Friday, 2 November 2012
Mr Slippers, the Kama-Sutra, and why Christmas romances are overrated...
It's safe to say that I have met some very interesting male characters throughout my dating adventures. There was Fisherman Lee and his terrifying, dino-man dad, James F and his need to compliment my 'short, muscly legs', (um, thanks...), and of course, the lovely Todd and his flailing genitals, who taught me that ferris wheels are only romantic in the movies, and that my best friend makes an utterly awful Cupid.
But when it comes to memorable characters, there's one man that takes the crown, for all of the wrong reasons.
To set the scene for you, I met Mr Slippers at a Christmas party in November 2010. His best friend and mine were building their own little love nest, so of course, Mr Slippers and I got tossed together on the dance-floor, somewhere in between our smooching chums, and the sweaty, flying elbows of at least 55 other festive drunkards. Oh, sweet romance, how you spoil me.
Somehow, I did however find the bad moonwalk slightly alluring (beer goggles; the creme-de-la-creme of naughty bifocals), and by the end of the night, I had a phone number, an impending date, and a very sweaty elbow.
For three, blissful weeks, I did like Mr Slippers, a bit. I knew we wouldn't be moonwalking down the aisle anytime ever, but he made me laugh. And by made me laugh, I mean that he sung to me down the phone every evening, convinced that he was Pavarotti, and I politely listened for the sake of festive cheer, finding his musical delusion absolutely hysterical. In fact, in December 2010, the Pavarotti chuckle-fest cost me a record phone bill of £310. Wowzers trousers; clearly I am very amused by people who think that they can sing, when they actually sound like a stray cat in labour. Me-ow.
This may make me sound like an awful human being, but the main appeal of Mr Slippers was the fact that he lived at an absolutely beautiful golf club, filled with endless, grand shelves jam-packed with hoards of dusty, antique books. He even had a secret bookshelf door. Squeal, squeal, yippee. I think it's very justified to share a couple of dates with someone when you love antique books and they have a secret bookshelf door and an endless supply of them. I used to prance around his hallway, stroking book spines, feeling like Sherlock Holmes. It was truly marvellous.
But Mr Slippers killed the chilled, Sherlocky, festive vibe. He absolutely killed it.
The alarm bells started ringing when he bought me a kama-sutra book for Christmas (the history section was super interesting, but I'll pass on the legs wrapped around head part, thanks). I mean, seriously, what kind of a man buys a new love interest a kama-sutra book for Christmas, before the revealing of any naked limbs? Whatever the devil happened to a giant tube of smarties and a reindeer printed onesie?!
After just about refraining from hitting him over the head with my bloody awful Christmas present, Mr Slippers dropped the ultimate bombshell. It must have only been our third/fourth date, and wam-bam-no-thank-you-man, he started crying and told me he loved me. WOAH. Hold onto your horses Mr Desperado.
There was no way I was ever going to say it back to make him feel better, and I felt like it was such a ridiculous thing for him to say, that explaining why my feelings weren't reciprocated seemed like a pretty pointless feat. So instead, I laughed, awkwardly, watching as my fantasy Sherlock mansion capsized with his titanic dealbreaker. Yup, a crying man threw the 'L' word at me, and all I could do was assume it must be some kind of hysterical Christmas joke, and chuckle like a jolly little elf.
It turns out that he wasn't joking, and in a moment of hysterical, love-infested rage, he threw the 'B' word at me (that's bitch, by the way), and he stole my finest, pinkest, cosiest slippers, and told me that I wasn't getting them back until I loved him too. I have no idea why he ever thought that might work. Did he expect that I was soul-bound to those £6.99 Tesco beauties? Is there some kind of link between toe temperature and love vibes that I am unaware of?! I think not. Serious, serious bonkerism.
Clearly, I didn't see Mr Slippers again after this little incident, not deliberately anyway. He embarked on a mild stalking frenzy, and I bought myself a new pair of slippers. But he still hasn't given up. In fact, a couple of weeks ago, he left me a voicemail which said:
'Hey you, it's been a while. Probably my fault, but heyho. I was wondering if you wanted to meet for a drink sometime? We need to talk about your f*cking slippers, I still wear them. I hope to see you soon.'
It's been almost two years since Mr Slippers moonwalked (badly) into my life, and he's still banging on about those bloody slippers, expecting me to suddenly realise that I've left my heart in them. Now, I like me a persistent man, but two years?! Two years, battered Tesco slippers, and a girl who would clearly rather socialise with a lump of coal?!
One word. Crackers. And I'm not talking exploding cardboard tubes and shit jokes.