boyfriend.

Just seeing those words as harsh black marks against white makes me feel physically sick – makes me want to shove them down and hide behind a less blunt half truth.

I am twenty eight years old and I have never had a boyfriend.

There are very few people who know this about me – my mum thinks I’m coy and hiding a whole barrage of exes behind a barrel, my recent friends think there must have been a before, and my ancient friends think there must have been an after. Even some of my closest current friends are only allowed to know half truths – I talk of old exes when it would be more accurate to describe them as fleeting acquaintances – all be that of a sexual nature.

Only two very old, very good friends that I’ve clung tightly to through the years know the full truth.

Why am I so scared of the truth?

Because I find it overwhelmingly humiliating.

Because it squats inside of me like a festering toad that I’m scared of letting people see.

Because in many people’s eyes it would paint a picture of me that I am not prepared to be – that I don’t think I am.

Would it make people see me as uglier than I am, would it bring in to focus some terrible psychological ineptness that would explain such a righteous departure from the societal norm?

You can be sure as hell it would put men off – who wants to road test the twenty eight year old relationship virgin? There must be some reason that other men have steered clear before after all.

Just writing these words makes me feel hugely and inexpressibly sad. And they make me feel like a freak.

I’m the girl that men are prepared to sleep with but never date.

How has that happened to me?

over and out.

m x

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Eau de Toilet

the love shack...

the love shack…

So today highlights another day of mortification for the roadcrash existence of Maggie Adams.

So – a few days ago this scaly ridiculous singleton managed to pull at a gloriously debauched house party. My friends have a band – they’re woefully mediocre – guitar based grungy stuff that sounds like a shit nineties support band on a bad day. Despite a lack of musical prowess they’re totally lovely boys who possess an enviable self belief that has them totally convinced that they will be one day’s next big thing. And maybe they will be – I hope so.

A decade of playing small bars and pubs hasn’t got them a record deal but it has got them a throng of groupies. Alas, these girls haven’t exactly come from the top drawer of amorous groupy selection and most of them are, to put it bluntly, nerds – and the rest are ludricously (by which I mean certainly not-legal) young.

So their parties are always stuffed to the rafters with these girls – who when you can get a word out of them are really rather nice. The nicest thing is I always end up feeling almost glamorous and sophisticated at these events. Result.

As well as the girls they always have a reasonable selection of men  – none of them are particularly worth a write home about, but you can often while an evening away with them and grab back at some self esteem while you’re at it.

This particular Saturday night was different – if only for the presence of the raven haired, deliciously brown eyed Alexander. I first spotted him talking to a gaggle of loud voiced teenagers in the galley kitchen. He had a painfully thin smile adorning his ridiculously square jawed face, and he looked like he was going to drop through the floor if he had to survive one of more minute of discussing the finer qualities of Justin Bieber and One Direction. Suddenly I caught his eye, and smiled a complicit smile of sympathy. His own smile brightened and he raised his eyebrows and ever so slightly rolled his eyeballs.

My god he was gorgeous. I’d first seen him earlier that evening – at the gig that necessarily preceded the party – and couldn’t take my eyes off him then. He was tall – probably about 6’3, with thick dark hair that fell in irresistible short curls around his face. Okay – yes – maybe he had a slightly affected head toss, and maybe he enjoyed the luscious bounce of his curls a little too much – but I forgave him that. Looking like he did I’d forgive him a lot of things.

He had a lean, muscly body which was decorated with with dark blue jeans, a crisp white shirt that showed off his winter tan (again a slightly suspicious clue in the vanity stakes – but never mind…) and a close fitting brown leather jacket.

He was a thing of great beauty – and someone I knew full well that I normally probably wouldn’t stand a chance with. But if he had a prejudice against girls who liked Justin Bieber then my chances in this particular room had just shot up.

About ten minutes later whilst I was trying to engage one of the sweet nerdy girls in conversation over and above a few monosyllables I felt a smooth hand touch my elbow and heard a low velvety voice

‘Hi – you’re Maggie aren’t you?’

Dear god, he was standing there, inches away, and he was holding my bony elbow – a strange move – but still one that sent a shiver straight through me.

‘Hi – yes – that was a good guess.’

He chuckled deliciously

‘John told me. I wanted to know who the tall beautiful one was’

Oh god. Oh god. I felt all the blood rush to my face and felt it heat up till I knew it had reached crimson.

“I… I erm – er – well… thank you?’

Oh God Maggie – where’s your sparkling wit? Of all times for words to elude you.

‘I’m Alexander’

I liked that. Alexander. A full throttled four syllable name – no 21st century shortening to Alex or Al. Alexander – in all its drawn out loveliness. There’s a reason why Alexander was great.

We spent the next hour or so chatting squashed up to each other on a sofa and speedily getting more and more drunken. I’m not going to lie – he was no great conversationalist. We talked about him. A lot. But I was happy as long as his beautiful lips were moving and his deep brown eyes were looking into my blue ones – probably made black by the severity of the dilating of my pupils.

Then came the moment of truth. He edged in closer so his nose was millimetres away from mine, and his hand came up to my face to brush a stray stand of hair out of his firing path.

‘You know you’re really pretty Maggie’

His words were only slightly slurring

‘You have, you have lovely…. eyes’, he continued, his hand now stroking my cheek.

‘So have… you’ – I replied, again competing for the crown of  the Queen of Wit.

And then his lips were on mine – gently caressing them open before sliding his tongue over my teeth and into my mouth.

I could barely breathe I was so excited. Things got heated quickly and soon the rest of the party were throwing cushions at us and telling us to get a room.

‘Come with me’ he whispered and tugged me upstairs. We fell into the first door we found, still madly kissing. A moment later I realised we were in the noticably grubby, lynx saturated bathroom of an all male household. Fuck it I didn’t care – just as long as Alexander didn’t stop.

Then he was pulling my dress over my head and unclasping my bra and I was groping around trying to unbuckle his belt and undo his flies.

You’ve never really lived until you’ve had fumbled sex on the dirty linoleum of a bathroom  floor to the soundtrack of hefty doorknocking and jeering from the angry queue rapidly forming outside.

After the heat of passion cooled I did indeed feel a little silly – and walking out through the leg crossed mass of party goers leaving the tell tale smell of sex behind us was more than a little embarrassing.

Still it was also bloody fun. And he was the most gorgeous man I’ve ever been with – or probably will ever be with.

This has all been a slightly delicious memory for the last few days. Delicious that is – until the fall out of today.

I was merrily distracting myself with facebook at work when a status from Alexander popped up in my news feed. That’s odd – I thought – I hadn’t befriended him as I was fully aware that the other night was just the other night, and I didn’t want to look like some desperate stalking cow.

It turned out he’d popped up through one of the perversities of the ‘book: he’d tagged one of my friends (John – band member and party thrower) in his post which had led to him featuring on my own exclusive wall.

Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

My heart sank with a leaden thump as I, against my better judgement, went to John’s page to read on. The conversation went something like this:

John: Yo ‘Xander the man – what was that with you and my friend the other night?! You dirty whore!

Alexander: Very funny *John Cooper*, don’t remind me please –  there’s one night I regret. Beer goggles or what?!

John: Awwwh what? That’s not fair, she’s a great girl. Anyway you looked like you were going for it.

Alexander: Yeah well you know – desperate times. Next time you invite me to one of your gigs I expect some better specimens! LOL!

LOL. LOL. I’ll give you fucking LOL.

First off – do not publicly slag off someone that you had sex with just a few nights ago. Second – do not, DO NOT do it on bloody Facebook where she can read it and any other number of people can read it FOR ALL TIME. Third – get a personality and some sense of class you total egotistical self loving wanker.

I had a little cry and have spent the rest of the day trying to scrub the memory from my big soapy brain.

I also sent John a private message asking him to take the posts down – just for my own sense of ill gotten pride. He replied instantly saying how sorry he was and that Alexander was a ridiculous tosser and he wasn’t going to be invited to anything ever again and he thought I was lovely and gorgeous and not to listen to nasty minded toads. Thanks John.

Horrid boys. Maybe it’s time to give them up all together. Or at least go easy on romantic trysts in toilets.

M xx

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Date-a-rama: Part Two

Yeah right… no one’s got nothing on a woman scorned…

So I guess I thought the horror and disappointment of the night would only be bearable if I totally obliterated myself. I proceeded to drink the night away on the generosity of my best plastic friend – anxiously waiting each time I spent an unaffordable sum of money to see if the bank was silly enough to accept my IOU. Unfortunately for me – it did.

I listened to Dick churn the evening away with endless anecdotes of just how wonderful he was. The terrible evil of alcohol is evidenced, in no uncertain terms, by the fact that by 10pm I started to agree with him.

At 11.30pm we fell out of the bar and started kissing clumsily. I’ve never kissed anyone with such a gargantuan nose before – and it exerted a peculiar bony pressure against my face. I kept shifting my face around to try and avoid its most nobbly bits. The realisation that I was involved in this peculiar nasal dance suddenly struck me as brilliantly, intensely funny and I had to try very hard to stifle a giggle that was irresistibly tickling my insides. Dick in the meantime was making the most off putting kinds of groans and his huge hands were inexpertly fondling any part of me they could.

Dick: Hey Maggs…

I HATE being called Maggs

Dick: Why don’t we jump in a cab back to yours

Me: I don’t have any cash

This, of course, was the truth but also served as a pretty good excuse as he wasn’t exactly prompting any tidal wave of desire on my part.

Dick: Hey don’t sweat it. My treat.

Now, I’m not a massive advocate of sleeping with someone in order for a free ride home. I realise that some of the more morally upstanding of you might view this act as a little sluttish. I myself would never necessarily label myself as an out and out slut – sadly I don’t get  sex regularly enough for this to be  in any way an accurate moniker. But I do like sex. I love sex in fact. And I don’t see anything wrong with two consenting adults indulging themselves. If you happen to consent because you’re too drunk to contemplate the night bus and too poor to afford a solo taxi – well then that’s a reason as valid as drink induced passion. Actually liking someone is overrated. In fact liking someone is often foolhardy – that way lies potential heartbreak my friend.

So we went home and drunkenly fumbled and scrabbled around for a condom and had brilliantly underwhelming sex. I’ll admit I don’t remember a vast amount. I do remember lying pinned underneath him, whilst he was busily involved in the throes and all that, being morbidly fascinated by the contorted and remarkably ugly grunting expression on his face. In order to distract myself from this expression, which was rapidly depleting any small chance of me actually getting to the desired destination on this ill thought out trip, I focussed on his nose instead. This was not a good idea. Unfortunately the combination of the narrowness of his face and hawkiness of his bill meant there was no where else really to look. I could have closed my eyes of course, but my addled brain wasn’t quite clever enough to take me that far. So I lay there, being grunted on, vaguely hypnotised by his HUGE bobbing nose and, frankly, waiting it out.

The next morning I woke with a ridiculous hangover and very strong feeling of self disgust. The memories of the earlier part of the evening and the blatant abhorrence of the man lying next to me came flooding back and I felt more than a little nauseous about bumping uglies with him.

I also felt like a bitch. Maybe this bloke really liked me. Maybe I was being a total fucking player sleeping with him. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad. He must have endeared himself to me enough for us to get here. Maybe we should go for another date. I eased myself out of bed – trying very hard to keep my head as steady as possible to try and stem the almighty and discordant brass band that were wilfully thrashing whole worlds of pain inside my tender skull, and slipped out to the kitchen to make coffee. I returned with two steaming mugs and full of good intentions to find Dick hurriedly dressing with a sly guilty look in his eye.

Dick: Oh Maggs – hi – oh you brought coffee. Lovely. Got to dash though. Late for something. Yah know….

Ummmmm. No I didn’t know. In his drunkeness last night he’d repeatedly said how he had nothing to do tomorrow except hang out with his phone waiting for confirmation of his new starring role.

He was dodging me.  Dumping me – if what we did was possible to dump. He was dumping me.

He must have seen a look of  obvious horror flash across my face. I hate this – because he must have thought the horror stemmed from the fact I’d fallen for him rather than the fact that the sheer disbelief that someone so ridiculous and repulsive had the audacity to walk out me rather than vice versa.

He bit his lip and sighed in a moment of excruciating exaggerated sympathy.

Dickless: Hey listen Mags – this was fun, yah know. Really. You’re a great girl, yah know. You’re going to make some chap really happy. It’s just – it’s not quite there for me – yah know.

I forced a smile – desperate to exhibit nonchalance and not leave this twat thinking that he’d scarred my heart in anyway

Me: Sure

I could hear the tightness in my voice. He casually kissed me on the cheek as he brushed past and then he was gone leaving me standing there, still holding two hot cups of coffee. Totally speechless.

It’s weird how upset this whole debacle has left me. I didn’t care about him – I didn’t even like him. He did me a favour opting out.

I think it’s because in my sad, unsuccessful loveless self I cling to the idea that the fact I’m alone is a peculiar quirk of fate. That I’m really an attractive, funny, clever woman who most men would love to be with given half the chance. Therefore to be tossed aside by an ignoramus with a monstrosity of a nose and self obsession that equates to terminal dulness is a proper kick to my invisible girl goolies. In a supremely arrogant way – I expected him to be grateful at getting the opportunity to be with me. Instead he’s scarred me with that painful expression of sympathy that has indelibly burnt itself on to my retinas.

But really, how obnoxious of me.

We didn’t get on – that’s the one truth in this scenario. If anything it was just that he was more honest than me – one good character attribute to add to his cascading list of bad ones.

Relationships are subject to – by their magic – acquired tastes, and not in the same way as olives or anchovies – no way more choosy and selective than that. I’m just buggered if I know where the person is who orders their pizza with lashings of Maggie on top.

Wow – now I’m analogising my love life to a pizza. New depths.

M x

Date-a-rama: Part One

You know what they say about men with big noses…

Okay. I’m ready. Prepare yourself for the gruesome details.

Deep breath.

The bloke to be discussed should probably have a name – but for reasons of necessary anonymity I’m loathe to reveal his real one. I’d like to give him the alias Asshole Dick Who Deserves to Die  – though better judgement tells me that that’s a little harsh – so for the purposes of this dear blog let’s just call him Dick.

So the date was moreorless a blind one. Dick’s recently been in a play with one of my housemates – so I’d seen him on stage – but we’d never met in the flesh. I wasn’t entirely sold on the prospect of dating him. Physically he’s not at all my type. He’s tall – which is a good thing (so am I) but has a suspiciously aquiline face that makes him look perpetually haughty, and slick wavy long brown hair that falls to his shoulders. As a girl beset with fine hair that regularly bouffants to an almighty frizz – I’m always suspicious of men who have a prettier mane than I do. When I saw him on stage the one resounding impression he left me with was an incredible irritation with the nasality of his booming voice. Nasty and small sounding, yet inescapably loud. The thin resonating tones winded their way to the back of my skull and scratched and tickled and annoyed till I had to play a musical soundtrack in my head every time he opened his mouth in order to remain seated like a good audience member instead of standing with hands clasped over ears screaming PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.

But my housemate had been full of ‘he’s a really great bloke’, and ‘you guys have loads in common’ and ‘he’s seen your picture and he thinks you’re really pretty’ and similar tempting statements. It’s been a small ice age since I’ve actually dated (as apposed to blearily falling into bed with after a night out) anyone so the idea didn’t seem like an altogether nightmarish one. That, coupled with the fact that my Best Friend Love has recently started dating someone new, convinced me that I should be being more proactive in the pursuit of love. And, anyway, maybe the gratingly nasal voice was a character choice.

I did all the obligatory pre-date ablutions, put on my ‘I feel as pretty in this’ dress and left Tooting full of good thoughts and intentions as to where the night would lead. I’d never actually gone on a blind date before – and I was surprised I just how bloody nervous I was. We’d organised to meet at a bar in Southwark, and I had to call my flatmate when around the corner from the agreed meeting place just to gee me up enough to get the confidence to step over the ominous threshold of the date’s beginning.

Me: Are you sure he said I was pretty?

Flatmate: He said you were REALLY pretty.

Me: Are you sure it was a picture of me you showed him? Maybe you meant to show him a picture of me, but your phone flashed on to a picture of someone else when you handed it to him. My phone did that once. Phone’s are shit. This could be a shit-phone induced disaster just waiting to happen

Flatmate (patiently): Maggie. You’re being a bit of a maniac. It was a picture of you.

Me: Yeah – okay – good. You’re sure sure?

Flatmate: Positive.

Me: Oh bugger – but hang on – was it that picture of me from my last birthday in that red dress where – yeah I look great – but also NOTHING like I actually do in real life? Like I was doing something spontaneously amazing with my face and the camera angle was perfect and the light was just dim enough….

Flatmate: (patient sigh) What?!

Me: You know the one – I had it as my facebook profile picture for a whole day before having to take it down after zillions of comments about did I have a secret twin blah blah blah, when what they really meant was did I have a prettier twin, and what they really really meant was ‘that looks nothing like you but I bet you wish it did you LOSER’. Bloody hell – it was that one wasn’t it.  When he’s confronted with the 3-D unflattering reality of me he’s not going to recognise me – its going to be really bloody embarrassing – he’s going to  run screaming…

Flatmate: (slightly less patient)Maggie. It wasn’t that picture – it was your spotlight* picture. He’s not going to be disappointed. You’re gorgeous. Now go away – I’m supposed to be on stage…

(he’s acting again at the moment – bastard)

Brilliant. Fine. Okay. I told myself that I was a witty attractive woman with an approved physical appearance. There was no need to be nervous. None at all. He should be nervous – faced with the prospect of the overwhelming femininity that is Maggie Adams. He should be quaking in his poncy actors’ pointy boots. Oh yes. And with a deep breath I launched myself thorough the door of the bar.

I stood there in the bar’s threshold – squinting unattractively (I’m short sighted and too poor at the moment to order new contacts so my only avenue to full vision is my unflattering NHS pair of free glasses that I can only bring myself to wear in dark places).

Almost dizzy and wretching with nerves I realised he wasn’t in the bar.

I checked my phone – I’d been a fashionable five minutes late – he was obviously much more of a fashionista than I. I tottered to the bar in my too tight for me high heels (I have preternaturally large feet) and scoured the drinks menu for the cheapest red wine. Bugger me it was expensive. The bar had been Dick’s recommendation and was obviously not sympathetic to those with a poverty enforced diet of bovril and porridge. I begrudgingly handed over a tenner for a small glass of house red and then positioned myself in a red leather booth, sucking in my cheeks and crossing my legs and doing my best to look simultaneously alluring and enigmatic. I suspect the result looked slightly more like a bad case of constipation.

So the five minutes turned into ten, turned into fifteen, turned into twenty. Still no Dick. Just before 8pm, and after nearly half an hour of surreptitious door watching, all precious droplets of wine long since vanquished,  in walked his slick haired big nosed self. He saw me and gave a casual nod in my vague direction. He sauntered over.

Dickless: Hey – Maggie yah? so soz about being a bit late. Had a big casting this afternoon and it threw me a bit out of whack – you know how it is…

REASONS WHY THIS INCENSED ME:

1 – No. I do not know how it is. I spent my unemployed, un-audition filled afternoon painfully and intricately preparing for a date that it is now abundantly clear you didn’t give a moment’s anxious thought about.

2 – So you had an audition this afternoon. Well done you. A big one at that – my, aren’t you important. But please – pray explain why a brief meeting in the middle of the day is an excuse for being half an hour late for a first date that was supposed to start at 7.30pm. i.e in the evening. Some would go so far as to call it the night.

3 – You’re a show off

4 – You used the word ‘soz’

5 –  Your nasal voice was NOT a character choice. I don’t know if I have an internal musical mix-tape long enough to sustain me through a whole night with you

Of course I didn’t say any of those things, but instead wore a smile, and dutifully asked (as he expected me to) what the audition was for…

Dick: Oh well – it’s pretty amazing really – a new thing scheduled at the Nash. Pretty amazing part. I mean they love me there – and I’ve worked with the **director a whole bunch of times and, I mean – i guess she only made me read as a bit of a formality you know –

I didn’t know.

Dick: Hey so listen – just gonna go grab a drink – back in a mo…

And with that – after a blustering first display of the most odious kind of actor self involvement he was gone again. Off to the overpriced bar, with his no doubt overstuffed wallet. Overstuffed I knew – if not from the seemingly and self publicised illustrious acting career  – then from daddy’s allowance. You could hear evidence of the sweet green and blue papered paternal sponsorship dripping off every nasally pinched vowel. He was practically choking on a silver spoon. He was off to the overpriced bar, with an overstuffed wallet to buy himself a drink and leave the penniless bovril starved girl that he’d kept waiting for HALF AN HOUR staring into the bottom of an empty wine glass.

Fucker.

So in light of these terrible beginnings, and the severe loathing I felt in every pore within the first five minutes of our meeting, you may well be surprised as to where our night ended up. Which was back at my place. In bed. Naked.

Yes. I know.

Sorry – got to tear myself away from the computer right now – the rest tomorrow…

M xx

* what’s a ‘spotlight picture’ I hear you ask – Spotlight is the UK directory of actors. You spend a ridiculous amount of money on a mediocre photographer who will take a black and white moody picture of you for said directory which casting directors will then pour over and decide whether you look like someone who could play Lady Macbeth, or sell bleach, or whatever.

**who will remain anonymous for obvious reasons