Another dating email…… Stepping aside for a better man… {:o)

I sent this email to a chick on a dating site…… VERY fit, loved mountaineering, skiing off piste, camping and cuddling up under canvas and laughing.

She said she’d like to meet someone who’d also seen where clouds were made on the tops of mountains and one of her photos was of her sat in front of a huge boulder on the edge of a drop, to which she was attached by a rope that looked VERY loosely tied around it in a big loop.

The caption was… ‘Me, tied to a rock’

Hi,

You have THE most impressive profile I’ve seen yet, and I’d go for you in a heartbeat, but for the following……

• You’d kill me for sure certain.
• You’re too far away for me. My range these days is the surrounding 500 yards and closing….. Ten feet on a foggy day. Foggy weather at night isn’t applicable because Mummy said that’s when girls who don’t wear knickers go out, and that ‘it just isn’t very nice’, but never did really explain why…. I s’pose it’s the cold and damp. Where the darkness comes in is anyone’s guess.
• I’ve never climbed more than a few bricks in the garden, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t consider that climbing photo of you as qualifying being ‘tied to a rock’. I can tell you for sure-certain that I’d want a lot more rope than that, even if I was only going down a beach path, let alone swinging a thousand foot up in the breeze. I’d also want it wrapped around that rock a good few more times too, ….at least fifty times, …. say, sixty for safety. I’d make sure it was tied a lot more tightly than in your photo, and for good measure gaffer-taped to the rock so it won’t slip off. Then I’d want that bleddy rock tied to something else. Looks like a rock waiting to roll to me!
• I like a cuddle as much as the next chap, but isn’t doing it under canvas a bit hard on the skin? I prefer a nice duvet, 300 tog at least. Laughing at me under the canvas won’t help me get it up either. Being a gentleman of a certain age, I appreciate a bit of robust and enthusiastic encouragement to get steam up as it is these days….
• I have to be honest and admit I’ve never seen where the clouds are made. They’ve always just sort of, well, just been there I suppose, but now you have me thinking. You SURE they knock them up in mountains? Does the government know this? Are they tax deductible? Who makes them anyway and is there a training scheme? Is Health and safety an issue? So many questions come to mind….
• I’ve never been skiing in my life, partly because I already endorse plenty of ways of efficiently breaking my neck, thanks all the same. I know it must cheer you up, but surely it’s pretty risky skiing when you’re piste off. I did the washing up when I was piste off once, and it cost a packet I can tell you. Smashed a whole dinner set, a tea-pot, bent the soup ladle irreparably and put three windows out as well. The wife wasn’t best pleased, especially since she forgot herself and broke wind in anger, when frankly she shouldn’t have risked it. Not with the prunes she used to have for breakfast. Ruined a new pair of white slacks she was wearing at the time, that did, and I never heard the last of it for a month.

Then she left me to find a bigger idiot. At least I’m sure that’s what she said…..

Anyway…. I think I’ve made it clear why I think we’d never be compatible, but my God you’d look bleddy magnificent on the back of Hoover (see my motorcycle photos) with your toned little leather-clad bottom sticking out, cheering all the poor motorists up as we flash by….

All I wanted to say, really, was that you really are a little belter of a woman and, but for the above, I’d go for you like a pursued ferret hammering along a drainpipe, without even the slightest encouragement.

As an Officer and a Gentleman, therefore, I step to one side, salute you for your energy and spunky nature, and wish you plenty of luck in finding a suitable mountaineer/skier/camper/traveller etc. etc. etc…..

K.x {:o)

Women make life complicated………. (But don’t tell them we love kinda them for it) :o)

I wrote this a while ago………. Took it out of an email I was writing at the time, and made it stand up on it’s own. Go on……… tell me I’m wrong. :o)

Women make it complicated

That’s the one thing that worries me about getting the love of my life………. women have a gift for making things real complicated……… for example, you fancy something to eat, and they start insisting you heat your beans in a saucepan, transfer them to a clean plate, add lettuce, cabbage, cucumber and stuff like that, and lord knows what else. Most of it has to be bloody opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans, casserole dishes, you-name-it, too.

Then you gotta make up some gravy / sauces / dressings and things called ‘garnishes’; I ask you, what’s a bleddy garnish? All this makes a helluva mess, and so then you’ve gotta wipe up all the clutter, clean the damn chopping board(s) (just the one will never do!), and all the stuff you used to mutilate, sorry ‘prepare’ the food.

Even though you’ve been up to your elbows in soap and water for half the day, you have to wash your hands for the tenth time, get out knives / forks / spoons / chopsticks and other things you never knew existed before you met her, and lay the damn table, using a nice white Irish linen cloth. That’s the one that has to be washed every time you as much as look at it, and not to mention ironed as well afterwards.

I mean…… IRONING a table cloth??? Jees!

Then, because it’s now fast becoming a ‘romantic’ meal, when you thought it was just ‘fancy something to eat’ you gotta turn the telly off, find the candles, fix them in the holder, and light the soddin’ things. Bugger, burnt your fingers. Now you gotta run your hand under the cold tap, and suffer the indignity of being told you’re “such a baby” into the bargain, and not to make a fuss ‘cos it can’t hurt THAT much, (It bleddy well DID!) as she holds your hand under the tap with all the grip of a hairy-assed Sumo wrestler. Strength mysteriously absent when she didn’t have the strength to carry the four-tons of shopping she made you bloody buy yesterday, and on your day off too.

Then you gotta dry your hand in a clean towel, get told off for getting garage grease and stuff under your nails, then get a real bollicking for being vulgar, when you nuzzle up close to her scented long neck and suggest to her that dipping them in some fresh, warm, Pussy Juice would get it off it real easy. Her sensitivity is pretty rich considering she spent half of last night with her legs over your shoulders, shouting “FUCK ME!! FUCK ME!!” to the neighbours.

There were you, thinking that it was what you were doing all along, surprised and dismayed that she hadn’t noticed you were doing your bloody best! She shouted “DON’T STOP, DON’T STOP!”, so you’d tried to get a few more revs up, without falling out and missing a stroke, despite the cramp in your left calf and splitting a couple of toenails scrabbling for some grip with the other leg on the damn slippery black silk sheets. The ones she suggestively mentioned would be soooo sexy. The ones you knew bloody well were going to be trouble the second you looked at the price tag, as you coolly flourished the plastic to impress her with your New Man Spares No Expense style.

Anyway, by the time she’s got the Burneeze cream out, and struggled with the plasters that won’t stick because of the overzealous application of the cream plastered on your fingers, everything has gone all to pot, quite literally. The gravy’s gone all weird, the stuff you opened / peeled / washed/ cracked / prised / sliced / diced / grated / mashed / tossed / whipped / stirred / folded / buttered / oiled/ fried/ boiled/ blanched/ grilled and heated in many other weird ways, and in several other saucepans/ casserole dishes/ you-name-it, has gone all to hell too, and the candles have dripped wax all over the bloody Irish linen white thing you’d been forced to spread on the table.

She’s started to knock up something else, to replace the burnt stuff, and for sure-certain you can feel a good few more laps of kitchen-based domesticity coming up. You resign yourself, and start to scrape the burnt pans, after being told not to “just-stand-there-looking-at-it-if-you-hadn’t-made-all-that-fuss-and-been-more-careful-in-the-first-place-it-wouldn’t-have-burnt”. Your helpful suggestion that maybe if you could “sort-of-just-stir-it-all-together-and-see-what-it-tastes-like, babe”, meets with a disgusted “Don’t be stupid; you can’t do that!”.

“Actually you can”, you think to yourself, but know full well that such thoughts won’t overwhelm her powerful Girl-Logic software systems, and so you strategically keep the thought secreted well away from the Brain-to-Mouth short circuit, that has dropped you right in it so often before.
At long last, after a repeat of the whole performance, you finally sit down to eat. You find yourself thinking “What a bleddy price to pay for a regular shag”, and just in time shut the thought down in blind panic, only too aware of her sensitive telepathic and intuitive skills. The ones have seen right into your thoughts so many times in the past. HOW does she do that?
Then there’s trying to see what you’re doing in the soft, dimpsy candlelight, whilst attempting to look into her eyes romantically, and not spoil it by being a wuss, and wincing at the pain of the damn fork pressing into your burnt fingers. When you see how she is looking back at you, you realise, with the fixed grin that you desperately try to warm up, that lovemaking that night is going to call on every ounce of proficiency you have at your disposal.

Too late, she’s triggered your simple and hair-triggered Primary Man Circuits. The Member for Bathpool is stirring, albeit pretty half heartedly like mortally wounded old soldier making one last effort to rise up and salute the distant call of the Bugle; loyal to a fault, and willing to fling himself into the breech one last time for Honour and Valour. You find yourself wishing, not for the first time, that you’d avoided introducing the Ferret again that morning, close thing though it was, after climbing aboard twice last night. Doesn’t she realise the damn Well isn’t bottomless? “Not really” is the obvious answer, by that look of “You’re going to be a Lucky Boy tonight!” in her Make-Sure-He-Notices furtive glances at you.

Then she goes and reaches up and does that thing with her hair. The thing she does without knowing how it leaves you helpless, and at her mercy every single time. With an inward sigh of contented resignation you smile at her, knowing she’s always going to have her way without even trying.

Still, you remembered dreaming of one day meeting a gorgeous nymphomaniac just like her, but sometimes realise it’s resulted in life being much more complicated, and an awfully long way off the simple life you once enjoyed. For instance; Getting up out of the armchair when the adverts start, opening a tin of beans, shoving a spoon into the tin, and back to sit down again before the film kicks in again.

Food.

Done in a jiffy,………..and if you lick the spoon clean, absolutely no washing up.

Simple.

Quick.

No Wucking Forries! 🙂

© Kevin Udy.

Dating, and on making a Chick laugh……….. or not, as the case may be. :o)

Hi Y’all,
In doing the online dating, I occasionally can’t resist letting the humour out of the cage once in a while, either in replying to someone’s approach to me (via email), or in mine to her.

Sometimes I see profiles that show whoever it is to be as wacky as me, and that pretty well always starts me off. The only trouble is, that my humour is usually practised on close friends and work colleagues, and so when I get a bit carried away with it, and often fuelled my this vivid imagination for the unimaginable, it can be a bit spooky, rather than as funny as intended. Quite often I immediately follow it up with another email for the poor girl on the other end, who may have dared to be a bit wacky herself, to assure her I’m no one she needs to be afraid of, and that it was meant to amuse, not put the fear of God in her.

Some reply in good fun, and appreciate the humour, some don’t reply at all, and a few, thankfully VERY few, are real pissed at me.

Ooops!

Oh dear!

A backfire. :o)

I ALWAYS reply and apologise sincerely. To be honest I kinda feel sorry for them in seeming to have such a poor sense of fun that they feel so compelled to throw it back, ……….and occasionally very nastily too.

There are some real angry women Out There, and that’s a real shame.

Life must be an almighty drag if you can’t just delete it with just a muttered ‘wanker!’ Sometimes that’s just what I am, and I hold my hands up and admit it………. unlike some. :o)

If someone sends me an email with ANY sort of attempt at humour, it ALWAYS makes my day. At least someone out there has taken the trouble to try and brighten my life for a few minutes, and how can’t you appreciate that :o)

Still, I do accept that I let too much off the leash, and quite often too. When it’s not well received I feel crushed, and it’s because I absolutely HATE it when I’ve somehow offended, or hurt somebody’s feelings. All I ever want to do is make people feel better, so when I find myself having done the opposite, it pretty well devastates me. It’s a personality disorder, and I know that, so don’t go reaching for the quill and papyrus! :o)

Anyway……….. here’s the latest result of my being tempted for no better reason that to gently say that Jilly lived too far away from me, up in Welsh Wales. Jilly’ is not her real name…… I changed it, and rewrote her email too, in the interests of anonymity.

Just to save you asking, yes she did reply, at length, with good humour and in as best a Cornish dialect as she could. Lovely woman………… it’s enough to tempt an Old Cornish Greaser to travel even further Up North than Somerset. (Gulp)

And, in case you’re wondering…….. this is a mild example, just to break you in, so fear not

I’ll post a better one sometime to test that you’ve been paying attention, and doing the exercises………..
K.x :o)

Hello,
I loved your profile, and must say you sound a lot of fun and a nice man too.
I have to tell you that there is life outside Somerset, Wales is very nice.!!!
If you would like to find out more about me please feel free to do so.Jilly

Hi Jilly,
Thanks for the compliments……. Bleddy hard to come by, I can tell you, so I was chuffed to read that from you.

Yup, I believe there is rumoured to be life Up North in Welsh Wales, but as a Cornishman already living Up North in Somerset, and with a only a limited Cornish Ex.Pat Visa, and a current restraining order, I’m afraid I can’t get a pass for the trip.

I can’t afford the extra hay-feed costs to fuel the donkey to get there either, nor the month off work to get up there and back, and so to be able to stay for a couple of days.

Last time I travelled further North, we only got as far as Bath before we had to turn around and head back, the week’s holiday being half over and the rest of it needed to get back.

Big Trevethas, me donkey, was hindered a little as he hadn’t fully recovered from the neutering job me and my mate No-Problem-Pete did with the bricks. The vet wanted £30 and we didn’t even have that much between us, so it had to be a bottle of vodka in his feed, and a bit of one-two-three-bang synchronicity with the old bricks. As you can imagine on a trip like that, progress wasn’t too quick, what with him walking funny and kicking at me at the same time. He fell over a lot too.

We should’ve done the neutering years ago really, but didn’t have the heart until his recently failing eyesight meant he (Big Trevethas, not N.P.Pete) fell madly in donkey-love with the water-butt. The resulting feverish love affair can only be described as up there with anything that ever came out of Hollywood. (I can’t remember the film I’ve got in mind, but it’s the one where he’s banging around with her all over the kitchen. I don’t think it’s any coincidence that the fashion for everyone putting in new kitchens every five minutes started up around then.)

Anyway………. I won’t go into details as it still upsets me to think about it, but things came to a head one evening when Big Trevethas got himself stuck in the top overflow pipe. We lost a lot of rainwater that time trying to sort him out, and poor old N.P.Pete hasn’t walked right ever since. He had to get inside the water butt for additional ballast as it emptied, whilst I kept going with the Vaseline and the screwdriver to lever Big Trevethas out. He had a bleddy rough ride inside that barrel, I can tell you.

‘Twern’t too good my end either. I sprained me wrist good and proper. Bent me best screwdriver too.

So, I think you can appreciate the difficulty I’m in right now, and will excuse me in declining to avail myself of your kind offer to come up for bit of a sleepover.

I thank you for what I can only feel to be typical Welsh generosity, the only match I can think of as being similar was that of a Cornish gurl I once knew. She had a mattress kept ready for me down in the old greenhouse in the bottom field. It was a bleddy rough winter that year as I remember, and much of the time was spent Sellotaping up the glass. Candle kept going out as well.

Do you ever wonder if it’s worth all the effort?

Anyway, in appreciation, I sincerely wish you well in your search for a man such as I.

We’m about if you look hard enough. :o)

With much love and affectation, (and more sorry than you can ever know, after looking at your photographs),
Kevin.xxx :o)

Searching for Miss Right…….. someone give me a face-lift, fer pity’s sake!!!

The search for Miss right via the dating site ‘Match.com’ (paid-for) and ‘Plenty of Fish’ (free-site) continues, and I have to say that Match.com has been the best so far of all that I’ve tried.

There’s been an uncharacteristically huge rush of dates over the last two months or so…….. seven, or is it eight, and all lovely women. A few, very, very attractive, which is a non-starter for me with my looks really, and I guess I should be flattered that I even got to the start line, hobbled as I am by age and lost good looks. I think it was courtesy of simply a good profile, a lot of effort in my emailing, and pure curiosity.

All, bar one, weren’t physically attracted to me at all, and the one who was, was way too young, and so fit it made your eyes water. In five years I’d be sixty, and unlikely in better shape than now, whereas she would be pretty much a completely unchanged forty-five. I could see the future, and it wasn’t worth the pain.

So, unattractive to six (or seven?)………… That’s a huge rejection level, given that they ALL loved my personality, before and after meeting me, but that alone didn’t keep the flame alight on meeting me. It’s not good proof that personality is the most important thing, now is it? :o)

Naturally, given that Personality is the fashionably politically-correct measure of attractiveness, most assured me that it had nothing to do with my looks or age, which I know has to be a lie……… a nice lie, and told for the very nicest of reasons, but a lie nonetheless. Looks count hugely, and certainly far more than is ever admitted to, and I understand that, and how it all works, but I’m sure getting tired of being told differently. (sigh)

The last one, an attractive, lovely, lovely woman, and a very considerate and kind one too, was willing to see if a ‘spark’ would grow for her, although I just wasn’t even close to attractive enough for her. She didn’t volunteer the information, she’s way too nice to do that, but acknowledged it when I said I knew she didn’t.

I know I’m good company, and she enjoyed being in my company, so it would be easy to do the ‘friends’ bit, as she suggested but I just don’t want to ‘grow’ on someone, or for them to turn a blind eye on the fact that I don’t light them up physically. I want the whole nine yards, and if I can’t have that, I’ll do without an inch of it. Once you’ve had it as good as it gets, and I have had just that, second-best will never do.

Difficult though it is to resist the temptation to fly close to her flame, just for the pleasure of it’s warmth, or as much warmth as she’d let me feel, I’ve backed off from her. Very nicely, and as gently as I can, before I get in over my head as I know I can so very easily when I like someone as much as I do her. I’ve learnt the hard way that it’s no good hoping someone will reciprocate your feelings, because by the time you realise they never will, you’re up to your neck, and the tide isn’t likely to recede before you’re bleddy drowning. :o)

‘So close’ is far worse than being ‘nowhere near’.

I would once have never, EVER considered a face-lift etc to enhance my looks, no matter how rich I was, but now it’s going to be a dead cert as soon as I win that big lottery win! :o)

It’d be VERY interesting to see the difference it would make, that’s assuming anything can be done with this face of mine of course. As my dear old (aircraft airframe engineer) Daddy used to say…….. “The impossible we can do in seconds, but miracles take a little longer”

If you’re with someone, look after them for pity’s sake; you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone, and unless it’s a living hell, the grass isn’t as green over here in the Singles jungle as you might think.

If on the other hand you’re single, haven’t got a cute little vagina, (that means ANY vagina!!) and especially if not so good looking either, ………… God help you. :o)
K. :o)