Loftysaurus goes Online Dating

“Hatter, you’re a sad loser who’s been on dating sites, can you help me?”
“Lofty, I’ve had a bash at…”

“Look, you need to show me how to put my profile on one. I seem to have run out of barmaids.”
“Run out of barm…”

“You won’t believe it, Hatter, they’ve ganged up on me. There must be a Barmaid’s Union or something and they’re coming over all militant. They won’t even serve me a cold one, never mind go home with me.”

“Look, Lofts, I’m in the middle of…”

“Hatter, you have to meet me. At Rick’s. 6pm. I’ll sponsor the cold ones. You’ll have to get them from the bar. I’ll be upstairs. Bring your laptop thing. I need to get on to The Dating Thingie.”

The world’s worst date hangs up.

It’s a tall order, but I drop what I’m doing and head for Rick’s to connect the barmaid-bereft Loftiness to the poor and unsuspecting world of online dating.
It’s strange to see him lolling lengthily on a sofa instead of leaning over the bar grunting suggestively into the ear of a barmaid. And the Long Thing looks even more disturbed than usual.

“Cheers, Hatter, now the boys say there are heaps of peachies on the Dating Thingie dot something-or-other… you’re a veteran at this, won’t you stick my info on it? I’m playing it straight now and want to go out on dates like you. I’ll show you how to get laid.”

I fall into a minute’s silence for all the women on the dating site. Or I would have if Loftysaurus Vex wasn’t yelling orders into my ear: “Give me the username ‘Big Boy’, Hatter. You know why women love tall guys like me…”

I have to lay down the laws of online dating. “Now listen up, Testosterone Towers, there is a certain etiquette to dating sites. Some subtlety goes a long…”

“Yeah right, like it’s helped you, Hatter,” barks the brainless buffoon. “Hey, why don’t you use this picture of me …”

“Because you’re wearing a rugby jersey? And you’ve got a beer bottle in each hand?”

Yolandi, the comely manageress of Rick’s shimmies up. “Hello boys, can I get you someth…”

“Yolandi! Are you on a dating site?” demands Lofty.

“Er, no,” says Yolande, demurely. “But my sister is. She’s had some bad experiences.”

“Like what?” asks Lofty.

“Well, she went on a date with this one guy. And it went Okay. Nothing special. Then the next day, she’s in a business meeting and this idiot MMSes her a picture of his, er, you know, his…”

“Todger?” yodels Loftysaurus, so loudly that a waitress carrying a tray of drinks teeters at the top of the staircase, wobbles, but regroups her limbs sufficiently to stop her toppling down the stairs..

“Um, yes, that would be it,” mutters Yolandi, “and apparently it was massive.”

Lofty instantly plummets into a mode perhaps best described as shallow contemplation. His expression suggests a sudden realisation that, somehow, lurking somewhere out there, exists some stiff competition.

Yolandi continues, “and then there was this friend of mine who had a really nice evening out with a bloke she met online and she invited him home for coffee…”
Lofty’s eyes reignite. “She went to set up the coffee machine and put some music on ...”

“Yesssss,” pushes Lofty.

“Well, next thing she heard him shout out, ‘Hey, babe, where are you?’ She couldn’t work out where his voice was coming from, but then found him in her bedroom lying naked on her bed.”

“Shot! So what happened next?” urges Lofty.

“Well, what do you think?” hisses Yolandi. “She grabbed the broom and chased him out of the front door without his clothes.”

“Bejaysus!” chortles Lofty, “she’s a bit serious, isn’t she?”

Yolandi gives him a despairing look and descends the steps like a Spanish galleon in full sail.

“You get the next beer,” I snarl at our Prince Charming. Lofty beckons the waitress, who nearly fell down the stairs. She pretends to be dusting the petals of an exotic flower arrangement.

“So, Hatter, should I worry about the sort of woman I’ll meet on this online dating lark?”

“Erm, not quite. You must watch out for the ‘Russian ringers’…”

“Hey, I’ve heard Russian girls don’t muck about,” pants Lofty.

“No, they don’t,” I reply. “They all look like Maria Sharapova, they favourite you and, when you message them, they give you their private e-mail addresses so that you can chat off-site…”

“Wa-hey, sounds good!” chortles Loose Loins.

“Only problem is that their profiles are put on by Russian syndicates who butter you up until you want to marry ‘Svetlana’ and send them $5,000 to fly her from Moscow to your doorstep.”

“So, she’s gorgeous and wants to come here for me. I don’t see a problem. I don’t have to actually marry her when she gets here, do I?” says Lofty triumphantly.

“Thing is, Mensa Man, she doesn’t get here. She doesn’t exist. And nor, any longer, does your five gee. Think it over while I get us a beer. It might grease your synapses…”

“Hold up, Hatter. I suddenly feel a need to expand on my range of barmaids. Bob was telling me about this top-notch bar off Long Street, called Julep. Let’s take this over there.”

After we sidle past some stern-faced bar staff on our way out of Rick’s, Lofty lets his stomach drop and wheezes: “So, Hatter, have you actually ever scored with a honey on the dating site?”

“Actually, I have…”

“Really? Should be a breeze for me then. You can log me in at Julep, I want to get movin’, groovin’, doin’ it… y’know, like a sex machine…”

And the beanpole plonker starts whistling James Brown’s tune as we head down the road to Julep.

With thanks to The Weekend Argus