5) Dating Direct
July 8, 2006
On-line dating is an outrageously exploited area of the dating market. Faced with literally thousands of companies offering to find me love for only a small monthly fee, I settle on Dating Direct. Dating Direct is a household name. It is the IKEA, the E-bay of dating. I think it may sponsor Coronation Street or air or something.
From what I gather, multitudes of newly singled women across the land get drunk of a night and find themselves emailing firemen in the early hours. Well, they think they're e-mailing firemen, but, I suspect, the object of their desire generally turns out to be living at home with his mum, and that's not a fireman's pole in his hand.
A quick scan of its pages reveal the ladies all look like FHM babes in their photos while most of the men could happily pass for John Prescott. On a bad day. There’s something touching about the difference between the sexes. Men are happy to submit a photo taken at a rugby match wearing a green wig and Shrek ears after 9 pints of strong lager. Frequently they aren’t in the photo at all. You just catch a glimpse of a shiny bald patch through the brown out-of-focus blur. Women on the other hand will use that nice holiday snap-you know- the one where they have a tan and their arms look thin.
To register there is a list of mundane questions. I resist the urge to cover myself in goose fat and swim towards a more civilised land. I pour myself a trough of wine and get to work on the multiple choices.
By the time I get to
Facial hair?
a) moustache
b) beard
c) goatee.
I pick c) and think I’m about the funniest person since Bill Hicks.
There is a huge list of professions to choose from. There is no “actor”. They clearly assume being an actor I should be beating them off with a shitty stick. I am “other”.
Then you have to describe yourself. I loathe this bit. I say
“ I am pretty much perfect and I’d like a man to be the same”
This isn’t allowed. Not the perfection, but the use of only fourteen words
I plunge my head in the wine trough once more, and start to type.
“When I am not being perfect I am being a little bit lazy and extravagant, traits I would happily accept in a man”
I submit a nice photo of myself taken at a summer party, I am smiling and my hand appears to be welded to a bottle of champagne. It is rejected on the grounds that I am wearing a sunhat. I trawl my computer for another photo. The only one I have was taken at a wedding last year. Oddly enough I am wearing Shrek ears. I submit that and my profile is accepted. I pay £10 for one week.
I do a search for men. Page after page of ugly men appear on the screen. Homeless Friend who’s staying joins me. We search in silence. Words cannot describe the shock, sorrow and horror we feel. We can’t even laugh. There is no funny side.
I receive 8 emails on the first day from men who, themselves look like Shrek and clearly think I would be perfect to entertain the swathes of children they have by their ex-wives. There isn’t a lock of hair between them.
This continues for five days. Homeless Friend by now finds this hysterical. She eagerly awaits seeing which misfits have contacted Lucy that day. We now have a ritual. I read in silence while she laughs until she nearly wees herself on the floor. I keep towels close by in case of an accident There comes a point when you realize that hope has gone on road trip to Las Vegas with no intention of returning. I consider setting up a refuge for abandoned men offering crash courses in social skills and spelling with full creche facilities for their legions of children. It is at this point that things start looking up.
Email from beautiful man standing in front of a waterfall. A bit young for me at 27 and he lives in Croydon but I overlook it. He writes
“Your sophisticated and well groomed attire caught my eye so I just thought I’d say hi”
Very witty reference to my Shrek ears I think. I respond
“Thank you so much for the lovely picture of the waterfall it was a shame that bloke got in the way”
I never hear from him again.
But I do hear from someone else. A 32 year old writer living in London who looks a bit like a sexy hamster in his black and white arty photo.
He sends me a nice message with an interesting PS
“It says on your profile that you are looking for someone with children. I don’t have any I’m afraid, but I could knock someone up on the way to Sainsbury’s this afternoon if you like. Am feeling very virile.”
Bugger. That explains a lot. I didn’t intend to specify I wanted a man with children. I probably thought of the convent and didn’t want to discriminate.
He says
“ The Dating Direct help section says that I have to go all distant and moody at this point, but I can’t be fucked so let’s meet for a drink.”
Why the bloody hell not I think. I toy with the idea that he might be a pychopath. I arrange to meet him in a busy pub and tell Homeless Friend where I’ll be.
We swap witty emails regarding the arrangements. Then he suddenly asks “How tall are you?”. I reply “5’4”, to which he states,
“I am an intimidating five foot six, though I may wear my crazy goth platform biker boots and sway way above you”
He really is very funny.
I respond, “I’ll be wearing my Shrek ears, I have a small goatee and I’ll be wearing my usual liederhosen”
I dress from head to foot in Homeless Friend’s clothes. They suit me. I show breast. The desire to show breast in dating situations stems from my mum and dad. At the tender age of sixteen my father met my mother at a Youth Club Hop. However he asked my mother's friend Pauline to dance first. I asked why he chose Pauline before mum. He replied
“She had bigger breasts. I was going through the group of girls in order of breast size”
As men tend not to mature much past the age of sixteen I feel breast showing is relevant.
Off I trot to meet my witty midget.
I am ludicrously excited. I have a date.
I try to remember the last time I was kissed. I’d love to do some kissing. Surely I could break my own rule about kissing on the first date on the grounds that the ice caps are melting and time is running out.
At the cash point outside the pub I catch sight of a very small, chubby man in “crazy goth platform shoes”. I panic. I assumed he was joking about the footwear. I consider running away as fast as Homeless Friend’s gorgeous leopard print heels will allow me. Realising that this isn’t very fast at all, I smile and say “hello.”
Bugger. Bugger! Bugger!!
He is five foot six IN the crazy goth platform biker boots.
He also smells and has really bad skin.
I quickly mumble something.
“I have a bloody homeless friend staying with me. She doesn’t have a key, it’s such a shame but I may have to go home and let her in quite soon.”
“Is that your get out clause?”
I laugh uncomfortably. We drink our strong lager in silence listening to the sound of my terrified laughter hanging in the air.
We both drain our beers very quickly. It is too early for me to escape without a large dose of Catholic guilt. We go to another pub. He starts trying to fiddle with my hair and talk to me about previous flings he’s had with people he met on Dating Direct. I cannot allow the conversation to move onto any thing at all sexual. I am beginning to feel queasy. I go to the toilet and text Homeless Friend “HELP ME NOW”.
She calls in hysterics. I hurriedly stammer
“ Oh No! I have to go now. Nice to meet you. Bye”
I race away traumatised.
I meet Homeless Friend at her work-do in Soho. She thinks the incident with the witty midget extremely entertaining. I am slightly worried she might wee herself in front of work colleages.I should have brought the towels. She introduces me to everyone telling them about the disastrous date and the crazy goth platform biker boots. One male work collegue says
“I can’t believe you’re doing all this dating crap, you’re far too gorgeous.”
A nice young man. A nice opening line. A refreshing absence of scary goth platform boots.
I think about my quest, my own rules, the convent and the fact that he’s Homeless Friend’s work colleague.
Then, thankfully, I remember those ice caps.
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25) Guardian Soulmates Online