Wednesday, 14 July 2010

It's a boycott

I am boycotting foreign men. Don’t get me wrong this is definitely not a race thing as I love a lithe olive skinned hottie as much as the next woman. What I can’t cope with is the passion and I am not referring to in the bedroom so get your minds out of the gutter.

It’s the constant ups and downs and the intensity I can’t cope with. It reminds me of when Carrie in Sex and the City is dating the Russian, he writes her a song and then wants to dance in the street her response is something of the lines of “Can you calm it down a bit, I’m American?” Well I am not American but I understand her sentiment.

My friend and I were talking about this only the other week. I was saying how I love the idea of grand gestures, unannounced arrivals in the middle of the night (because they miss me, not because they’re drunk), surprise flowers, fiery arguments followed by even more fiery making up, declarations of undying love and singing under my window (alright that’s going a bit far). My friend then pointed out to me that in fact when any of these things have happened I hadn’t liked it at all.

I think I only like the idea of these things. In my head I am the heroine waiting to be swept off her feet by some dark, brooding, tanned Johnny Depp lookalike, but, with an Italian/Spanish/French (delete as applicable), who within hours of meeting me declares undying love, which I at first ignore but he eventually wins me over with his persistence. In reality I am not overly romantic and if I’ve said no, I generally mean no so there isn’t any amount of perusal would change my mind.

So, to enlighten you as to why I am an expert on such matters here are just some of my encounters with the passionate Portuguese, Italian stallions and beguiling Bulgarians to name a few.

A few years ago whilst on holiday in Spain I met a Portuguese man called Ramiro. He was a handsome man, but after only one kiss he was texting every day and even told me he loved me. The texting went on for about six months. On my return to Spain I had to hide from him for fear he might produce an engagement ring. I may be a good kisser, but not even I believe that I am so good that this behaviour was warranted. I just put it down to mental instability, but now I’m not sure.

There was the French man who after only meeting and chatting once, seemed to appear everywhere I went telling me how much he liked me and wanting me to visit him in Bordeaux.

More recently there has been the incident of the crazy Italian (anybody who knows me well, will know about this one). The long and short of it was we met, went on two dates and he vanished for three months. Only to reappear by putting an apologetic note through my door followed by text messages for the next month to try and persuade me to meet him, accompanied by stroppiness, begging and even a mention of a short break away, eventually he went away.

On a recent trip to Bulgaria I spoke to a man about going into his bar. The following night when I arrive the response was immense “Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here, oh my God this is great.” Again I am not sure my entrance warranted this response. To be fair though the way he acted was amusing and I am sure I could live with it if all men decided to act like that when I entered a room.

To be honest I find all this behaviour quite unnerving and although amusing I think that on the whole although at the time of the declaration of love they may genuinely think they mean it, I also suspect they may feel like that about a whole array of other women.

This is why from now on I am saying that British is best. There may be no scaling balconies, serenading (well other than drunk karaoke), turning up unannounced with flowers, chocolates, notes through the door or offers of marriage after a week of knowing each other, but at least you know when the L word is said it is genuine. After all these Latino lovelies need to “calm it down a bit. I’m British”.


  1. Augh! So true! I've currently just finished messing about with a German. When we first met he was so full on that I no choice but to show him the door.

    About a month later we ended up meeting up again at a party and I found out he was moving to NY. I figured what's the harm in a bit of fun and free lunches before he leaves? Bad idea. His visa stuff is taking longer than it should and now he's stuck in London for another 2 months. Oh and he has to move next month... he asked if he could move in with me!!!

    Again, I showed him the door pretty quickly!

    (Love your blog! Very addictive!) xx

  2. Ha ha Miss City Girl I feel your pain. I think it's for the best that you keep the door firmly closed on the German.

    Am glad you are enjoying the blog.