114. Blind Date

This online dating thing has got out of hand if you ask me.
It’s gone beyond bored singletons tippy tapping on a keyboard, Ms Jones looking for Mister Right from Coventry who’s got his own house and a steady job in accountancy, or Mister Lonely desperately seeking Miss Tolerant who can put up with his three miles of model railway weaving it’s way around the loft conversion.
No, it’s gone way beyond that.
Nowadays it’s FatCock71 from Doncaster looking for biches wiv shayved pussis for know strings shaggin.
It’s AngelTracy69 looking for cock in the Ashby-de-la-Zouch area.
It’s Fuck Buddies, Milfs, Cougars and first date anal.
Part of the problem is that no-one in their early twenties are using dating sites. They’re already out there, fucking each other daft in the schools, universities and public parks of this fine country like they always have, sucking each other off and finger blasting each other and knocking each other up and passing around chlamydia, basically acting like young people have always done.
No, online dating sites are peopled by thirtysomethings, second-time-rounders, the cast of Friends on Viagra and with biological clocks ticking like a Doomsday clock.
The men are almost all divorcees with a couple of kids who left their wife because she got fat and stopped sucking him off and who see the kids once a fortnight, or men who thought they had it made with the job and the wife and the Skoda estate then their wife got her hair done and got a membership with Virgin Active and she started to fuck the hunk with the pecks who teaches pilates; and the women who concentrated on university then a year out backpacking around Australia followed by a marriage and a very successful career and the kids were put on hold and on hold and on hold so they got a dog but by then Justin the generic husband was fucking her old mate Clare from University (the bitch) so she kicked him out and cried for a month then lost two stone and now she wants some cock goddammit but some kids would be nice too ticktockticktock, or women who squeezed out a couple of kids straight after the wedding and put on four stone and use pictures of their kids for their Facebook profile and who talk about their pelvic floor problems on Mumsnet and drink Chardonnay like it is water but who’s husband Steve who seemed so very nice in the beginning started fucking a career woman he met online who apparently spent some time in Australia after finishing university and who is now pregnant and couldn’t be happier but she’s left holding Steve’s kids so she stops eating all the Hob Nobs and starts doing Zumba classes and loses three stone and gets her hair done and goes online in the hope of finding a dad for the kids and some cock for herself.
Yes, this online dating thing really has got out of hand.

Cyclops is into the online dating game.
I’ve mentioned it before but I’ll mention it again, because I’ve not been on here for a while, Cyclops is a great big useless lump of a shit-thick printer, a lumbering moron who fills in the Mirror crossword straight from a dictionary and still takes an hour, who can’t count to twenty with his boots on.
He’s got one eye permanently staring at his nose. His gut hangs over his belt like a meat tsunami. He belches in your face mid-conversation and isn’t even aware than he’s given you a hot blast of sausage and fucking egg right in the middle of a lecture about his dad’s new static caravan that you couldn’t give a shit about.
And you know what? He’s fucking women like they’re going out of fashion. He’s got them queued up, ready to ride what he describes as his, ‘Love Hammer’.
“Aye, Luci, I fucked this lass from Birmingham last week. She were gagging for a go on the ol’ Love Hammer.”
“You went all the way to Birmingham to fuck someone, Cyclops?”
“Nah! Fuck that! She came up ‘ere. Stayed at the Queens Hotel. Got one of them deals through Groupon or summat, a weekend break wi’ a spa treatment an’ a facial, that sort of shit.”
“Yeah, I gave her a facial alright. Huh huh huh!”
“Did you give her a spa treatment too?”
“Huh? What?”
“Never mind. Go on.”
“Anyroad, I took ‘er to the boozer. Get ‘er nice and relaxed, y’know. Lasses are always a bit nervy coming to a strange city and meeting a strange bloke.”
“You can say that again.”
“Yeah, they’re frightened they might get raped or summat. I reckon she must ‘ave felt alright when she saw me, like. Knew I’d protect ‘er.”
“How’s that, Cyclops? I mean, how many times have the coppers contacted you because people have phoned in to Crimewatch swearing your face is the spit of the photofit for the Bridlington Biddy Buggerer or the Pudsey Pouncer? It happens every fucking month!”
“I’ve got distinctive features, Luci. I’ve got character, I ‘ave.”
“Aye, well the police have got their eye on you, mate. The second one of these dating-site-lasses cries rape you’ll have half of Milgarth leaping on you with their size tens, screaming Pudsey Pouncer.”
“”Whatever, Luci, whatever. I took ‘er to the boozer, anyway. Got ‘er a pint of Leeds’s finest. I don’t fuck about, me. I know ‘ow to treat a lady.”
“You got her a pint of bitter?”
“Aye. Tetley’s. Fucking nectar.”
“Bloody Hell. What pub were you in then?”
“The Three Legs.”
“The Three fucking Legs?? Let me get this straight. A lass comes all the way from Birmingham to meet you, stays in the Queens Hotel, and you take her to one of the roughest pubs in Leeds for a pint of bitter? What were you thinking?”
“She liked it. She said it had character.”
“You reckon that you’ve got character, Cyclops, but everyone else thinks you look like a rapist.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Luci.”
“Eye of the beerholder, more like. Go on then. Where did you take her next? Big Lil’s? Town Hall Tavern?”
“Nah, I don’t like those rough ‘oles. I took ‘er to The ‘orse and Trumpet.”
“Fuck off!! You never! The fucking Trumpet? It’s full of tramps and bag ladies! It stinks of piss, Cyclops! Why did you go there?”
“It’s good ale and it’s cheap.”
“Oh. Oh now we get to it, you tight cunt. It’s cheap. You’re taking this lass to the cheapest boozers in town! How much is it a pint there, then? I bet it’s less than two quid.”
“A quid eighty, if you must fuckin’ know.”
“A quid eighty a pint. I bet they water it. It’ll taste like shit for that price, but the pissheads won’t complain as long as it does the trick. Jesus, I can’t believe you took a lass there. What did she say? She must have been pretty fucking disappointed to find herself in the Trumpet. She must have been the only lass in there with her own teeth! She does have her own teeth, doesn’t she?”
“Course she has her own teeth, y’cunt! What you take me for? I don’t want to be tonguing some bird’s gums all night, do I? It’s disgusting!”
“Hang about – not many of your pearly whites are your own. You had most of them kicked out on the rugby field and the rest punched out in The Three Legs!”
“That’s different. I’m a bloke. It’s manly to have a few teeth missin’.”
“You’ve only got two teeth in you whole fucking head!”
“Piss off. As I were sayin’, we had a couple in The ‘orse and Trumpet, but then she says she were ‘ungry. Fancied a bit of scran. So I says to her that I knew a nice little place round the corner. I says I knew the manager and everythin’, says I could get a nice little window seat. You know, romantic.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Yeah, it were. Me mate the manger clocked us straight off, led us to a nice window seat, just like I promised. I says to ‘er that she could have owt she like off the menu, it were my treat.”
“That sounds very generous, Cyclops. Definitely makes up for The Three Legs and The Trumpet. What did she order?”
“The nuggets.”
“The what?”
“The nuggets. Chicken nuggets.”
“No. You never. Tell me you didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Wait. Let me guess. You got the Big Mac, didn’t you?”
“How the fuck did you know that?”
“You cheap bastard, Cyclops. You cheap, cheap bastard.”
“Fuck off! Have you tried this dating lark? I’m shaggin’ three different lasses a week! I can’t afford to take every cunt to fuckin’ Nando’s and a wine bar, y’know! It’s costin’ me a fuckin’ fortune is all this fuckin’!”
“Well fuck less and make it a bit classier! Or don’t fuck at all! Jesus, these lasses are looking for love and all they find is a hairy-arsed, inky-pawed Crimewatch model with two teeth, a beer gut and an impressive collection of Happy Meal toys! These lasses are desperate, Cyclops. Cut them a bit of slack! Anyway, there’s no way this lass from Brum will have put out after that shocking date.”
“She fuckin’ did.”
“She never.”
“She fuckin’ did an’ she fuckin’ loved it. I took ‘er back to ‘er fancy ‘otel room an’ fucked ‘er every which way but loose. You wanna see my back. More scratches than a knackered record, mate. I fucked ‘er an’ she fuckin’ loved it.”
“You’ve got it wrong. All wrong. That’s not what these lasses are after. They’re looking for a partner, something like that. They’re wanting love and affection, not a few pints of piss, some nuggets  and a fuck! I’ll make a guess here, Cyclops. I bet she cried, didn’t she? I bet there was one point in this lovely evening that this poor lass had a right good cry, yeah?”
“Well, yeah. Nowt odd in that, they all do, but ol Cyclops is always there, ready to wipe away a tear an’ make it all better with ‘is fuckin’ Love Hammer.”
“That’s pretty bleak, you know?”
“No, I don’t fuckin’ know. All I know is they want a fuck, I want a fuck, so we fuck. Easy as that. Don’t think about shit, Luci. You think about shit too much. Just fuckin’ do it.”
“Well, I’ll have to think about that. See you later, Cyclops.”
“Yeah, Laters Luci.”

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One Response to 114. Blind Date

  1. Pingback: Reprographics - The repro man blog - Page 43 - London Fixed-gear and Single-speed

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