Strut Your Stuff

We are all prone to do it, especially the blokes, but whilst working out at the gym I’ve noticed that there are three kinds of male show off that inhabit the place. Whilst the ladies tend to show off their toned and tanned bodies with the latest swimsuit, the blokes (well, in my eyes at least) just tend to make a total fool out of themselves. It’s either that, or I’m becoming a right grumpy old man.

Ok, Ok, I’ll admit that I tend to hold my stomach in a wee bit when I head for the pool (I’m still working on flattening it) and I’ll get into the swimming pool "like a man" whilst inside I’m screaming "f**king hell it’s cold!!", but some of these guys take the biscuit (along with the rest of the packet).

1. The Showoff

Every gym has one. Yup, it’s that bloke who loves himself and his toned and tanned body so much that he feels he needs to strut about like a peacock trying to attract the ladies. In my case, the gym has a member who is so rigid and toned that I’m sure he’s had some help from an under the counter muscle building product.

As he struts about (doing a good impression of a ‘V’ with legs) he actually has to bend over like a giraffe in order to get at the water fountain. If that wasn’t bad enough, he feels it totally necessary to wear leopard skin style trunks with a picture of tiger on the front. Oh, please!!

2. The Olympic Swimmer

Here he comes, with his fancy swimming shorts, goggles and water bottle. He spends half an hour warming up at the side of the pool before removing his T-shirt, attaching his heart monitor, fiddling with the controls and then gingerly getting into the pool.

What follows can only be described as someone doing a good impression of drowning as they attempt to do the butterfly stroke up the pool before floundering their way back down the pool totally exhausted. In the meantime, you’ve just done the same number of lengths in half the number of strokes.

3. The Sauna Dude

You’ve done your workout and all you want to do is relax in the sauna until your aching muscles stop protesting. Unfortunately, a tattooed teenager shatters your peaceful snooze by barging into the sauna, pouring gallons of water onto the coals and adding so much essence, such as tea oil or eucalyptus, that it makes your eyes sting and removes a layer of skin from your windpipe.

And whilst you gasp for breath and bare this new onslaught, the gate crasher only lasts a mere two minutes before getting too hot and exits the sauna.

A Book Report

I recently decided to buy myself a copy of A Commonsense Guide to Successful Internet Dating by Evan Marc Katz in the vain hope of finding some inspiration for this on-line dating lark. But after turning that final page, rather than complaining that it only stated the obvious, I’ve decided that what the book actually told me was that I was at least heading in the right direction.

There are all the usual pointers such as not moaning in your profile with things like "I don’t know why I’m doing this" or having uninteresting lists such as "I like breathing, eating and the movies". So in that essence I’m on the right track with both my own profile and the manner in which I contact people on Match.com with a questioned based message to try and encourage them to write back (not that they did).

I guess the only thing I didn’t truly accept was that I needed to be in for the long haul. Sure, I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but after months of absolute failure I was on the verge of giving up. But the book gave me a right royal kick up the backside and made me realise that you’re not going to find "the one" overnight. You just need to keep trying and with new members joining every week it’s important not to give up on that search.

Also, I only subscribe on a month to month basis too. Not only is this costing more in the long run, but I guess I was hoping that one month "the one" would appear and I wouldn’t have to keep up my subscription. The book then pointed out that it doesn’t matter if I subscribe for a year for £100, because even if I do find "the one" after only one month, it will be best £100 I’d ever spent. They don’t half make a good point…

Pros and Cons

I’m sure I speak for most men in the world when I say that we hate shopping and when dragged along by our partners we simply end up complaining like small children. As a result, we try to shop as little as possible. But when that hole in our trousers grows too big to disguise as a pocket any longer, it finally becomes necessary to head out to that strange and brightly-lit shopping centre.

It was during one of those visits to the Trafford Centre that, getting fed up of having to endure the sight of hundreds of happy couples holding hands and smiling at each other, I decided to draw up a list of seven Pros and Cons of not having a girlfriend...

The Pros

1. You’re your very own cheap date
2. You can have a Big Mac and Large fries without getting scowled at
3. You’re not asked that dreaded question "Does my bum look big in this?"
4. You can buy a DVD without being told it’s cheaper to rent from Blockbuster
5. You’re not dragged around every clothes shop going*
6. You can always find a table for one at Starbucks
7. You can stare lovingly at those massive plasma televisions for hours

The Cons

1. You’ve got no one to hold hands with
2. It’s not very nice sat eating or drinking on your own
3. There’s no second opinion on those new trousers
4. You’ve no valid excuse to visit the Anne Summers store
5. You’re not dragged around every clothes shop going*
6. You’ll never get treated to a sensible lunch or nice cup of coffee
7. You’re on your own when it comes to finding the car in the car park

* I feel that this is both a Pro and Con because, whilst it can indeed be as
much fun as poking needles in your eyes, remember that your girlfriend is
invariably trying those things on for you. And let’s face it, she looks
stunning.

Buy One, Get One Free!

It’s the sort of headline that grabs your attention whilst you’re out shopping. So it’s all the more important that when you place yourself on that same shelf you provide something for the bargain hunters and browsers to pick up on – after all, like Match.com, those supermarkets boast such a huge range of products.

However, these days I get the distinct impression that I’m in amongst that bargain bucket section with those dented tins of tomatoes and that mystery tin with no label. Is it a tin of peaches or a can of dog food for dinner? Ah, that’s the mystery of the bargain bin – a bit like the Internet dating game too really.

So, due to lack of sales, I’ve decided to rebrand and relaunch myself by rotating my main profile picture with one of those in my profile library to see if it has any effect. Also, given that the ladies promptly return me back to the shelf without so much of a trial offer, I’ve also decided to spruce up my profile by buying a book called I Can't Believe I'm Buying This Book: A Common Sense Guide to Successful Internet Dating.

I just hope I don’t end up relaunching myself like Coca-Cola and Mars once did. Still, at least they had a marketable product in the first place. Is British Beef back on the menu? Only time will tell.

Just Call Me Billy Nodates

I’m not the world’s biggest reader of books, in fact I’m easily distracted by the possibility of watching paint dry or the traffic lights change colour. As a result it takes a very good book to keep my level of interest up. And one of those books was Sean Thomas’ current best selling book Millions
of Women Are Waiting to Meet You: A Story of Life, Love and Internet Dating. It's a title that pretty much sums up the subject matter pretty well really.

Although I knew the outcome of his adventure after reading a serialisation in a Sunday newspaper, I was still keen to see how he reached his happy conclusion and hopefully learn some valuable lessons of my own. But when I compared his Internet dating exploits to my own, I was shocked to learn just how poorly I’m doing – especially with the level of women who actually contacted him rather than him having to do all the leg work.

I guess the meat market of a dating game in the big smoke could be a little different to everywhere else in the country, but the fact that Sean was on a date virtually every week kind of makes my total of four dates in twelve months pretty dire. Still, I suppose the one positive is that it took him twelve months to find "the one". Never the less, given my lack of success I either need to move to London or have a damn good rethink.

With a move to London pretty much out of the question, it looks like it’s going to have to be that rethink then. Given that there’s hardly any women viewing my profile, let alone dropping me a line, it must all boil down to that initial interest in the photograph – the crafty Sean used a photograph of himself stood next to Mick Jagger. So it looks like I need another photo rethink.

The only trouble with this is that I hate having my photograph taken. Although I do polish up quite well, I always tend to end up looking like someone who’s been hit in the face with a wet fish. Never the less, I can only live in hope that someone finds that attractive...

Save our Sauce!

There’s one thing we British are very good at - our ability to politely moan about something. We’ll all have grumble about something being “terrible” or “outrageous” which usually involves “Johnny Foreigner” and the evils of the “European Union” (to which I’m still yet to work out where the “union” part is) before it’s all quickly forgotten and we revert to our other world class pastime of queuing.

So today it’s my turn to temporarily put my dating disasters to one side and have a rant about the state of our country and to moan about yet another British institution that has been decimated by that “Johnny Foreigner” chap. Yeap, not content with buying our companies then closing factories left right and centre, those nasty foreigners have finally gone one step too far as the HP Foods factory in Birmingham is to close and move production of its famous HP sauce to Holland.

Now, I guess most people outside of the UK won’t have a clue what this HP sauce is, but let’s just say that the great British breakfast, a bacon sandwich or even a cheese sandwich wouldn’t be the same without a delicious dollop of HP brown sauce. It becomes even more ironic when you consider that just a few weeks ago HP Sauce launched a campaign to "Save the Proper British Cafe" – even having the gall to sell wristbands from a website and ploughing £5,000 into a "fighting fund".

So, people of Great Britain (and the rest of the blogging world) it’s time to head for the front and make a stand and boycott HP products until they decide to retain production in Britain. But please remember to keep this boycott going rather than giving up after two days then two years down the road starting to grumble that HP sauce “doesn’t taste like it use to”.

And Then There Were None...

I’m beginning to feel that I’m about as welcome as a vegan at an egg and spoon race as my last and remaining Match.com contact has informed me that she’s going to go out with someone. It’s nothing more than I’d expected, as it was off/on woman - or as is this case now off/off woman. Although I never really got the impression she wanted to meet, it’s still a bit of a blow as I enjoyed our regular e-mail chats.

This Internet dating lark is all very interesting really and it doesn’t half change the way people go about dating. I say this because whenever people say they’d like to stay in touch they inevitably end up disappearing into cyberspace from where they came never to be heard from again. Still, they’re getting on with their new life so it’s hardly surprising really; after all you’d hardly keep ringing up an "ex-boyfriend" just to see how things are going or to tell them about their wonderful new boyfriend.

So feeling a bit down in the dumps I found a bit of encouragement in the most unusual of places. I bought a bottle of juice to drink after my workout at the gym and it contained a competition to win all sorts of remarkable goodies. All you have to do is remove the wrapper and see what you’ve won. Apparently I’ve won the much sought after “better luck next time" prize.

Wise words. Wise words indeed.

Got a Sniffle? Have a Snog

Not content with inventing the WalkMan, robots that can walk up and down stairs, speeding bullet trains and used panty dispensers, Japanese scientists have discovered that passionate kissing can help control the evil that is known as hay fever.

Assuming you can get past your snuffling partner with their sneezing and streaming red eyes (naturally, they still look beautiful no matter what state they are in) having a jolly good kissing session causes the body to relax. This then reduces the production of histamine – the chemical produced during an allergic reaction to pollen.

So, the next time you’re out and about and you see a damsel in a sea of dandelions in distress, remember to dash up to her and tell her you know of the perfect antidote to hey fever. Just don’t blame me when she kicks you in the family jewels and flees, nor to confuse those hay fever symptoms with the ‘flu.

Millions of Women Are Waiting to Meet Me

Whilst taking a sly look at the Mail On Sunday at the gym on, oddly enough, Sunday, I noticed an article written by Sean Thomas about his search for the perfect woman on the Internet. So, in between taking careful slurps of my Cappuccino, and safely hidden behind the football reports, I decided to read it out of curiosity and research purposes.

Being single at the time, the 37 year old Sean was tasked by the editor of a health magazine to write an article on the Internet dating game. Suspicious at first, he did all the usual things with his profile, put up a half decent photograph and fired off a few emails. His first success was to actually get some replies to his messages (unlike mine - which tend to be ignored). He met up with a few but they always decided they weren’t right for each other and left it at that. This exercise was repeated a number of times.

His story was beginning to sound all too familiar, but as I turned the page there was a picture of a rather attractive lady in his arms. Reading a little further, I discovered that it was his girlfriend, they were engaged and they were even expecting a baby. And what’s more, the once hesitant Sean couldn’t praise Internet dating highly enough. Blimey. Could there still be hope?

Sean was also kind enough to provide a list to help decode all those pesky dating profiles. Can you relate to any of these?

Curvy – Tubby.
Cuddly – Huge.
A cat lover – Desperate for kids.
A traditional homemaker – I’m looking for a meal ticket.
Fun-Loving – Drunken, possibly a crackhead.
Scatty – Bonkers.
Adventourous – Fond of ununsual sexual practices.
Demanding – Impossible.
Sensual – A good kisser.
I’m from St. Petersburg – Marry me.
I like rugby-playing types – Dominate me.
My favourite things include the theatre, clubs, dancing, sport, reading and walking – I can’t think of anything else to say.
I will send you a photo privately – I am married and don’t want my husband to know I am doing this.
I’m right wing – You’d better earn more than me.
I’m tired of the singles scene – My looks are going.
I’ve got a pierced navel – Honky Tonk Woman!

Flushed with success, Sean has also written a book about his experiences called Millions of Women Are Waiting to Meet You. That should help pay for the wedding. Naturally, I’ve bought a copy as a, er... a gift.

Hill? I Don’t Remember Seeing a Hill…

I hate the month of May. Sure, it’s a great month for some reasons, such as the ever trusty FA Cup final and the continuation of spring, but it’s also the month of my birth. And I hate birthdays, especially my own. I mean, what is there to be so happy about when people wish you a “Happy Birthday”? Happy you’ve made it through another year without succumbing to some awful disease or road traffic accident? Happy that you’re another year nearer retirement? Happy your old clothes are back in fashion? The possibilities are endless.

This year is a particularly bad one for me, as I’m now going to be the wrong side of thirty. Time is flying past so fast these days that I’m having trouble just keeping up with which day of the week it is. I’ve even had to buy a watch that tells the day and the date. At this rate, come the end of the week I’ll be retired and heading for that great old folk’s home in the sky. It’s just a pity that the time between pay cheques seems to run at a much slower speed to everything else.

And considering I was sufficiently depressed when I reached thirty, heaven knows what state I’ll be in when I reach forty! Just think what I’ve got to look forward to. Hair where I don’t want hair, and no hair where I need it the most. I’m already suffering from a few grey hairs in all departments, so what will happen when my Match.com profile reports I’ve now advanced to 36 years old. Will my number of search results pages disintegrate to a mere handful or will I now be targeted by the forty something brigade?