Oh reader, in this era we live in it seems nobody cares for the the immediacy, the unpredictability, nor even the joys of face to face conversation. With this in mind I decided to join the masses and try my hand at online dating.
And lo! It was today that I saw a woman whose picture was utterly breathtaking. The radiance of her skin aroused me from my ennui, and I knew that the grin in her picture was a calling card to me, inviting me to message her. I carefully composed, fingers shaking, the most artful of messages, something I knew may cause her legs to tremble and her heart to flutter with excitement.
What a treat it is, I thought to myself, that two souls have found each other in this way. This is a story I feel we’ll be recounting for years to come, she and I, to our smartly dressed grandchildren.
“Hey, cute pic”. I fire off, pleased with myself. I wait with bated breath for her response.
“Thanks” she says, and I can almost feel the playfulness through my screen. I can tell that in these messages we have already built a powerful repertoire.
“You’re beautiful” I tell her, treading the fine line between flattering and gushing. But when I read her reply, my stomach lurches and a sense of dread envelopes me…..
“Thanks! :)” I feel sick.
The arrogance, the nerve to accept my compliment makes my skin crawl uncomfortably. The beauty before me has morphed into something worse, something vain and narcissistic. I manage to compose myself long enough to send a reply. “Wow you’re kind of arrogant. And ugly anyway lol”.
I send her a quick photo of my penis and continue on my search for a soulmate.
Tuesday morning, 8 o’clock, I find myself pushing into a crowded train.
How unexpected it was, in such a vile and tedious place, to find myself suddenly struck by a vision of sweetest beauty… But so it did happen, and I shall never forget it, reader. I saw her first as a blur of colour and grace upon the platform, and felt a thrill of pleasure as she stepped into the carriage.
Looking upon her fine, enchanting features, I determined at once I must act, else regret it for the rest of my days upon this wretched earth.
What can a man learn from the great romantic poets of a bygone age? That a man must make his feelings known. Thus I repositioned myself in the carriage, reader, so that I might be able to sort of press against her body unnecessarily. I caught her eye, and reader, I gave her a leery look.
She fixed me with a dreadful glare and pushed through the bodies to a different part of the train. “What a bitch,” I thought to myself. “She’s not even that good looking.”
Will ever I meet a lady worthy of my love?
Wednesday, reader. As April is the cruellest of months; so Wednesday is the cruellest of days. Such a bland day feels almost destined to be one for performing the blandest of tasks, and so I deemed it a perfectly fine day to purchase my various necessities.
As a man blessed with fortunate genes, my appearance takes very little upkeep beyond basic hygiene. Not like the young women I see tottering down the high street with their troweled on makeup and inelegant clothes. How vain, how needless.
Not for me, I prefer the dewy look of a woman who has clear, glowing skin and gorgeous hair from the moment she wakes up. But I digress, I had things to buy.
I felt a sinking feeling as I strolled through the desolate body care aisle, swarmed by gauche pinks and lilacs, each more saccharine sweet than the last, every one churning my stomach. I needed to find a shower gel, but I struggled to find any that met my requirements. Not a single one bared the words “for men” across its packaging. Where were the ones for men?
I craved their navy blue and bright orange combinations, their bold fonts. The thought of using something with cursive writing would surely shrink my (considerable) penis. I clutched the shelving as I walked along, feeling weary and faint at the overpowering matriarchy of these shower gels.
“Excuse me!” I cried out, raising my voice in the hopes a nearby sales assistant might hear me. “Wherever are the products for men?”
A woman – my god, how this shop teemed with the rank oppression of femininity! – pointed me in the right direction. Thank god. Away from those sickening scents of vanilla and coconut and towards a more conceptual, lest wispy scent... Something like “fire ice”.
I spotted a dark grey bottle, a perfectly masculine colour, thank goodness. Still unsure whether it was safe to use, I edged closer. And lo, the words emblazoned on its packaging felt like a warm yet manly hug: “FOR MEN.”
My heart soared. I bought five, quietly grateful at how nearly I had avoided a pink and floral-scented hell. My (considerable) masculinity remains intact.
In matters of business, there is no pleasure greater than meeting a young gentleman who is, if not equal to my entrepreneurial brilliance, at about halfway there. I have had just such a pleasure this afternoon, when who should enter my office but a young man inquiring about an available position in my company. I poured him a whiskey, and we took to each other immediately.
I was quite ready to offer the position to this charming fellow, when who should spoil my ambitions but another manager at my company, Shirley. She insisted that a previous candidate, Maria, was the better choice, which is ridiculous, because everyone knows girls can’t do business.
Luckily I am senior to Shirley so I overrode her swiftly. I can’t wait to take our brilliant new hire out on the boat. He reminds me so much of myself at that age.
Friday night. A night to socialise with like-minded friends, sloughing off the drudgery of the working week, and feeling truly anew. I’ve been invited to a party, and by the time I arrive I can see my company was much needed. Overhearing glimmers of conversation, I realise how vacant and meaningless they have been without my input.
I hear a woman talking, a passing acquaintance who clearly did not quite dazzle enough to linger in my memory. She’s speaking about politics, and my attention is captured. My knowledge of the subject goes largely unrivalled, as I’m somewhat of a voracious reader of tweets about “Question Time.” Seeing the woman clearly floundering in her attempt to express herself, I feel compelled to jump in and aid her with some of my expertise.
“Actually” I say, raising my voice as she speaks, so that my input isn’t drowned out by the inane chattering of others, “a white paper is the roughest draft and most initial stage of government legislation”. And this woman, oh this vile woman, insists I am wrong!
I almost spilt the whiskey drink in my hand, appalled at the sheer audacity of her words. “And how would you know?” I grin. Reader, I am not one for embarrassing women, I love women, in fact I even dated one many years ago, but what is a man if not someone who can take control of a situation?
“I’m a member of parliament” she says. A likely story! I decide not to entertain her ignorance any more and remove myself from the situation. Let her embarrass herself with her obvious lack of knowledge if she refuses to learn from those who are wiser.
After the liveliness of last night, nothing would clear the fog of my brain than a brisk afternoon walk. As I stroll briskly, purposefully even, I reflect upon my varied and adventurous life. What a success I had been at the academy, at the university, and now, of course, in business.
And yet in matters of the heart, I have been disappointed time and time again… When shall I ever meet the one who truly understands my complex and passionate spirit?
Who should interrupt my thoughts at this very moment but a very attractive lady? “Nice legs,” I whisper to a professional-looking woman as she passes me. I whistle for good measure.
She says “fuck off mate” and carries on her way.
If only she understood the multitudes within me, and knew how to take a compliment, god.
Reader I must confess, I very much enjoy the website Twitter. A forum for public opinion is much needed where someone vastly underrepresented in the modern world can finally give their two cents on the matters of the day.
And so you can only imagine my horror when my perfectly curated timeline was sullied by what I can only describe as filth. Someone had retweeted a female journalist, arguably the most vulgar type of journalist. As if I was not already incensed enough, the title of said “journalist’s” article somehow managed to fan the flames of my outrage even further. It was an article – and I use the word “article” in the loosest of terms, dear reader – about sexism.
I was left baffled and shaken by what I read. The nerve to suggest that sexism exists at all was ridiculous enough to elicit a small chuckle. I myself have never witnessed a moment of sexism in my life.
What a brazen liar, I thought to myself. What a brazen and shameless deceiver. I composed my finest argument to date, one that will rock the very foundations of the “patriarchal” world this foolish woman believes exists. “Sexism isn’t real, stupid slut”. I felt a sense of pride rush through me. But then, reader! She dared reply with “evidence” and “personal experiences” – surely more lies freshly spun from her cotton candy brain.
I conjured up my very wittiest retort, a play on words that does credit to my private education. The type of clever manipulation of the English language that makes me such a hoot at social events.
“FEMINAZI,” I tweeted at her, smiling wryly in the hopes she’d understand my devastatingly clever takedown. Soon enough, reader, my mentions were swarmed by a cacophony of shrill and grasping harpies, telling me their own “experiences,” otherwise known as fairy tales designed to personally attack me.
Fingers poised, I readied myself for my finest barb yet. The evening was drawing to a close, and I would struggle to sleep if I kept this genius contained in my mind and not unleashed into the wider world.
“FUCK OFF YOU FAT BITCH” I typed, a thrill rushing through every extremity as I hit send. I brushed the crumbs off of my shirt left from my lunch earlier, and settled into bed alone.
“Yes," I thought to myself, “I showed her”.