I was walking through Westfield with my girlfriend yesterday when she caught sight of an ice rink. Dozens of excited looking kids were charging around on blades while scattered couples could be detected clinging to the barriers and presumably attempting not to embarrass themselves on an awkward first date.
We already had a movie date penciled in, so I was quite determined not to be taking any tumbles. Given the choice between 150 minutes of Harry Potter tedium or snapping an ankle two weeks before I fly to Thailand, it was always going to end in a large bucket of popcorn.
There’s something undeniably romantic about ice skating with your partner when London turns on it’s festive charm. For all that I hate about the capital and it’s tendency to rush out Christmas trees before Halloween, I can’t deny that it does it well.
The glow of a thousand lights raining down on the bitter Westfield walkway is actually quite nice. Although not nice enough to convince me that I wouldn’t rather spend my Christmas on a beach in Phuket.
If you’re looking to inject a little romance in to your festive agenda, I would vote ice skating dates as one of the best choices for fledgling singles who don’t quite know how to take their leap of faith. I mean, come on, if you’re going to take a girl on a first date – don’t take her to Harry Potter. As much as I didn’t mind the movie (6/10), it features vast scenes where absolutely nothing is happening. You’re going to really feel the date for what it is. Two strangers sitting in a dark room wondering what the other is thinking.
If you’re determined to take your date to the cinema, for the love of God – AVOID THE VIP SEATS! They may be extra padded with enough leg room to have a good stretch, but they’re also wedged apart by an arm rest that’ll make canoodling your romantic flame about as awkward looking as a lunge over a zoo barrier to pet a tortoise.
If you play your cards right, you may just about get to pet her heels with a flick of your laces.
Ice skating, on the other hand, despite my fears of breaking an ankle prior to boarding an important flight, is actually a very good choice for getting that first date out of the way. You can laugh and enjoy something physical. It’s a date where silence can only be a good thing because it means you haven’t fallen on your arse.
It’s almost time for one of my favourite sporting events. England are about to defend The Ashes when they kick off a five match series with Australia during the early hours of Thursday morning.
I’ve already broken the news to my girlfriend. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to share me for the next two months.”
Now not every English guy is crazy about cricket. I’d say the large majority probably aren’t interested in it at all. But if you’re sitting at home reading this with a boyfriend or husband who likes the sport, let this be a warning. He’s about to disappear from your bed.
Time differences being as they are, I will be quietly shifting from under the covers around the time of 1am. Ready to immerse myself in eight hours of attritional sporting action that my girl just couldn’t understand the meaning of even if she asked for a verbal essay of justification. Which she will. Oh she will.
The trouble with watching a daytime sport from the opposite hemisphere is that it will inevitably fuck with my body clock. I expect the trivial “coupley” things like going for breakfast together will become a strain. God forbid, I may have to bust out the “stressed from work” excuse to save my bedroom energy for the arduous task of keeping my eyes open past 5am. Ladies, it’s nothing personal. It’s just cricket.
If your man is a cricket fan, the best you can pray for is a short and sweet series whitewash with Australia giving us the hiding we’ve been used to for decades. Nothing says “go to bed” like 550-6 with Ricky Ponting’s smug face etched across my Sky Sports.
And guys, if you’re looking to negotiate the balancing act of watching the cricket and keeping your better half happy, it’s time to get tactful. Oh yes. I’ve pulled out the lunch date card.
There aren’t many things more disheartening than splashing out 80 quid on a lunch date when you know you’ve got to go home on your own afterwards. The thought of blowing a budget without any hope of playtime can be enough for a man to opt for nothing less than evening dates all the way.
Well, I’ve suddenly taken on a much more willing attitude towards those lunch dates. Christ, I’ve even agreed to go see Harry Potter. Anything that can be arranged between the hours of 1pm and 11pm!
I give it about two weeks before I’m forced to abandon The Ashes with the point of a heel jammed between my balls. But until then, COME ON ENGLAND!
I have a friend who’s adamant that she’s not making a huge mistake by getting engaged. The fact that she’s only been dating for six weeks tells me all I need to know. I really don’t understand the tendencies of young naive lovers to desperately clutch at marriage as a declaration of their happiness.
Why do people rush to get married when their whole lives are ahead of them?
My friend is 21. She’s a devout Christian and as such, I’d be lying if I hadn’t joked with my friends about the reason for her marriage being based on sex. She’s one of those girls who wants to wait for marriage to “give herself away”. And yet she’s the kind of horny fiend who always puts our filthy minds to shame around the table on Pub Quiz night.
If you’re trying to make a grand gesture of waiting until marriage to have sex, I would imagine that much of that gesture is washed away by rushing to the church after barely two months of dating. That’s not really patience, is it? You might not be committing a sin of sex before marriage, but you’re guilty of stupidity on a biblical scale.
It’s emotional suicide. I don’t see why a happy couple would feel the need to commit themselves to insta-marriage if they were truly secure in their relationship. After all, if you’re planning on spending a lifetime together, why the rush?
I also feel a little sorry for her parents who are being forced to summon the financial support to let this sham of an event go ahead. I honestly hope the marriage works out for my friend – because she’s a good friend – but if it doesn’t, I’ll be offering sympathy through gritted teeth.
Personally, marriage isn’t something that appeals to me in the foreseeable future. I’m in a happy relationship so what more do I need? A paper slip and grand celebration to show the world that I’m in love? No thank you. Maybe I’d feel differently if my spirituality didn’t require me to be hitched before getting a shag!
I’ve always been amused by the segment of bloggers who fall under the collective term of “pick-up artists”.
Come on, we’ve all seen these blogs. They’re usually plastered with fly-on-the-wall photos of some muppet living his jetset lifestyle, shirt buttoned down to the ribs and smirk in tow. These are the guys who plead with us to read their tales of how it’s just so easy to hook up with girls. You simply need to follow their four step formula or download a shitty ebook on the “science”.
This was the attitude I had towards said pick-up artists. I basically assumed they were full of shit and got their main sexual kick from knowing a few thousand other no-hopers were subscribed to their RSS feeds.
Well, just a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of meeting one of these illustrious pick-up artists at a marketing conference. To my surprise, he was one of the most down-to-earth and knowledgeable guys I’ve spoken with in recent times.
Now there’s only two reasons why this could be the case.
1. I’m not a female. It’s quite possible that the moment my grizzly unshaven face disappeared from view, he was notching up the charmometer and trying it on with the closest females he could find. Plausible, but I doubt it.
2. He’s not really a pick-up artist at all. Just a good marketer.
Ca-ching.
If you haven’t already guessed it, there’s your answer.
The majority of these guys promoting pick-up artist blogs haven’t dared to try a single technique that they preach as their own. It’s just one big marketing ploy designed to do two things. Firstly, grab your email address. Secondly, to sell you their shit.
That’s the reality. But of course, they’re incredibly successful and some of these pick-up artist bloggers are actually millionaires. I know because I’ve met them and talked to them about their techniques. Not to get a woman to lust after me! But to market to the masses.
It might very well be the lamest form of blog on the Internet. And it might make any guy who’s actually lost his virginity laugh out loud when he stumbles across the promise of a four step path to the holy vagina.
But the true suckers are the fools who believe in these ridiculous sex-Messiah characters and hand over their credit cards or email addresses to “discover the secret”. The rest is just good business.
I have a stomach for cringeworthy moments. I’m not normally affected. But this video has to be seen to be believed. If you can keep your face straight for the duration, you’ve got blushers of steel.
Quite possibly the most awkward marriage proposal of all time.
Behold:
There is just so much wrong with this attempt at a romantic gesture. I could stab myself in the eye with a pencil to make it stop. I don’t know whether the guy is suffering from stage fright or is simply the ultimate retard de force. Either way, this has to rank as one of the world’s worst marriage proposals.
And if you’ve seen worse, I’m not sure I want to see it.
I think my favourite part of the entire video is the jazzy keyboard outro.
I recently made the decision to move to Thailand and kiss goodbye to the classic freeze-your-nuts-off British winter that’s looming large on the horizon.
Who wouldn’t do the same if they had the chance?
There’s the fact that you can rent a sprawling mansion house for less than a tiny flat costs in London. I’m eyeing up a four bedroom, four bathroom place in the suburbs of Bangkok. Oh and it has a private swimming pool. For less than £1100/month.
Or how about the fact that the searing 30C heat is considered “cool season”? I can’t wait to top up my tan considering I’m the type of helpless English bastard who’s still staring at his bronzed arms from Glastonbury more than four months ago.
The Monday after the clocks go back is always a depressing affair and this week was no different. Given the opportunity to trade 4pm darkness for a Christmas on the beach, the choice is a no-brainer.
So, of course, the second I decide to tell my friends that I’m heading for Thailand, the reason is unanimous.
“He wants to bang some ladyboys.”
It doesn’t matter that I’m moving with my girlfriend and renting a place of our own. No, no, no. You tell your mates down the pub that you’re going to Thailand and there can only be one motive. You’re in it for the ladycock.
To be fair, I can see how it would be possible for a guy to improve his love life in Thailand. The country seems to have this reputation of being a paradise for the single white man. Well until you wake up next to a she-male, that is. I know several guys living the life of luxury in high-rise Bangkok condos and they rarely seem to be too far short of female attention on Facebook.
But to be honest, it’s a little sad that this beautiful and welcoming country has been reduced to no more than a giant pick-up ground in the minds of sex mad westerners. I can’t wait to travel and explore the culture with my girl.
It’s going to be a work of discipline too. Having read up on the etiquette of the Thai people, I’ve discovered that it’s offensive to show any public displays of affection. So all that noshing on the bus is a no-go.
I’m now counting down the days before I can jet out to pastures warm. Naturally the first thing I’ll be doing is tagging a bloody metric boatload of beach photos on Facebook. Happy Christmas wishes to my friends indeed!
