Lockdown dating: well, that’s a misnomer, for a start. It would be better to call it a series of odd texts and even weirder phone conversations. After I decide to stick my toe in the looking-for-love puddle (just to see if there’s somebody there to share my next adventure with), what transpires doesn’t just fail to meet my expectations – it provides absolutely no overlap with them whatsoever.

Firstly, the pool of people ‘looking for love’ is greater than I’ve anticipated, probably due to the fact that everyone is now stuck at home. They’ve hit the point of having watched all the boxsets, and eaten all the biscuits they can possible cope with, and are now twiddling their thumbs a bit. So the dating sites are chokka – but, as the zero to hero ratio on these things is quite high (see previous post, What the men on Match need to know ), that’s a lot of meh to sift through.

Plus, many of them are struggling to grasp the limitations that lockdown imposes. This mostly impacts the ‘prefer to meet for coffee and a chat’ type of chap. You know; the ones who can’t be bothered to write anything about themselves. The ones who think that – on the strength of a blurred photo of a bald, middle-aged man in glasses, nursing a pint, and wearing a terrible t-shirt – we’re gagging to get all dressed up and travel for fucking hours, just to drink a cappuccino with them.

I am persuaded to spread my net and join more than one dating site. One promptly tries to pair me up with my step-daughter’s ex, leaving me feeling both old and pervy. On another I find Paolo, the lovely Italian and, to be fair, this is going great guns – until we finally talk on the phone for two and a half torturous minutes, with neither of us comprehending a word the other is saying.

Trying to cover all my bases, one drunken evening, I throw caution to the winds and apply to go on First Dates. The next morning I have an interview with a fabulous young chap who promises to do his best for me. I don’t know how much he finds out about me, but I learn that he’s had to put off his honeymoon due to lockdown, he played Hamlet on stage when he was ten years old, and he has to leave early today to take his cat Coco to the vet.

I check with my son, Sam, to see if he has any objection to seeing me dating on the telly. He gives me the green light, telling me he can’t think of anything better than ‘inviting all his friends around’ to watch me ‘crying in a cupboard, and slagging off some dude, after one too many Mojitos.’ Luckily for all of us, the First Dates guy can’t find anyone to match me with either.

So it’s back to the drawing board, and the bizarre world of online dating. Thirty years ago my dad did very well at this: it was an ad in a paper and replies by post, but was generally the same thing. He wrote his ad, got over 100 replies, picked one he liked, met her, adored her, lived happily ever after. Simples. But for me, of course, it’s been an entirely different story…

Mr Thick-and-lazy

Day 1. I get a text: – How r u?

Six characters. Can’t even be bothered to spell the words properly. I go and look at his profile, and decide he’s not for me. I send him a nicely worded no thank you, indicating that I don’t believe we have enough in common for it to be workable.

Day 2. How r u?

I think maybe he hasn’t noticed my message yet, so just ignore it.

Day 3. How r u?

Day 4. How r u?

Day 5. How r u?

Day 6. How r u?

I reiterate the sentiments in my first message, and ask him to please stop contacting me. This results in radio silence for a few days, and then…

Day 10. How r u?

Now I tell him to fuck the fuck off.

Day 12. How r u?

I warn him to desist hassling me or face the consequences, you dildo.

And this is when I find out you can block people, because that is exactly what he does to me!

Mr Love-at-first-sight

This starts off quite promisingly. He contacts me, so I check his profile and see he has no photos (usually a very bad sign), so I query this.

‘It’s because of my job,‘ he writes.

‘Are you a spy?‘ I ask him.

Turns out he’s in the military and stationed abroad, and although I still don’t understand entirely why that means he can’t post a pic, I decide to just run with it. We exchange WhatsApp details so he can send me some, and a sort of ginger Santa Claus in army fatigues promptly pops up.

For a few days we send messages; we seem to have similar values and appear to be on the same page about what we are looking for. His letters are long, rambling, and fairly devoid of punctuation, but I can live with that.

By about letter four, they suddenly take a turn for the decidedly over-blown and romantic. I give him no encouragement whatsoever in this, and try to bring him back to more normal, getting-to-know-you chat, but he takes no notice.

By letter five he’s referring to me as ‘my dearest,’ (WTF? I’m not anybody’s dearest) and talking about how we were going to build our future together. Seriously? It’s been less than a week, and we’ve never even spoken. You freaking don’t even know me, you mentalist.

I pull the plug.

Mr Irish

Same as above. Three texts in and he’s talking about settling down with me. Weirdos.

Mr Moaner

This guy comes across as entirely normal which, after the last two totally intense knob-heads, is such a relief. We start getting to know each other a bit by texting, and then we decide it’s time to chat on the phone.

His voice is a bit more high-pitched and nasal than I’ve anticipated, but that’s ok – it’s what he says that counts, not the voice he says it in.

But then, oh dear – what he says turns out to be a forty-five minute rant about the terrible women he’s found on the dating site, and all the things that are wrong with them (for not having found him irresistible, I presume).

The gist of it is this: how unreasonable they are, how they expect far too much, how they don’t give a nice guy a chance – and this is outrageous because he is everything they say they want! He is such a good listener, for instance (he repeats this three times) – Well, not today, you’re not, I keep thinking, as I struggle to get a word in. Does he want to know anything about me? No, of course not – I’m just the audience while he vents his rejection. Next please.

Mr Fake

There are many of these, and I get caught out once, so I’ve now learnt the signs.

1. The photos are of a handsome man. I mean properly handsome. I mean ooh-yes-please-and-cover-me-with-whipped-cream handsome. So, somewhere, some happily married, or gay, model has had his photos nicked.
2. They usually say they are widowed. This makes for fewer questions about the ex, and also angles for the sympathy vote.
3. They like to pretend they are rich and successful, most often a consultant, which can mean almost anything. I find ostentatious wealth a real turn-off, but I guess it must do the job with the majority, because they just keep saying it.
4. They give out almost no information that isn’t entirely generic, and are overly romantic in their pitch. They are looking for that one special person to whisk off on holiday to Bali, for example.
5. If they contact you, it is always by text so they can control the narrative. And they ask you lots of questions rather than answer any about themselves. This may seem flattering (did I mention the handsome bit?) but is just evasion.
6. If you try to pin them down, they take a long time to answer – because they have to go back and check what they wrote in the profile. And then, instead of expanding, they just repeat what they said there.
7. And then they start asking if you live alone. Fucking creeps.

Mr Caravan-man

Ordinary bloke, split up from his partner, now lives in a caravan on a piece of land he’s turning into an adventure park for kids. Seems ok to start with, but is just rather meh. The kicker is that, even after I’ve said a polite no thank you, he keeps contacting me. Wants to know if I’ll spend the weekend helping him dig his sunken caravan wheels out of the mud, and push it to a better location. I’m a 60 year old woman, for fuck’s sake: pay a labourer, you cheap bastard.

Mr Football

He says something funny (a rarity) and I say something teasing in return. I think maybe I’ve finally found someone with a sense of humour. He mentions an enthusiasm for football, which I tell him I have no problem with – as long as I’m not expected to share it. He says that’s fine, he doesn’t need that.

And then he proves he’s actually just a bald-faced liar, who can’t take a hint if it’s shoved up his nose. He opens with…

I’m looking for a kind, intelligent and sensitive woman and I’ll be generous here – she only needs to name 4 Everton players, not even the whole squad!! LOL!

At this point I still think he means it about not having to share his passion, and assume he’s joking. I decide to joke back…

4 Everton players, hmmmm. Gonna go with tall man, short man, other man and hairy man.

I think this will get the point across about how little I know/care about football, let alone fucking Everton, and we can move on to another subject. But he’s not willing to drop this yet, and tells me I should have Googled it. He then proceeds to list the whole team, with numbers, positions, and world rankings (sigh).

I try again. We have previously talked about Shakespeare, and hoping he’ll take the hint if it’s really spelt out, I reply…

Ah, but I only bother Aunty Google for things I’m interested in or want to remember. You had me at Othello but lost me at Pickford.

Sadly, he just can’t stop himself…

Why did you think we did so well at the last World Cup?! The Everton goalkeeper is the England Goalkeeper!

By now I’m very confused as to why he thinks I’d know anything about it, as I’ve repeatedly told him I have no interest. I ask him politely if we can change the subject. But he has completely lost the plot and declares…

I can just envisage you shrieking with delight on Christmas day when you try on the Everton Number 9 women’s full kit I’ve bought you.

Wondering what fresh Hell this is, I mutter…

Fuck me.

But he is undeterred, and clearly on a roll…

We were unlucky to lose in extra time during the semi-final stages. The Everton lad was not to blame for conceding the losing goal; and you should know this – you Bolshevik, 5th columnist, Quisling disloyal traitor.

I reply…

I have no words…

Which he takes to mean that I, too, am similarly astounded at the goal thing. So I block him. The nutter.

Mr Motivator

We exchange some texts, are getting along fine. He comes across as intelligent, well read, well educated, and emotionally on the ball. He works as something like a life coach, and talks about wanting to find someone he can be in real partnership with. This is all good.

Then, the next morning, before I’ve even got out of bed, he pings me a video of Lynn Whitfield reading a motivational poem. I wonder what I’ve said that could possibly have given him the idea that I need help moving forward with my day, but I can’t think of anything at all.

Now I hate those things. When friends send me ghastly, sentimental messages, imploring me to pass them on to ten of my friends – well, my page is where they stop and die. He has already said that honesty is the thing he values the highest, and I figure it’s best he knows this about me, so I text him back…

Good morning to you too. FYI, although it was sweet of you to send something to brighten my morning, I actually find ‘motivational’ quotes and memes rather off-putting. Just not my thing. Tbh, I’d rather hear more about you and what brightens your day? X

Of course, I never hear from him again, because I don’t need fixing, so what role could he possibly play in my life? Plus, he has no manners.

Mr Needy

Where do I start? Where do I fucking start?

On paper, this is initially going quite well. We are texting away, and he wants to know a lot about me, and even has plenty of info to offer in return (this is rare, for a start – they mostly give three word answers at best). Then we arrive at ‘let’s talk on the phone’ time.

The voice, of course, is whinier than I imagine, but it’s the weird noise he makes that gets me: an elongated and rising eeoooooooh, that sounds like a five year old wheedling for more sweets, or trying to explain why the cat is covered in marmalade and it’s not his fault. And this noise, this weird, infantile noise, emanating from a grown-ass man, is followed by the words, ‘I want to say something but I don’t think you’ll like it.’

I mean, seriously? If you think you’re going to say something offensive, then why do you even want to say it?

But he niggles on, and I start losing patience, so I reassure him that it’s ok and to just spit it out. And then he says something mildly offensive and quite sexual and rather boringly bragging. And then I change the subject.

This happens many times during the course of our conversation – he seems unable to control either his desire to say crap, or his constant need for reassurance that I won’t get angry once he’s said it. Which is seriously pissing me off.

After the call, I have a little think. Erring on the side of generosity, I consider the idea that maybe he was nervous, as it was our first verbal contact. He’s said he wants to phone again, so I decide to give him another chance, to see if it gets any better.

We have another phone call. It doesn’t get any better. I know before we’ve hardly said five sentences to each other that it’s just how he is. I resolve to let him down tactfully, by text, once I’ve managed to get off the phone.

And then he starts planning what we’re going to do together, and asks me to confirm this with him. Bugger.

I take a deep breath and launch into my ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech. I pretend that, because I had such a good relationship with my late husband, I’m looking for very specific and particular things.

This is not really a lie – I am looking for similar qualities in a person. It is also not exactly the truth, which is, if I were to spend more than another ten minutes talking to him, I’d want to gnaw my own face off.

He is shocked at my rejection of him as he believes we are practically soul-mates. I stick with the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line, and ring off, thinking that’s done with.

But wait; I haven’t called him Mr Needy just for the weird whiney thing, no. First comes a Goodbye and Good Luck text. And then more of the same for another day. Then, the following evening, comes a request for more feedback on where he ‘failed to hit the high notes’.

Now, it’s not nice being rejected, and I’ve no wish to make anyone feel bad. So I reiterate the previous things I said, say he just isn’t quite the right fit, propose that we are at different stages in our lives and wanting different things, and wish him well in the future.

The next day he’s fucking back. This time wanting to share some feedback with me (despite having previously thought I was nigh-on perfect, lol). I figure he’ll never shut up unless I let him vent, so I say knock yourself out. Here’s what he writes…

‘I think you are looking for a plug-in replacement for your husband, and to use an electrical analogy; not even an fixture converted alternative; let alone a different voltage. You are not going to find that; so let loose some of your boundary conditions in that area. You are a nice bohemian which I can really buy in to; but I still have to do a job – and that’s a big discontinuity for a while.’

I genuinely have no idea what a lot of this means, especially as very few people would call me bohemian and I’ve no clue what his job has got to do with anything. I’m assuming that now he’s got that off his chest he’ll leave me alone, so I don’t bother to reply. Alas, not so. The next day, this…

‘Just about to erase you from everything….please don’t reply.’

Oh, as if, numb-nuts.

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