Cockblock Heartbreak On The Dancefloor

The art of cockblocking hasn’t been lost on the majority of London clubs. There’s nothing that gets on my tits like some other joker trying to get, quite literally, on my tits.

For those of you who aren’t quite down with the kids, allow Wikipedia to explain:

To cockblock is to prevent another person, intentionally or inadvertently, from having sexual intercourse with a third party. A cockblock or cockblocker is a person who engages in such obstruction or intervention. According to an article by a freelance writer, Joshua Bernstein, in the New York Press, cockblocking is a “foul act in which someone interferes with another’s attempt at finding happiness inside someone’s pants.”

We all have our methods of bounty hunting on the dancefloor, right? My tactic usually involves physically shifting myself to within ten feet of the target and briefly catching her eye mid-gyration. If this doesn’t work, I’ll jab her in the kidney when she walks past me. You can snigger, but nothing says “he’s interested” like a poke and a Cheshire cat grin.

The trouble with London dancefloors is that they’re inevitably infested with the same vermin such as myself, all looking to impress with the same high school charming techniques. And much to my despair, there are other guys who care about getting noticed much more than I do.

As the night progresses, the cockblocking escalates to the point where there’s an hour left until last orders and every man is throwing himself at whatever will dare to waggle it’s hips in his direction.

There comes a realization that your hopes of playing the disinterested James Bond, man of nonchalance, are contributing to your own downfall. I’ll usually earmark a girl I like and catch her eye a few times throughout the night, but no more than that. An hour between stares, maybe that’s where I’m going wrong? I’ll shoot her this occasional smoldering gaze, attempt to sip suavely from my…err…Vodka Red Bull, and then fuck off to the toilets after I’ve spilled it all down my shirt. Which is usually gaping open with four buttons ripped off their hinges at this point.

So there I am staring at my own sweaty reflection in the bathroom mirror. Not for too long, of course, what with some penny pinching prick and his bag of fragrances mocking “No spray, no lay” in my left ear lobe. I mouth to my own badly swaying mirror image that it’s time to get serious, it’s time to home in for the kill.

By the time I’ve exited the toilets, you can probably guess what awaits me. A rival wanker has hijacked my dancefloor territory and parked himself, and a group of his Ben Sherman adorned tossers, in the way of the love of my life. My shapes are flailing unnoticed in the darkness and he’s only gone and bought her a drink. Wait, is that his hand on her hip? I poked it first, bitch.

Another night, another heartbreaking cockblock on the dancefloor.

I’ve learned my lesson though. Synchronized toilet breaks are the way forward, London. You heard it here first.

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My Love Life Is An International Success

…And a domestic failure.

Why is it that English guys have so much better luck with foreign girls than with those from our own country? Thank God For James Bond. If it wasn’t for 007 placing some kind of international high esteem on the English man, I’d be destined for celibacy.

My latest skirmishes with the fairer sex have involved an Austrian student and a sweet girl from Midwest America. Both girls landed in London with an instant weakness for the English accent. I hate to say it for sounding shallow, but life in the dating game is a whole lot easier if you have that accent to fall back on. It gives me the freedom to talk complete and utter bollocks and she still has me down as the sophisticated type.

Instead of feeling like the mutton dressed as lamb that I undoubtedly would be if she could dissect my words, a slight tang of middle English flavour is enough to put a sweetener on practically any bad line I can throw at her. And believe me, I throw plenty.

It’s hard not to want to leave these isles forever just to chase a more fruitful love life. If you can avoid the common holidaying spots where an English accent has evolved in to a siren of loutish behaviour just one missed penalty away, you can’t really go wrong.

I’ve even noticed how my own “rough around the edges” accent polishes up momentarily when I find myself around an attractive bunch of tourists. It’s as if the opportunist voice in my head is screaming to put on my best stiff upper lip and give it the all-English to improve my chances. Because there’s really not much to be charmed about when you strip away the reality of what it’s actually like to talk to the average British man.

Far from the magic of Harry Potter, denied the suave charisma of James Bond…most of us wouldn’t know how to live up to the fantasy if you laid it out to us in a step by step blueprint.

But the English accent never fails to paper over the cracks. At least long enough to give us several bites at the cherry. And I’m not just talking about British guys chasing foreign girls either. I’ve seen some of my best female friends serenaded with chat up lines and glowing compliments by my American guests. Call it pompous and arrogant, but the accent does seem to be a killer. I wouldn’t dare of complaining about a competitive advantage that merely involves me opening my mouth, regardless of the insane drivel explodes from it.

So why can’t it be so easy to attract English girls? Well, the answer is obvious. We’re attracted to what our eyes and ears aren’t used to dealing with. I know several women who cave in completely to the Spanish accent, others who couldn’t turn down an Italian bloke if he shagged her god damn sister. That’s just the way that it works.

I’d complain…but you know what? London is full of different nationalities. It’s the hub of the multicultural world.

And I’m happy to prey on gaggles of brainwashed tourists.

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