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”.

Here they come the beautiful ones

Some people claim that when it comes to the opposite sex that they don't have a type, I cannot say the same, for I love pretty men. It all started quite early on in my life, as I recall I was about four years old and my crush was on Adam Ant. Now you don't get much prettier than that, the man wore a face full of make-up for goodness sake. Fair enough his not much of a looker now, but back in the day and in my four year old mind he was beautiful.

By the age of eight I had moved on to John Taylor from Duran Duran. Since then there have been numerous beautiful celebrities that have captured my heart and mind, the Goss brothers (from Bros), Jordan Knight from New Kids on the Block, Johnny Depp, River Phoniex, the list is endless. Current favourites and have been for a while are David Beckham, Henry the Eigth himself (well Jonathan Rhys Myers) and my love of many years standing Jude Law.

Now this all sounds harmless but in my every day life I have a passion for pretty men as well. Give me a man with cheekbones, great teeth, a chisled jaw and usually way too much time to spend on his hair and I am putty.

I have dated many pretty men, but the problem that I encounter is I like to believe they are naturally beautiful and don't need any help, which unfortunately is never the case. Having waited outside a tanning parlour whilst a boyfriend went on a sunbed I know that all beauty comes at a cost (to be honest a little bit of love died that day). There have also been traumas in shops over what shirt best suits skin tone, discoveries of eyebrow plucking, hair tinting and realising that some of them take longer to get dressed than me, yet still I can't resist.

The main problem with this is that I am still single, which tells me that dating pretty boys isn't working out for me. I don't think that the two are connected but I think it's time to take heed of the saying that "a change is as good as a rest". I did try this a couple of years ago on a project I labelled 'dating outside my type', there were rugby players, skinny men with glasses, and all other types. I had some great dates and met some lovely men but none of them clicked.

I think part of the reason that none of them worked was because my heart wasn't in it, but I am about to embark on a new project called 'not pretty boys'. A male friend once told me (and I paraphrase) that I needed to "start spending more time with men who preferred sport and meat to fancy hair dos and clothes", so that is what I am going to do.

So far I have encountered two problems with this plan problem one two none pretty boys that I like don't seem to be interested in me and problem two is that if I manage to get myself a man who thinks I am prettier than he is I can't guarantee that my head won't be turned if Jude Laws better looking brother turns up at my door.

I'll keep you posted.

Where are All the Single Men?

Again I find myself with yet another problem. There appears to be a shortage of single men. This may sound like I am been dramatic and maybe I am, maybe there are single men all over the place but if so I am totally oblivious. I’m not desperate for a man, but admittedly there has been a bit of a drought on the dating front and it’s dull, dull, dull.

Every time I spot a hottie I then also see a glimpse of that shimmering white gold (nobody seems to have yellow gold anymore) band. It’s now got so bad that the minute I spot a fit man rather than looking at his eyes or smile (my two favourite features on a man), my eyes are drawn to his left hand.

The other problem I have encountered is where do hell do people meet single men? Bars are out as most of the single men in bars are out for one thing (and it’s not necessarily dating) or they are so drunk that their approach my be a bit off, trust me leering and slurring “nice tits love” or “you’re fit” with beer breathe doesn’t do it for me.

I work in a mainly female company so the work place is definitely a no-go, and in a previous life having had a few work based flirtations (which we won’t dwell on) I think it’s best to steer clear, arguing at work and tears in the boardroom are not great for anyone’s career especially his.

Other suggestions I’ve had are getting friends to fix you up. This I think is a massive myth. All of my friends who are loved up claim that their boyfriends’/husbands either a) have no single friends or b) no single friends that I would like. This leaves me with a bit of a complex that either I am so awful (translation a bit of a minger) that my friends think there are no men that could possibly find me attractive or the other option is that I am so mean and a heartbreaker that they don’t want to be around for the aftermath if things don’t work out (to be fair I have been guilty of this, but in my youth, I’m much kinder now, honest). I like to hope that neither of these things are true but I have my suspicions’.

Dating sites aren’t my cup of tea either. I’ve had a look but after a while all the men blur into one. Also I have never been a fan of enforced fun and that’s what dating sites feel like to me, sort of in the same way that fancy dress is meant to be fun but really I spend my time just feeling like an idiot in fancy dress. Dating sites to me are exactly the same and what if nobody on there wanted to date me, confidence crushing or what?

I also know that some of the problem is mine. For example there is a man I find attractive but I only see him walking through the park on my way to work, we’ve gone from smiling to hello, but how do you progress from hello in the two seconds it takes to pass each other on a morning. It’s becoming exhausting thinking about what to wear everyday in case I bump into him.

The other issue I have is when I fancy somebody I am rendered mute. For people who know me well I am sure there have been plenty of times they wish I had been rendered mute, they just didn’t know that the key was putting me in front of a man I fancy. Most of the time I like to think I am quite witty, friendly and good fun (oh and modest), but put a hot man in the room and I become silent and come across as rude, cold and distant, not attractive.

So if anybody knows any hot entertaining men with nice eyes, great smile and without a white gold band, who are looking for somebody who can be witty, friendly and good fun but will instead be silent then let me know. Form an orderly queue boys.

Will I ever learn?

Admittedly the question asked in the title is rhetorical as if my behaviour after 32 years on this earth is anything to go by then I know that the answer is a big fat no.

The main thing I have learnt are there are a few things I never learn about. The first of these is excessive alcohol consumption, no matter how bad the head, how painful the bruises, how shameful the photographs and memories, no matter how many times I wake up and proclaim that my body is a temple and alcohol shall never pass my lips again I have never learnt when enough is enough.

This is a problem. I have never been one of those people who knows when to stop. You know the type of girl who after the third glass of wine switches to soft drinks as she can feel herself getting tipsy. No sir that’s not me, I fall (sometimes quite literally) into the camp of people who believe they are sober right up until the point that all memory and dignity has gone.

There have been incidents crawling through windows, stealing what we (no names mentioned) thought was a Christmas tree only to discover it was a Rosemary bush, losing my keys and having to wake my mate up at 3am (thanks Lisa), falling off a stage, and my favourite, upon been approached in a nightclub and asked to dance by an attractive man stating “no he doesn’t fancy me, I think he is gay. I think he just wants to dance with me because he is the best male dancer in here and I am the best girl dancer here”. Really, the greatest dancer, I don’t think so.

I have never learnt that texting when drunk is a no no, actually, using the phone at all can be a no no. To date I have called a potential date from a toilet cubicle to tell him all about my new shoes, for about 25 minutes, miraculously he still took me out the next day. I have had crazy text arguments that I have no recollection of , one of which resulted in my waking up to a message from somebody I had been seeing saying “well if that’s the way you feel, I agree we probably shouldn’t see each other anymore” oops. These are to name but a few.

I have also never learnt that I can’t just have one piece of chocolate. I know people that can keep a bar of chocolate in the fridge for a week and limit themselves to a square a day. I have tried this and the whole time the chocolate is in the fridge I can hear it calling me “Becky come and eat me”, the outcome is always the same a mouth full of chocolate, feelings of remorse and vows to not eat anymore so called ‘bad’ foods for a week.

Finally what I have never learnt (or never remember, despite the massive window) is that my neighbours can see straight into my flat. This has led to interesting events including indecent exposure (it was only exposure of a bra), them been able to see when I am been nosey and finally them also been able to witness me practising the moves that make me “the best girl dancer” in any club.

Holiday...Celebrate (well starve)

Uh oh next Friday I go on holiday, now I know you are wondering why I am saying uh oh to the prospect of a week of doing nothing other than lying by the pool, basking in the sun with no bigger concern other than what cocktail to have next, so I shall explain.

The reason I say uh oh to the prospect of my holiday is because I know that the next few days are going to be hell. There are two reasons for this, firstly, whenever you are looking forward to something time goes ridiculously slowly. So what should be a few days at work will feel like weeks, maybe months. Secondly, and this is my main reason because the next few days are going to be a nightmare. Pure hell, a constant battle not to eat chocolate, to avoid so called bad food and to make my body a temple in a bid to look Kim Kardashian (my own personal body idol) in a bikini.

Why do I do this? The holiday was booked in February which is plenty of time to lose the last half a stone (it’s always half a stone), but no, rather than doing slow and steady every year I go into panic mode. To be fair I am wise enough to know that unless I starve myself (this will never happen) I am not going to lose half a stone by Friday. I also know that as Kim Kardashians’ body looks like it may have had a little help from somebody other than God, that unless I stumble across a few spare grand and a surgeon in the next few days my body won’t look like that. Even though I know this I still know that for the next week I will have salad for lunch every day and go to the gym excessively.

In addition to this I will suddenly start exfoliating (something I rarely do) moisturising all over and introduce the new ritual of checking my cellulite at regular intervals. I am always aware that I have cellulite, but I tend to ignore it on the basis of if I can’t see it it doesn’t exist. It is only when faced with the prospect of spending a week in a bikini (which let’s face it ladies is just like going out in your pants and bra, but deemed socially acceptable) do I decide to check on it and trust me it’s not pretty.

In addition to regular cellulite checks I will also spend time in front of the mirror breathing in to see if I can make my stomach look flatter and how long I can stay like that before I have to give up and breathe out. On top of all this between the not eating, gyming, cellulite checking and breathing in I also have to find time to pack, it’s a hard life. The irony is that even if by some miracle I lose half a stone in a week, I can pretty much guarantee that by the time I get back home with all the food and drink I will have put nearly all of it back on anyway.

I know I am not the only one to be neurotic around holiday time but the stupid thing about it is that after one day in my bikini it will feel totally normal to be walking around half naked, thoughts of cellulite will be forgotten and I will once again be able to go back to concentrating on the important things in life like what cocktail to have next.

Happy holidays

Bring me sunshine...

This week I am at a loss as to what to write about, so in true British style when in doubt about what to talk about I am going to talk about the weather.

Unlike most people I am not going to moan about the weather as although I hate rain, snow and cold I do accept that until I can escape to sunnier climes (for good) that this is my lot. No my gripe is that after only 5 days of decent weather people are moaning. “It’s too hot” they whine, “I’m going to burn” they moan (factor 15 people, factor 15). I say to these people “for the love of Mike stop with your moaning”.

Admittedly even though I am a hardcore sun worshipper there are some downsides to the temperature rising, these include smelly people. Smelly people always exist but it does get worse when the sun is out, if you have to ever get the tube in the sun the smell of BO can be nauseating. Another downside is the sun always comes unexpectedly, meaning that even though I know it is due I somehow never manage to shift that extra half a stone before it arrives. The final negative of a bit of sun is the fact that men with big beer guts always feel the need to remove their tops at the first sign. You can guarantee it’s never the hotties with the rippling six packs ripping their shirts off as soon as there is a glimmer of sun.

Saying that I will take all the downsides that come with sun because seriously, we get on average a total of about 5 minutes of sunshine a year (or that’s how it feels) compared to a winter that feels like it lasts for about 11 months.

I don’t understand how people can’t like sun. With sun comes suntans (admittedly I don’t need one, but I feel better when I get one) which make people look sexier, people are more flirty when it’s sunny and the best thing about summer.... beer gardens. Oh how I love a good beer garden, Sunday afternoons with friends soaking up the rays whilst drinking beer or cider or wine or Pimms, hell, all of them if it’s a bank holiday the next day. What’s not to love?

So come on people embrace the sunshine. Get your legs out (not guts), slap on some sun cream, pop on a hat and head to a beer garden and if you really hate the sun and heat then at least do me a favour stopping moaning about it, and let me enjoy my few limited (no doubt) days in the sun in peace.

What if?

In my living room I have a plaque that I purchased in New Zealand that says,” life is precious, make it count.” Now, this is something that I try to live by, which is why after 32 years on this earth I am still surprised by the amount of people around who live their life’s as what if people. You know the type, what if this, what if that etc? Focusing on what they think could have been instead of living in the here and now and making things happen.

Personally I am more of a doer, more of an if you don’t like it change it type. A person who believes that you get out of life what you put in and that yeah sometimes shit things happen that we can’t explain but it’s how you deal with it that counts. So although I am not a what if person the realisation that so many people are got me thinking about some of my life’s possible what ifs?

For example what if I had carried on dancing instead of stopping at 13 when I realised I would rather spend Saturdays with boys, make-up and friends (not much has changed there) than in a dance studio? Would I now be a successful dancer? Ok realistically with these boobs and this bum once puberty hit there was little chance of that happening, so the answer there is no.

Alright then, so what if, when I was 24 and went to Australia to see the then love of my life I had decided to stay out there. Would I be happily married to him, living there now, surrounded by lots of bambinos with Australian accents? Realistically, given that I called him the then love of my life I think we can all establish that no, I wouldn’t be. In fact in reality the chances are one of us would be dead (it was that kind of relationship, I think then I called it passionate, in hindsight I think it would be considered dysfunctional at best).

What if last Friday when I was talking to the man that I liked, if I hadn’t been drunk (see last week’s blog) would we now have been on a date? This one is a maybe, given that he had seemed keen up until the point of drunkenness it is a possibility, but, my view is it probably wouldn’t have worked out, due to the fact that in reality I sometimes get drunk and if he couldn’t handle me a bit tipsy he definitely wouldn’t be able to handle full on drunk Becky. So as the saying goes take me as I am or watch me as I walk away (or maybe stagger in this case).

Finally what if when I was younger I had worked harder at school and university would I be better off than I am now? Would I be running some big national corporation? I doubt it. Plus I think success comes in many forms, I have a job I love, a brilliant family, my health and amazing friends I wouldn’t swap any of that for all the national corporations, husbands in Australia and dancing stardom in the world.

So this week I challenge you that every time you want to think what if, try and think instead about what you do have and if the what if is so big that it keeps niggling away consider doing something that makes it into a ‘remember the day I did’ instead of a what if?