BEFORE I begin I’d like you to know that the views in this column are my own, and in no way represent those of bona fide female football fans the world over.
On the other hand, I am purely interested in the fact that there is potential for at least 22 fit, sweaty men to be running around in tight shorts. I say potentially because I’m still waiting to see more than five in one game.
Yes, I have embraced Euro 2004 with open arms, especially the bits where we can berate our over-confident neighbours, who have left me reeling with such comments as ‘We’ll beat them in the final’ in true D-Day style of ‘We’ll fight them on the beaches’.
Officially, because I stand to win some pennies if they triumph, I’m supporting the Czechs. My favourites, however are France due to my favourite Thierry. He definitely gives me the va va voom.
The night of that 2-1 peach of a win I watched the Switzerland v Croatia match in preparation, as the last time I’d watched a match was my local team, half-cut on half-time hospitality.
Everyone I have spoken to has said the Swiss match wasn’t exciting but I was on the edge of my seat the whole time — they were gorgeous, although some of the hair cuts were a bit dodgy.
The Croats weren’t bad either. I really couldn’t care less who won.
As for England, maybe I have strange tastes, but other than the highly illustrated Mr Beckham who never really did it for me anyway, I couldn’t pick out anyone else worthy of a mention. OK maybe David James at a push.
There’s just an appeal about footballers, which I suppose is a view shared by many others. Jason Turner (Footballers Wives) also had va va voom and reminded me a lot of my favourite ex.
It’s like men in uniform — even when they’re in their civies, the fact you know they wear one most of the time is enough.
I had a uniform of my own on Saturday night. It shows how much the bride-to-me means to me to know I was wearing a pink top, pink fluffy headband, pink feather boa and a pink fluffy garter (aka hairband) which spent most to of time round my ankle.
A word of advice — a hen night is an excellent pulling tactic, especially if a potty and a group of vodka-fuelled reveller are involved.
At first it was £1-a-kiss for the bride. But after we got further round the club, paying gents could have their pick of any one of the two bridesmaids, various wedding guests, and oh yes, the bride.
It wasn’t long before we were corrupted by a group of visiting sailors.
After missing the boat with navy man number one due to my weakness for Dolly Parton’s ‘9 top 5’, I was soon fed the worst chat up line in the world by one of the shipmates.
Bearing in mind Woody was from Plymouth: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” didn’t quite wash.
He was cute (with dimples) though, and despite my constant, and in hindsight embarrassing saluting, he asked me to dance. Thank the Lord I didn’t break into the Sailor’s Hornpipe in my inebriated state.
I don’t know what happened — either I was not drunk enough or I’ve just been out of the game too long, but I suddenly got really nervous and shy, like he’d just asked me to marry him or something.
I did dance though and it was all good. He admitted that his chat up line was quite lame, but it had worked so he may try it again.
All too soon it came to the bit where he asked for my number, with both of us knowing he would never use it. I’m still waiting.
Well, no I’m not. I really must be getting older — I just can’t be bothered with all that nonsense any more; basing your relationship hopes on 10 snatched minutes and a number swap in a nightclub.
With the wedding a matter of weeks away, my whole life has been turned into fashion hell. I thought I would be really smart and buy my outfit two months ago as I always leave things to the last minute.
But now at the last minute, I’ve taken back the skirt and bag, and have replaced it with a dress, for which I now have to buy new accessories and shoe (such heartache).
I’m hoping that the bride and groom will have perhaps invited an eligible bachelor or six to the event, and I’m not going to be the only one without a plus one after their name.
After feeling empowered last week by crossing Mr Can’t Attach, Won’t Attach off the list, I’m now feeling like an impounded dog, waiting patiently for someone to choose me and take me home.
If France come out of Euro 2004 in the next few weeks, I wonder if Mr Henry would like to join me?
Hey Bobby, what’s French for you wish?
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Monday, June 07, 2004
Stop the bus
DON’T worry if you find it hard to keep up with my various conquests and exploits from week to week — you’re amongst friends.
A colleague of mine despairs at the running commentary I give her on those who catch my eye. Don’t be fooled when I say ‘a’ colleague — I mean she’s the one who gets it the most, and not the only one who can’t keep up. I find it hard to keep up myself.
To elaborate, I refer now to the genius that is Wendy Cope, who penned the immortal lines: “Bloody men are like bloody buses — you wait for about a year and as soons as one approaches you, two or three others appear.”
So bloody true.
Standing at my own metaphorical bus stop I’m amazed at how many ‘vehicles’ of all shapes and sizes have turned out in the past wee while. Maybe my pheromones are now finally working? Maybe someone has actually been reading my column? Or maybe I’m just the best of a bad bunch — I don’t know!
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be chatted up until it happened recently. I burst out laughing — right in his face — which wasn’t ideal. His intentions were sincere, but however flattering it just felt and sounded so cheesy.
Up there on the pedestal with my self-help guru Carrie Bradshaw is Bridget Jones, who unwittingly put the idea into the heads of thousands of singletons everywhere that becoming an ‘aloof, unavailable ice queen’ was the way to go — after all it netted her the highly unsuitable but devilishly brilliant Daniel Cleaver (read Hugh Grant, because let’s face it after watching the film, the boundaries between screen and reality get a tad fuzzy.)
There are only three slight problems I have found with this approach.
To begin with, when using predictive texting, if you type in the work ‘aloof’ it appears as alone. Coincidence? I think not.
Secondly, if you act unavailable, what chance do you actually have of becoming unavailable?
And don’t even get me started on the trials and tribulations of being an ice-queen — I melt too easily when I come in contact with a hot flame.
I was quite flattered recently to be told I was a good kisser. I was glowing from for the compliment until I realise the sad irony was I’ve just had too much practice, kissing all the frogs who have never turned into princes. Talk about needle in a haystack!
Wouldn’t it be great of you could pick certain attributes from each suitor to make the ‘perfect’ man? Even then I don’t think I’d be happy. When presented with the supposedly ‘perfect’ man recently I felt uneasy.
Due to my own insecurities I’m not happy unless there is a flaw and this fine young specimen had none apparent, Great, you may say, but if there’s no flaw on the surface, rest assured a major one will rear its pretty head soon.
It got me to thinking what my ‘perfect’ would be, using the materials available.
I’d take the body and charm that makes me go weak at the knees of the one who can’t attach, won’t attach, might attach, won’t attach; added to the comic genius of the Double Dutch rugby player’s innocent ability to translate a coherent sentence. This has resulted in him coming out with sweet statements, for example ‘loveliness (that word doesn’t exist I think? But it sounds nice) and ‘Soso I’m not dead yet, and that you might notice when you feel a kiss’.
I would take the comfortableness (that word doesn’t exist I think? But it sounds nice) of my favourite ex; being already aware of his blemishes and not having to do the ‘getting to know you’ bit and the constant but not overpowering attention. He’s also very good at the whole ‘being a boyfriend’ thing — sending me little presents when I’m sick; knowing when I’m down by my tone and best of all having the fantastic ability to solve everything with a hug.
Mr Perfect would be topped off with the closeness (meaning distance and friendship) and commitment of my boy-space-friend. I would also choose his mum for my perfect mother-in-law as she is as lovely.
But alas, this isn’t a perfect world and we are forced to choose only one (at a time), and live with the good and bad points. Of course, no one is forcing me to choose any of those I have mentioned.
The danger lies in the fact I’m hooked on each and every one of their individual charms and flaws, and I don’t want to let go. There, I’ve said it. And that’s my flaw.
Since writing this I have performed one of my most bravest acts in order to improve my availability — I have detached myself from the charmer who ‘can’t attach’ — I feel this will improve relations and free attention to focus on more suitable specimens.
The whole grass is greener attitude keeps creeping into my psyche. My greatest fear is finding someone with whom to ‘see how it goes’ but all the time wondering how it would have been if I’d ‘seen how it went’ with someone else.
Knowing my luck, they’ll all pass me by and I’ll be standing waiting for another year again. Something tells me I’ll always end up not quite the one who got away but the one who never got there in the first place.
A final word from Double Dutch. Being a keen sportsman, he asked what games I played, after providing his sickening list from rugby to kickboxing, with EVERYTHING in between.
I joked that the only sport I partake in (and badly) is playing ‘the field’ but I think that too got a bit lost in translation, especially when he asked me if you needed balls for that. I think it does.
A colleague of mine despairs at the running commentary I give her on those who catch my eye. Don’t be fooled when I say ‘a’ colleague — I mean she’s the one who gets it the most, and not the only one who can’t keep up. I find it hard to keep up myself.
To elaborate, I refer now to the genius that is Wendy Cope, who penned the immortal lines: “Bloody men are like bloody buses — you wait for about a year and as soons as one approaches you, two or three others appear.”
So bloody true.
Standing at my own metaphorical bus stop I’m amazed at how many ‘vehicles’ of all shapes and sizes have turned out in the past wee while. Maybe my pheromones are now finally working? Maybe someone has actually been reading my column? Or maybe I’m just the best of a bad bunch — I don’t know!
I’d forgotten what it felt like to be chatted up until it happened recently. I burst out laughing — right in his face — which wasn’t ideal. His intentions were sincere, but however flattering it just felt and sounded so cheesy.
Up there on the pedestal with my self-help guru Carrie Bradshaw is Bridget Jones, who unwittingly put the idea into the heads of thousands of singletons everywhere that becoming an ‘aloof, unavailable ice queen’ was the way to go — after all it netted her the highly unsuitable but devilishly brilliant Daniel Cleaver (read Hugh Grant, because let’s face it after watching the film, the boundaries between screen and reality get a tad fuzzy.)
There are only three slight problems I have found with this approach.
To begin with, when using predictive texting, if you type in the work ‘aloof’ it appears as alone. Coincidence? I think not.
Secondly, if you act unavailable, what chance do you actually have of becoming unavailable?
And don’t even get me started on the trials and tribulations of being an ice-queen — I melt too easily when I come in contact with a hot flame.
I was quite flattered recently to be told I was a good kisser. I was glowing from for the compliment until I realise the sad irony was I’ve just had too much practice, kissing all the frogs who have never turned into princes. Talk about needle in a haystack!
Wouldn’t it be great of you could pick certain attributes from each suitor to make the ‘perfect’ man? Even then I don’t think I’d be happy. When presented with the supposedly ‘perfect’ man recently I felt uneasy.
Due to my own insecurities I’m not happy unless there is a flaw and this fine young specimen had none apparent, Great, you may say, but if there’s no flaw on the surface, rest assured a major one will rear its pretty head soon.
It got me to thinking what my ‘perfect’ would be, using the materials available.
I’d take the body and charm that makes me go weak at the knees of the one who can’t attach, won’t attach, might attach, won’t attach; added to the comic genius of the Double Dutch rugby player’s innocent ability to translate a coherent sentence. This has resulted in him coming out with sweet statements, for example ‘loveliness (that word doesn’t exist I think? But it sounds nice) and ‘Soso I’m not dead yet, and that you might notice when you feel a kiss’.
I would take the comfortableness (that word doesn’t exist I think? But it sounds nice) of my favourite ex; being already aware of his blemishes and not having to do the ‘getting to know you’ bit and the constant but not overpowering attention. He’s also very good at the whole ‘being a boyfriend’ thing — sending me little presents when I’m sick; knowing when I’m down by my tone and best of all having the fantastic ability to solve everything with a hug.
Mr Perfect would be topped off with the closeness (meaning distance and friendship) and commitment of my boy-space-friend. I would also choose his mum for my perfect mother-in-law as she is as lovely.
But alas, this isn’t a perfect world and we are forced to choose only one (at a time), and live with the good and bad points. Of course, no one is forcing me to choose any of those I have mentioned.
The danger lies in the fact I’m hooked on each and every one of their individual charms and flaws, and I don’t want to let go. There, I’ve said it. And that’s my flaw.
Since writing this I have performed one of my most bravest acts in order to improve my availability — I have detached myself from the charmer who ‘can’t attach’ — I feel this will improve relations and free attention to focus on more suitable specimens.
The whole grass is greener attitude keeps creeping into my psyche. My greatest fear is finding someone with whom to ‘see how it goes’ but all the time wondering how it would have been if I’d ‘seen how it went’ with someone else.
Knowing my luck, they’ll all pass me by and I’ll be standing waiting for another year again. Something tells me I’ll always end up not quite the one who got away but the one who never got there in the first place.
A final word from Double Dutch. Being a keen sportsman, he asked what games I played, after providing his sickening list from rugby to kickboxing, with EVERYTHING in between.
I joked that the only sport I partake in (and badly) is playing ‘the field’ but I think that too got a bit lost in translation, especially when he asked me if you needed balls for that. I think it does.
