Mr Bean of the flirting fraternity

I am a loser in love. The Mr Bean of the flirting fraternity. And a dating disaster. I’m just not cut out for trotting out the cheesy lines seemingly required to, as a woman friend so quaintly puts it, “instantly moisturise a girl’s eyeballs”.

I’m playful. I’m comfortable in almost every social situation, from dervishing on a dancefloor to brainfeeding at a book launch. It’s just that, come that moment when eyes lock across the room, I regress to the jabbering juvenile who couldn’t bring himself to stutter a “Hi” to ravishing Rosemary on the bus to school.
Yes, even after two marriages and myriad “relationships” – and currently cemented in near-certifiable singledom - I still yearn for the delicious company of a special woman.  But, before the couriers feel the need to double their staff to ferry readers’ offerings of Kleenex to my office, it is okay.

I’m okay, I mean. No really, I am. I am learning - even as I teeter precariously on the precipice of what you might call “the midlife chasm” - that true and lasting love just doesn’t come easily. 

Many years have elapsed since I furtively squirted out that first limpid glance at Lynda Harris in Standard Four, yet my gormless gropings around the gladiatorial arena of the heart appear now, if anything, to be even deeper in the dark.

Technology isn’t helping. I know there are millions out there seeking Mr or Ms Right on any number of dating sites (I’ve scanned all their profiles, at least those concocted by women), chatrooms and sweet heaven only knows what else, but even my attempts at writing my way into GoldenGirl36’s affections have been rerouted into some love-forsaken cul-de-sac.

I’ve read the “testimonials” on various dating sites. “I just want to thank this site for bringing Brad and I together. I had almost given up hope of meeting a hot guy when he made me a ‘favourite’. Brad loved the picture taken of me 23 years ago and luckily he didn’t even notice when we met for coffee. It was love at first site (sic) and we was spontainios (sic) and were married after five days. We are still madly in love and it’s been two weeks already since our honeymoon at Bernie’s B&B at the seaside. – Janet.”

Lucky Brad. Since my last divorce I’ve had an online-offline relationship with several dating sites and, short of offering my services as a face-double on Nip and Tuck, I can’t see much light (or love) at the end of the cyber-tunnel.

Actually, it’s not that I’m ugly. It’s not that I’m fat. It’s not that I’m stupid. I don’t even drink beer in front of the sports channel all weekend. It’s just that, ahem, I’m very confused about what it is that women really, really want.

I’m kind. I help old ladies over the road. I love children and pets. I cook a mean roast lamb and five veg. I can spell. I even open doors for women. Come to think of it, I open doors for other men. I’m nice. Therein, I suspect, lies the problem. I don’t think women trust nice men. Who can blame them? Robert Mugabe was probably nice when he first glad-eyed Sally. Hitler undoubtedly opened doors for his fraulein (it was a cool thing for a gent to do in his era). Jack the Ripper probably prefaced his murderous moments with a cheery “Hello, it’s turned out nice today, hasn’t it?”

But when I come over all nice on my cyber-dating profile and (truthfully) state that I love children and dogs and parrots and hamsters and every other living thing (including, of course, women), care about the environment, give money to Greenpeace, face-scrub every other day, always put down the toilet seat, love watching chick-flicks and absolutely never wobble home drunk later than, say, two days after going for a beer with Lofty, I get as many friendly sniffs as a cat at a dog show.

Is it because the thoroughly modern mizz says she wants all of the above when secretly she harbours fantasies of having her limits stretched by a prat who forgets her birthday, ignores her at parties while palpably palpitating over the PA with her puppies popping out and then demands that she whip up egg-on-toast before shoving her over the sofa for a spot of slap ‘n’ tickle? You tell me.

I don’t want to believe that it is legislated in The Universal Assembly of Love that every appealing woman wants to be picked up and plopped on to the back of a Harley by a bestubbled bloke with a bottle of Cuervo Gold stuffed in his leather jacket and vroomed along Route 55 on the same night that their profiles collided in cyberspace. Does that really flutter the hearts of all the Bridget Joneses hugging their duvets with a steaming hot chocolate for company on a chilly Sunday afternoon?

So you probably think I’m gay and diabolically in denial. Ah, that brings me to another thing. After last year’s divorce, I was reminded for the umpteenth time that the capital city of gays was brimming over with lonesome lovelies of every age, that there existed a shortage of decent single men and, yes, at least half of them were gay. So, naturally I sold up everything except the dogs and moved.

Yeah, right. I’ve lounged lasciviously at groove lounges. I’ve cavorted at salsa clubs. I’ve worn my most intellectual look at book launches. I’ve edged ever closer to bronzed beauties on the beach. My nose has swirled round the entire winelist at the trendiest wine bars. I’ve shaken ass at nightclubs. Heavens to Betsy, I’ve even resorted to sipping sixteen cappuccinos of an afternoon among the horsey set at the Horse and Hounds Brasserie. I could mention, on the flipside, the Freddie Mercury doppelganger who accosted me while Caitlin caressed her voluptuous violin at the Piazza dell Amore one Sunday evening, but I won’t go there (ever again).

So it’s been a month-long cold front for frisky Freddie. Nothing. Nada. Admittedly my approach to love’s landing strip is more Cessna over the Bermuda Triangle than Concorde descending through blue skies above Paris but, hey, my battered bag is still spinning seductively on love’s bumpy carousel.
And, like any real man with delusional tendencies to burn, I’m off to The Love Ranch tonight (without Lofty). I recently did a recce and barman called Shaun told me that, come Saturday night, it’s wall-to-wall wanton and winsome women.

And I’m out to win me some wanton woman. Then, watch and weep dear readers, as I manfully steal a Harley and a bottle of Gold, plonk my new partner on the back and hit the road.

With thanks to The Weekend Argus