A Little Reminder

Rose tinted spectacles are curious things. They can put all sorts of gloss on the most odd things. My wife walked out and left me in 2008, after about two years of her frigidity and, to be honest, some stupidity on my behalf. But, before you ask, I was always faithful. We are still friends and I get to see her very often when I go and visit her and my darling son - they live nearly 200 miles away from me now, but I am lucky that my work brings me close to them on a fairly regular basis. I have been with them for this past week and it has as ever, been a delight to be with my young son. I love him so much. But if I ever needed a reminder of my wife's barking mad behaviour, then this week has been a perfect example. Everything I am going to list is exactly what it was like living with her when we were together, but is what she is like still, so if I do mess up my past and present tenses, then please be gentle with me.

1. 
   
   She is always tired. As soon as she comes home from work, or shopping, or anywhere you know within a few minutes the "God, I'm tired" announcement is coming. Usually followed by a fairly unflattering unladylike jaw-dislocating yawn. She sleeps all hours, snores like a traction engine with a shagged drive shaft, and when we were together was frequently in bed and unconscious by 8pm.


2. 
   
   Is constantly either playing on her i-phone or i-pod. She will ignore everyone when this is in place - my son, the cat, me... everyone. When we were together you'd get into bed at the end of the day, one of those occasional evenings when she would manage to stay awake for longer than 8pm, but as soon as we were in bed, her back would be turned to me, headphones on, game in hand. She has been like this all this week. Not at any time have we done anything together as a family really. As soon as she is in the room out comes the I-phone/pod and fuck everyone else.


3. 
   
   Personal hygiene, or complete lack of it. She has a bath most days, but seems to avoid any form of body deodorant or anti-perspirant. Never ever seems to brush her teeth. You can sometimes smell her breath from across the room. Not nice.


4. 
   
   Has to have some sort of crisis going on all the time to keep her happy. Her auntie died recently - she fucking loved that. Great chance to get some really serious amounts of wallowing in family grief in. Another Aunt of hers is currently on her last knockings, so she'll probably play this for all it's worth as well. Our son has mild learning difficulties, but the way she goes on about him you'd think he was just a single eyeball floating in a jar or formaldehyde. He is doing great, but yet the great ex-Missus has to constantly find more and more labels and problems to pin on him. Let him be.


5. 
   
   Religious crutch. It used to be Paganism. She really really got into paganism when we were married. Fuck we even had a pagan wedding ritual - a hand fasting, which was cool. But that has now been kicked into touch as she is now sliding inexorably towards being a fucking Catholic. She goes to church every Sunday now, is out again tonight at the church, regularly wanders round clutching a bible to her bosom and is slowly going out of her fucking mind.


6. 
   
   Stupid ideas/hobbies. She has started so many courses, hobbies etc., and never sees them through to the end. She loses interest after just a few weeks, or even days in some instances. There have been health fads, diet fads, art fads, writing fads - you never know, all this Catholic bollocks could just turn out to be another fad. But she is now doing it with my son. Karate, dance, football, drama, music - all clubs he has joined that I have paid for and that within a few weeks have been abandoned due to some crappy excuse or another.


7. 
   
   Turns music on in a room - loudly, stays there for a few seconds, then goes off to another part of the house leaving the music blaring away in the corner. If you're leaving, just turn the fucking thing off, please! And lights. And TV's. And computers. And DVD players. And just about anything that is going to cost you money in electricity bills - or me, as I usually end up paying.


8. 
   
   Wasting money. Constantly pleads poverty and borrows money off me left right and centre, yet constantly has things being delivered from catalogues, Amazon, Ebay etc. DVD's, CD's, books, furniture - you name it. Is now banging on about how she wants and I-pad or a Kindle reader. She wants locking up. What is wrong with reading a fucking book?

Oh there is probably loads more, but I just had to get this off my chest this evening. It has been sitting with me like a cancer, growing stronger and eating away at me. Drop me a line - anyone, even one of those mad bastards in Burkina Faso trying to get me to look after their $34,000,000 that their late husband stashed away. rob.gillan@yahoo.co.uk

Same Old Same Old

(left) A typically unpleasant attractive man yesterday.

Christ, I am so utterly sick of the way women constantly contradict themselves. On the one hand you get this group of ladies constantly hacking on about when it comes to the attractiveness of men, they go for personality every time. Whereas, all of us pug ugly blokes know that if I were in the company of these "perfectly normal" ladies, chatting away, being self-effacing, articulate, witty and charming, it would only take some complete knob-end who happened to be a male model to walk in and I might as well be a paper bag full of two week old dog crap for all the attention they would pay to me.

One lady friend of mine who changes her boyfriends about as often as she changes her knickers, was once spouting off to me about how awful her life was. What was the problem, I asked. Well, she kept meeting these men and they all turned out to be bastards. Why was this? Because she kept picking mean, moody looking men, who looked cruel as they were her big turn on. And after dating them and shagging them for a few weeks, what did Professor Oft-Changed-Knickers discover? Yes! They were all a bunch of arrogant unpleasant nasty cunts who were only interested in themselves in a very selfish way. I did once suggest about dating someone like me, but she nearly had to break out a fresh supply of Tena Lady pads, she laughed so raucously. Apparently I am really safe, and like a brother to her. So in other words I might as well go and saw my wedding tackle off now as I shall have no further use for the fucking things in future. And she is also one of these sorts of very attractive people that if she is single for more than about three weeks, she starts to go a bit deranged, questioning her very being and place on Planet Earth. Try being me, love. Single - completely and utterly, since 2008 officially, but the way my wife, and her frigid ice filled knickers carried on probably officially single/sexless since about 2006. Yes, try that, then tell me you're really alone and sad.

So if anyone, and I mean anyone is actually reading this fucking blog, can you tell me what to do next? Mail me, at rob.gillan@yahoo.co.uk and let me know what I should do to meet a perfectly nice normal lady who is going to look at me not as some huge fat ugly elderly monster, but as a sane pleasant human being with more personality than is probably legal in most EU countries, who is also witty, charming, and articulate; educated, professional and relatively wealthy; and, when given the chance, very very romantic. What the fuck do I do? I think I can guess the answers - you'll just meet someone, you see. NO I FUCKING WON'T - IT DOESN'T HAPPEN LIKE THAT TO FAT UGLY BASTARDS LIKE ME! Stop trying and you'll just bump into Ms Right! ARGH! FUCK OFF! I WON'T! AND EVEN IF I DID, I AM SO HUGE I'D PROBABLY CRUSH THE POOR BITCH! I have been looking, on and off, for the past FIVE years and I have not met anyone yet, please tell me when is it going to end? I NEED TO KNOW.

Top 5 Excuses For Being Dumped!

Not posted in a long while. Not because life is any better or I have found the woman of my dreams. Ha! Fat chance of that happening. But thought I had better add something to the blog just in case someone somewhere is reading it. So I have been thinking back to all my old romantic failures and I have been pretty impressed by some of the excuses women have come up with not to carry on having a relationship with me, and I have selected my own personal top 5. Hope you enjoy these. So in no particular order, we begin with:

1. I was dating a very lovely lady called Caroline when I used to live in London, many centuries ago it seems now. She was everything I had ever wanted in a woman, two legs and a pulse, you know. All joking aside she was gorgeous. Small, brunette, pale skin, beautiful brown eyes, and bright and feisty with it. I was in awe of her. Naturally it didn't last, and her excuse for dumping me was: "I am not being fair to you, you are putting everything into this relationship and I'm not. So to save you from hurt, I think we should just be friends." Ouch.
2. I had a brief dalliance with a friend of mine's younger sister. She was called Anne and she was fun! Cute as a button, eccentric, smart and very attractive in an elfin kind of way. I thought I had really hit the jackpot on this one. Then I got my birthday card from her - something of a kick in the cobblers really. "Have a happy birthday, but sorry to say this, I really don't want a relationship with anyone at the moment - so it's not you, but I am afraid it is over between us. Sorry!" How I laughed as I blew out the candles on my cake. How I nearly choked on the cake when two weeks later she shacked up with some new bloke. Funny old world, innit?
3. At my sister's wedding in 1991 I met a lovely lady called Rebecca. Her previous relationship had been with a complete wanker of a man who treated her like shit, so the poor lovely lady was quite fragile when I met her. But I was at my gallant best. I did my best to be charming, polite, always taking her out to dinner and insisting on picking her up and driving her wherever she wanted to go. And she said: "I can't possibly have a relationship with you, you're far too nice." Dammit! I just knew I should have punched her on the nose on our first date.
4. Another wonderful lady, called Emily. Beautiful, sweet, cute as a button. I adored her so much. However, the feeling apparently was not reciprocated as I was "Too safe. You're just like a brother to me." What a pain in the arse it is to be too safe.
5. Not even made it to a relationship with this one. I went to a party in Gravesend in Kent (well, someone has to) and whilst at the party I met this really fabulous lady called Lindy. She had bubbly hair, and a bubbly personality, cute little body and was lots of fun. We had a really wild time at the party, dancing together all night and having a truly memorable evening. She told me she hated meeting men at parties as "you always give them your telephone number but they never call you back." At the end of the evening, while I was slowly being dragged away from her I asked her for her number. She told me I'd never call. I beseeched her, I implored to her, I assured her - I would most definitely call her! I would, I would! So she wrote her number down, put the words "call me" next to it, and a kiss. Ah! What could possibly go wrong. I called her. Would she like to meet up and go for a drink sometime? "With you? You must be joking." And she hung up. Great.

So there you have it. The awful top five. If anyone does read this crap and wants to share fob offs, then please email me at rob.gillan@yahoo.co.uk and let's compare notes.

Never Had No One Ever

Where do I start? I could bore the arseholes off you with stories of teenage crushes, unrequited love with some spotty girl I wouldn’t look twice at now, and all the other endless horrors of growing up and puberty that we must all suffer. But I shall plead my case for being horrendously ugly with one fine example, and then we shall get on with the story. At the age of about 17, when most other males of that age that I knew were copping off with vast amounts of hormonally supercharged sex bombs, I was, as ever, plodding along in the slow lane of life, wondering where the hell I was going to get a girlfriend from. Then, like a shaft of light dawning on the darkest of nights, a brilliant plan presented itself to me. I would get a female pen pal! How about that for a winner? I duly advertised in some teenage magazine, that I was “Male, 17, into Big Country, Howard Jones, Marillion and all things groovy. Would like to correspond with girls 16+” or some such nonsense. Well, despite it’s less than Earth shattering excitement or originality, that little advert garnered me something like 23 replies from all over the UK. They ranged from sweet little girls who had responded simply because I was a male, and had absolutely no other interest in common with me, to one obviously sex obsessed teenage girl in Manchester who sent me a pair of her extremely skimpy panties and had poured enough cheap perfume over the pages she had written to me to strip paint off a wall from about 10 yards. To be honest, she just frightened me.
However, the two best responses I got were both from young ladies in Nottinghamshire. One was a fairly sweet lady called Caroline, but who insisted on being called Caz, and was a big fan of Big Country, whereas the other was from a girl in Newark called Angie who was cute as a button (she’d sent me a photo) and an even BIGGER Big Country fan. That was it for me! Angie was the winner! We swapped about two letters a week, full of the usual teenage nonsense, discussing which Big Country album we liked best, how many times we had seen the band “live” and Angie frequently telling me about just how gorgeous Stuart Adamson was. The letters got longer and longer, and we obviously were yearning for each other. Angie made it abundantly clear that she wanted to meet up – and soon. However, there was one sticking point; Angie was a little miffed that I hadn’t sent her a picture of me yet. I had made some brilliant excuses of course – my camera is broken; I don’t have any fingers so I can’t press the shutter; what is a camera anyway? Etc. All good stalling tactics, but I knew I was fighting a losing battle and simply delaying the inevitable. I gave in and started hunting high and low through my parent’s piles of photos, trying to find one of me that didn’t look too much like a cross between a strategically shaved Orangutan and a water bed. I finally found one of me looking quite sharp, in a suit, at a recent wedding reception for a cousin of mine in Bournemouth. It was really quite flattering and didn’t look too much like me. That should do the trick! I duly wrote a long impassioned letter to Angie, told her that this was exactly what I looked like and how I couldn’t wait for us to meet up. The letter was posted with great ceremony and my heart began to sing and dance as only young foolish heart can in those first few moments when you know that true love has been born.
I never heard from Angie again. No doubt when she opened that letter and my appalling mug fell out of the envelope, she must have screamed alarmingly as all her dreams of me sunk slowly down the drain and reality set in. It was a bitter pill to swallow and one of the first really big blows to my confidence. But there were plenty more to follow.

That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

Life is often referred to as a game of cards. If this is really the case, then I have been playing against someone with a marked deck. And he is only letting me have one card at a time, the bastard. With three older sisters, I am quite aware of what goes on in a woman’s mind. I also happen to know what women like and dislike in a man. There is all the usual cobblers women come out with in surveys about sense of humour and personality being their top priorities, but you and I both know that if Tom Cruise and Bill Bailey go head to head in a chat up contest at any pub or bar you care to nominate, there is only ever going to be one winner. Another thing you get to see a lot of with three sisters is women’s magazines and another of their staple page fillers – describe your ideal man. And of course the alternative article: Describe the LEAST ideal man. Now if any editors of these magazines happen to be reading this blog and you do an article called “Fuck Me! Look At The State Of HIM!” I would be perfect for your photograph to accompany the said article. The usual list women give for being their biggest turn offs with men are:
Fat, or at best overweight
Red hair
Balding
Beard
Glasses
My answer sheet for this list is as follows:
Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes, and rather inevitably
Yes
This probably gives you some idea of where I am coming from. In the words of Eric Morecambe, it’s not a pretty sight. Yes, I do have a pleasing personality and a sense of humour, but as I have already stated, in this day and age it counts for virtually nothing. It would appear people today like to meet in trendy clubs and bars, where the music is blaring so loudly you have to shout in the ear of the person nearest to you just to be heard. I have a theory this is a major contributing factor to the high divorce rate in this country. Young male person A sees young female person B dancing at a nightclub called, for sake of argument, “Slapperz”. A likes the look of B, and B very obviously likes the look of A. They dance, bellow a few sweet nothings in each others ears, have a knee-trembler behind the kebab shop and within six months are married and living in their new Barrett Home. Now this is where the problems start. For the first time in their courting behaviour they are suddenly alone with that other person and without any pounding music and flashing lights. Certainly the physical attraction is still there – the countless snot faced little carpet crawlers called things like Chardonnay, Shaznay and DJ are testament to that. But they finally have discovered what their partner’s personality is like, and nine times out of ten they discover they hate each other’s guts and have absolutely nothing in common aside from shagging and loud music. Follow this through to the inevitable conclusion and you arrive at the divorce courts. Or am I just being a judgemental cynical old bastard? Very possibly, but frankly, who cares?
I have been trying all my life to meet the woman of my dreams. From an early age I was seduced by my mother’s lying, her insistence that I was “a handsome young man”, when very clearly just by looking in the mirror I could see that she was telling me a big porkie. A very early memory, locked away in the recesses of my mind, is of talking to a friend of mine in 6th form at school. He had just split up with his girlfriend of something like six weeks and so, consequently, his world was coming to an end. I was sitting talking to him in the school library, offering crumbs of comfort. In the depths of his depression, I was there, not only as a rock to steady himself on, but as yet another punch bag. He looked at me through his emotionally welled up eyes and said:
“I am down, but I feel REALLY sorry for you, though.” I wondered for a moment why I was to be the crux of his pity, but he explained quickly enough. “You are going to have to go through life looking like you do, and you’ll never have a girlfriend… ever.” This hit me hard as you can imagine. I went straight home that evening and played The Smith’s “Meat is Murder” album until the speakers were bleeding.

I want this blog to be a testament. A guide book for the ugly people in life. To let them know that I understand, I have been there and seen it and done it. And it’s fucking awful, isn’t it? All those evenings of trying so hard to impress or entertain a fairly attractive lady, and at the very last instant that smooth good looking fucker who has done nothing all evening aside from sit at the bar and drink, comes waltzing over, says something like “is this fat twat bothering you, babe?” and she is putty in his hands. And once again you are heading home to the empty flat and the big empty bed. What was it Morrissey said? “If you’re so very entertaining, why do you sleep alone tonight?” I know, and nothing my mother, your mother, my sisters or anyone else is going to change my mind. I am gonna tell it like it is.

With sleep do such dreams arrive...

I have a recurring dream. It has been playing through my mind on and off since I was about 17. In it, I am at a party, somewhere like a very trendy nightclub in London. The place is packed out with pretty young things and the sort of place I would normally shy away from at the drop of a hat. But as I arrive at the front doors, and step from the London Cab, I am excited about going in – really looking forward to it. I get glanced at a few times by people as I enter. My initial thought is that they are wondering why this fat idiot is entering such a trendy place, but then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror. I am gorgeous. Dark hair, quite fashionably long, a rugged good looking face, blue eyes and a hint of manly stubble. I am thin, not too skinny, but obviously I look after myself. My skin is well maintained and looks as though it has been good friends with a tanning studio recently. My clothes are top of the range and achingly fashionable. None of my usual “Mr Fat Bastard” stuff tonight. As I enter the main bar area of the club I realise that lots of the women are looking at me and not with their usual disdain, laughter or disgust. The evening is magical. I don’t even have to try. I don’t have to be stunningly witty, or original. Not for one instance do I have to even give the hint of being intelligent or charming. I just stand there. I am even openly rude and crude in front of these beautiful young ladies who keep coming up to me and talking to me. But they love it – literally lapping it up and just keep coming back for more. I eventually leave with a particularly stunning brunette with a figure to die for, but before I can get anywhere with her… I wake up. For one moment I believe it is real and I am instantly hyped up on the euphoria of it all. Then the crushing hammer blow of reality is delivered and I see myself in the mirror. A fat, balding tosser. With a beard. Beat that, Frankenstein.

The Horrors of Being Single and Unattractive!

Yes, this is it folks. A totally honest blog. A blog that tells it to you straight. Just what is it like being single, unattractive and in your 40's? Well, it is no bed of roses that's for damn sure. I just feel a need to share my experiences of being old, bereft and without hope of meeting a nice lady for my future. My name is Rob Gillan (actually it isn't, that is what we call in the business a "nom de plume", or more accurately, a lie, however I swear to you that it is the only lie on here. Everything else I tell you on here is 100% honest and truthful, however embarrassing or painful it is for me to recount to you - I hope you enjoy it!), I am 42 and I live in the South of England. I am professional, fully employed, I don't smoke. I was married for 10 years, but my wife is no longer around. I still see my son quite regularly, but he lives with my wife the other end of the country. I am overweight, but not excessively so, I am slightly balding, but I have a really fantastic personality - everyone who meets me says so. But as I have discovered for the previous few years, personality seems to count for bugger all these days when it comes to relationships, no matter what most women tell you.

Now this may not sound like a terribly promising start, but there will be revelations, a few chuckles, some tears and who knows what. Emails and comments from anyone who reads this would be most welcome. Especially from fellow attractively-challenged folk.