PLEASE NOTE: This submission contains language and terminology that some may find offensive.

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If you are reading this hoping for a romantic love story, or self help guide on finding Mr Right, you are looking in considerably in the wrong place.

This is not a tale to help you find the perfect man, far from it. This is to highlight how I, and many, many, many women out there, have an overwhelming ability to meet morons, genetically challenged and emotionally unstable weirdo members of the opposite sex. It will not make you want to jump onto match.com, plentyoffish.com or ireallywanttomeetsomeonenowsoidonthavetospendanothersundayafternoonalone.com (now that would be an honest dating site) in order to find your one true love. If that’s what you’re looking for, I’d click the X button and go to Waterstones and look for the one that lady is reading with the ‘it’s gonna happen one day for me’ fake smile upon her face and the ‘how to meet the perfect man’ book in her arms.

This is not going to help you find the love of your life, it may though, make you realise that it’s better to be single than it is to date a knob. And believe me ladies, there’s a LOT of them out there.

I guess I should really start at the beginning. As with most women I spent my teens thinking that being 25 was old, and that by then I’d have a wonderful caring husband, a cat, a dog and 2 kids that would never have snot down their face or ever have grubby ears. They would be picture perfect children who said please and thank you and skip when they walked. In my mind, anyone who didn’t have all that by 28 was obviously a total weirdo.

By my teens, I was squeezing myself into clothes that were too small, dancing into the early hours (I call it dancing, more booze infueled grinding) with no contemplation of trying to meet the hero that Bonnie Tyler was singing about. I was happily snogging random men who walked past and expecting one of them to, one day, ride up on a white horse when I’d had my fun, dragging a pre-packed house with white picket fence behind him. He would of course be perfect, my family would instantly love him and I would live happily ever after. I of course didn’t see the fairy tale ending by 41, never mind 25. I really think it’s no coincidence women are set up for this failure. May I point out a certain story about a princess and a frog? I’ve kissed many frogs, not one of them turned into a prince, or even a pumpkin, they just stayed a frog.

At 22 I fell in love. I spent a few years dozily daydreaming in my rose-coloured glasses, ignoring the signs of ‘moron’ that jumped out to bite my ass at many an opportunity. I convinced myself that the Eeyore character I had settled with was Mr Perfect and that spending most of my days off, either trying to cheer him up like a ecstasy infused Children’s TV Presenter or partying so hard that I gave myself an ulcer, was the beginnings of the fairytale life I had written for myself (dam that Walt fookin Disney!)

On discovery of his wandering eye or the crashing of the iceberg into the Titanic, I soon discovered that life isn’t quite as easy as Walt makes out. Ya see, I take you back to the books of childhood past– would we all be quite as willing to date the self created Mr perfect if we knew about the real trials that go with? I mean, Walt doesn’t talk about premature ejaculation, skid marks or floppy willies “honest, its fine dear, don’t worry, it happens to everyone, I’m not bothered” – liar!) Nope, Mr Darling Disney doesn’t pre-warn us, bastard. A good friend pointed out to me that women never ever have skid marks, only men. It’s a valid and important point to remember when you meet Mr Dreamboat.

We women do have an amazing ability to ‘make the best of things’. We convince ourselves that people don’t understand what ‘our’ Mr Grumpy is like when we are alone together. How many of us have actually said that line when friends have tried to point out our darlings faults? “He’s so sweet when we’re alone.” “He’s not like this when we’re snuggling and it’s just us”. They say the worst thing to tell your friend is that they smell, no, if your friend smells you tell them “mate, you smell” and in the long run they will thank you for it. The worst thing to tell your friend is when you think their beloved is a twat.

Now please don’t get me wrong, I am not totally against the male species per-say, I know plenty of happy couples with wonderful lives, I even know one girl who has never (yes NEVER) had any dating misfortune, so I do realise there are fairytale stories out there. I do though seem to have more luck finding an ogre story with the men I have dated, rather than the handsome price. I soon discovered from speaking to women of many ages and backgrounds that I was not alone in my misfortune.

I must apologise now to anyone who may recognise themselves in my rants, either by directly realising that I’m writing about you or being sniggered at by a gaggle of women at your local pub. You see the problem with us women is, we talk, and nothing is more pleasing than swopping stories of men’s inadequacies over a glass of vino. I know, I’m writing this in honour of you all.

I have also discovered that us ladies can also have a hint of craziness ourselves (a close male friend insisted I pointed this out in protection of all of his kind) but I’m a firm believer than most of our nuts behaviour is brought on by men, whether intentional or unintentional (I never did find out). Do we not just want to be contacted on time, a date arranged, and love declared at the right moment? Not too soon, not too late, and certainly never on a first date!

I have gathered that the world of dating entered a new ballgame on the introduction of the text message. Easy were the days when you met someone while buying a loaf of bread, arranged to meet under the clock tower at 12 midday on Saturday, then turned up and hoped for the best. The worst scenario being seeing them walk round the corner, then walking off again. Horrible yes, but quick and done like a waxing strip. None of the ever so tempting 4am drunken ‘I really like you, do you like me?’ message to be seen. Now we have to deal with “Hi, how are you?” “How’s your day going” “What you wearing?” or “What’s your favourite pizza topping?” 30 times a goddam day. And there is nothing worse than waiting for a reply. Seriously ladies, men know this fact, and use it to annoy the bones of us. We try to do it back, but can we? Yes we can, but then spend the day thinking ahha! I haven’t text you for 3 hours, take that you moron! Then we text back. And the cycle begins again. Do we ever learn? Nope. Does it still drive us mental? Yes!

Now I must heed the perils of internet dating. This is a strange, strange world where people who you would normally avoid in the street, never mind a bar or nightclub, think it’s OK to message you, thinking they have a chance and god forbid you should message back. Many of the most dire cases come from this source, and there is a very good reason why many of them are still on those sites, searching as you read this for the 22 year old, slender, athletic, beautiful goddess they are certain they are surely destined to be with. I must thank them now, for giving us such entertainment though, had they not been so hideous or genuinely a little maniacal, these tales would never exist.

Now I’m not saying that we women are perfect. Many of us, I have discovered (thanks god it’s not just me!) have messaged when we reeeeally know that we shouldn’t. We have had that moment when we wake up in the morning thinking ‘why god why!’ then text to apologise for the previous insanity text, somehow convincing ourselves that the damage has not already been done and that the sorry message will make everything plateau again. We dream that one day we may laugh about it with our soul mate, occasionally giggling at the crazy time when we first met. Just so you know, this will never happen, they now think you’re strange.

We hold on to the idea that Mr Moron will one day change and become Mr Perfect Prince, no matter what his behaviour, and by god do we claw on for that transition. We release our PMT energy on a freak that has annoyed us by actually answering them, feeling the need to inform that they have offended us with a raging, how dare you, rant. By god is it satisfying though! Who needs chocolate when you have these specimens to release the rage onto! We ignore that inner voice that screams at us ‘fuck off you strange, strange person!’ but continue to message them, meet them, and god forbid, even date them!

We do seem to have a common trait of holding on to the death, even if it means 30 texts to try and get one back (even just to say I’m not interested – why, oh why do we need to be told?!) or crying into a tub of Ben and Jerries Phish Food until the phone bleeps, then bouncing around the living room in our oldest pyjamas, the really comfy ones, ecstatically happy beyond belief at the ‘I’m fine thanks, how r u?’ (YYYYYEEEEESSSSS he likes me, he likes me, he really likes me!!) We then wait three hours until we reply (take that you bastard) then get sullen when he takes 6.

Phones should never be allowed near a drunken woman. This is a fact.

I do think there is a reason men seem so much better at the ‘drive them mental by not texting back’ game, and it comes down to animal instincts and males do love the chase. We are all happy to play the coy rabbit in the hunting stages, but oh do we wish they would just stop with the hunt once they have you in their snappers. But alas no, they like you to be aloof, but not too aloof, cause then you’re too much like hard work, but god forbid you should text them when it’s not your turn, or answer his straight away, or answer his plain text with a question, or answer the question wrong he has asked you. Ya see, this is why a good prince is so hard to find, they can never seem to make their minds up about what they want n even if you do it right they like you to mix it up a bit by not giving them what they expected! (And they have the cheek to call us complicated?!)

If you do any of the above, or dare to text twice when he hasn’t answered you, then I’m afraid girlie you’re done for. As your still puckering up to your new darling love of your life, eyes closed, leg raised, surrounded by love heart bubbles, already crouched to hop up onto his steed which is bound to appear from the rub of a lamp at any second, he’s already preparing THE text. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not ready. I think I might be too attractive for you. I’ve got to go out of town on a secret spy mission. It’s all bollocks, for “Just go away, we both know ya messed it up by wrapping your mental ball and chain around my neck on the third date by trying to pre-plan the fourth (god forbid we want to plan!!)”

Now some people say that being dumped by text message is the worst, I completely disagree, at least then you can say twat and throw the phone at the wall. You can’t quite do that with his face. As much as you would like to, with a hammer.

Now I’m not saying that every single date I have ever been on has been disastrous (certain males of my past breathing a sigh of relief). There were some which were averagely OK and I probably still have them as friends somewhere on Facebook (which I have now deleted too). They don’t message me, I don’t message them. They were though perfectly fine dates that just didn’t work out.

So heed this warning ladies, be careful who you date. It could be one of these Mr Men Books.......

1) Mr Beer Goggles

2) Mr Charming

3) Mr Knight on Donkey

4) Mr 30 year old teenager

5) Mr Opinionated, meet Mr Lecture

6) Mr Drool

7) Mr Marry Me

8) Mr let’s be Friends with benefits

9) Mr perfect apart from one little thing..

10) Mr just wouldn’t go away

11) Mr Liar Liar Pants on Fire

12) Mr Why oh why oh why oh why did I text back?

13) Mr Angry

14) Mr Dull

15) Mr Eh? You didn’t look like that in your picture

16) Mr did you really just say that?

17) Mr I’m single, honest..

18) Mr mobile phone

19) Mr is that it?

20) Mr clock watcher

21) Mr waaaaaaaaaaay too comfortable

22) Mr You’re fit but by god do you know it

24) Mr you’re nice but what’s ya mates name?

26) Mr nice to meet you here is a picture of my genitals

28) Mr Religious Preacher

29) Mr one eye on you, one on the barmaids bum

30) Mr ‘Italian’ (with a very unconvincing accent, could be ‘Greek’ or ‘Spaniard’)

31) Mr what IS that smell?

I think we should leave these kids books behind us and write our own stories instead from now on….

So here we are, at the moral of this tale.

This is OUR life, for us to blast through and make OUR mark on the world. We don’t need a Mr Grey or Mr Big or Mr any type of fish to be happy. We need each other. There are very few women in the world, and fine I really should say Men too (remember this tale isn’t about the normal ones) that haven’t had bad luck in the minefield that is dating. Some got lucky, some didn’t. Some did for a while, some the titanic hit and they felt like they were drowning, but with the help of each other, our boats not only don’t have to sink, they can rise from the oceans above all the fish and show them that we will sail on, no matter what storms we face as our boat is strong as the crew we have is incredible.

Lisa O

Photo by Bobby Mc Leod on Unsplash