Being unfussy got me dumped by a boy in a tiger jumper

I have long been accused by family and friends alike of being too fussy when it comes to potential boyfriends.

Meeting men under the influence of vast quantities of alcohol, I regularly fall in unconditional, Stella-tinted-spectacles-aided love. On the first date I’m baffled at how lager can screw with one’s perception to such an extent - the man who laughed like a drain and had a voice so loud it could be heard by the deaf, springs to mind.

It is rare there is a second date.

Breaking the news to my gays, that the love has again died so soon, is always tough.

Through utter frustration one of my closest gays, Robert, recently subjected me to a verbal onslaught, of which the general gist was:

“It’s not them Ellie, it’s you. You will grow old, surround yourself with feral cats, children will fear you and the townsfolk will attempt to drown you as a witch.

“The stench of urine from your granny-flat will be so unbearable that a mile-round radius of the area will be cordoned off and not even the spotty carer from meals on wheels will dare to cross the threshold. Subsequently you will meet your end when the bin-bags, crammed full with the charity-shop clothes you have collected over the course of 60 years, tumble down and suffocate you to death.”

These harsh words scared me so much so that I agreed to a second date with the latest social degenerate I’d found myself acquainted with.

Despite the fact he was slightly shorter, slightly younger and was wearing high-top trainers suggestive of a secret boy crush on N-Dubz. But four pints later, we did sort of get on and so the second meeting was set.

To which he turned up wearing a bright green sweater with a picture of a tiger on the front, which was so small it would be better suited to a Build-a-Bear.

My first instinct was to make like Forest Gump, but I’d been spotted. So I stayed, and drank the pain away.

The next day, Robert’s onslaught still haunted me. So, attempting to overlook the fashion horrors that had passed, I considered the possibility of a third date.

Two days later, a text message: “Hello Ellie, hope you had a nice weekend. Just to let you know I don’t think we should see each other again, I’m not looking for anyone right now.”

Dropped

By a short boy

In a green tiger jumper

I had hit rock bottom. It was too late to reverse the years of relationship nonchalance and Robert’s wise words were already a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Destined to a life of smug married women looking at me with pity, issuing such patronising phrases as “aw, you’ll be next” and “you just haven’t found the right person yet.”

Pushing 30, the dust is fast settling and the biological clock is drowning out even the guy who laughed like a drain. I can empathise with geriatric cats in catteries everywhere, who look out with longing eyes at passers by, screaming “pick me, pick me.”

But no one ever will.

It took me a day to get over the sheer horror of the situation.

When I did I took solace from the fact that, with the UK divorce rate rocketing, before long the majority of the aforementioned smug wives will join me, slightly damaged, back on the shelf after discovering hotel receipts confirming their husband’s sordid affair with Debbie on reception.

A shell of their former selves through many wasted years of trying to “make things work” with the man they settled for, they will spend a decade regaining some sort of self-identity.

In the meantime, I will long be over the embarrassment of being ditched by tiger boy and, lesson learnt, have reverted back to fussiness, met my perfect match and the tables will turn.

My verdict?

It pays to be fussy.

Guys with guitars are infinitely hot, except for Newton

Last Friday’s Busking for Cancer boat party aboard HMS Belfast rekindled all the burning questions surrounding an unfathomable phenomenon, which has haunted my existence since my early teens.

Give an average man, kitted out with average clothes and an average personality, a guitar and immediately they are transformed from wallflower to Adonis so fine they plummet Casanova to the ranks of Quasimodo.

And as a hot-blooded female, I have an inbuilt and overbearing desire to straddle each and every one of them. Even the new wave of plaid-clad social degenerates, who have so far come into contact with only one vagina, and that was from the inside out.

However I have discovered the exception to this steadfast rule - the one and only glorified cover-singer, Newton Faulkner, whose head looks like a pre-school pupil has hollowed out a lump of wax, carved a face in it and lit it up with a tea-light.

Complete with an ego big enough to eclipse the sun, not even a vintage Fender Stratocaster once strummed by the late Jimi Hendrix can inject as much as a hint of mojo into this ginger lovechild of a mutant pumpkin and a Playskool Gloworm.

Delivering a painful rendition of Massive Attack’s Teardrop, he defied the unwritten law of the unconditional attractiveness of “man with guitar,” producing not even a faint tingle in the nether regions. And that’s coming from a girl who would have had a pop at Jarvis Cocker in his prime.

After three years on the scene Newton should be at his peak and aiming even higher. Instead he is still lost amid a line-up of part-time musicians who’re just out for a bit of extra-curricular Friday-night fun.

But he doesn’t let this deter him. Playing to a 100-strong audience he made failed attempts to emanate an air of arrogance reminiscent of Jagger and Morrison, but without the talent or charisma to match. The crowd, comprising has-been rockers, the friends and relatives of preceding acts and one prune-faced woman who claimed to be 33 years old, fuelled Newton’s unfounded egotism by demanding he play covers of other well-known classics. And so he did. Badly.

The time will come when the failings of Newton are realised, and he must sell his Argos-bought guitar down the local car boot sale, along with all his compact discs and make that long-overdue trip to the job centre.

The only way to look younger is to be born later

Flicking through any glossy magazine, you will find endless advice columns, tailored towards those women (and men) on a quest for their body beautiful.

Every day image conscious readers scour newsagents’ magazine racks nationwide in an attempt to satiate their addiction for feature after soulless feature containing new “secrets” to achieving that sexy skeletal physique.

Needless to say 10 minutes later they will pass McDonalds and the temptation of munching their way through a burger comprising of lips, bumholes and a soggy gherkin, served up by an acne-ridden youth, will see the wise words of the journalist become yet another faded resolution.

Sandwiched between these features you will discover magnified shots of celebrities’ unjustifiable flaws, which are undoubtedly in the public interest. A bra-strap on show, a chipped nail and, worst of all, a stray pubic hair poking through their bikini bottoms as they sunbathe on a private, isolated beach, far from civilisation.

This nip-tuck trend is seeing an increasing number undergoing breast enhancements, botox injections, starvation and countless facelifts, to transform the relatively normal into a race of melted, anorexic Barbie dolls.

Sadly the only person obsessed with that dimply bit of cellulite burrowed away at the top of their thighs is themselves. Men, for example, are far more interested in the hole in between.

So many people in their 40s and beyond are doing everything in their power to look 20. But sadly no matter how much plastic surgery they have, they cannot escape the fact that, scratch the surface and their age is undeniable. Rude bits dry up, rude bits slack up, limbs freeze up and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Sadly these victims of jaded media pressure won’t be remembered for the botox-ridden fitness fanatics that they are, who sacrificed their lives in a futile attempt to deny the laws of Mother Nature. They are pointless, failed to make an impact on this rock and won’t be remembered at all.

We all die, and no one gives a shit what you look like in your coffin. So go out, drink, smoke, eat, do whatever you want to do so that on your deathbed you can look back with no regrets, safe in the knowledge that you had a fucking good time on the way.

When I grow up I want to be.......

Tom Baker very wisely once said that “the older we get, the older old is.” And someone as clever as a former time-lord is not a force to be reckoned with.

Speaking to my rapidly ageing social group, the doctor’s haunting words get truer by the day. As the big 3-0 draws closer, I find an impending sense of doom as a multitude of burning questions frequently infiltrate my mind.

At what age does it stop being socially acceptable to wear hot pants?

Will there come a time when I don’t feel just a little bit tired?

What is the point of N Dubz?

At the age of 26, we were in a nightclub when a group of boys started speaking to us. When they asked our age, one declared: “Wow, I’ve never spoken to a 26 year-old woman before.” Charming. They were 19.

But for this reason I have started asking boys for ID before agreeing to speak to them in bars for fear of finding my name slammed down on some sort of register.

A good friend experienced a far more traumatic incident when she was a mere 23. She was in a changing cubicle at the swimming baths when a small child accidentally pulled the curtain back on her. He ran away shouting mummy, I’ve just walked in on an old lady.” Needless to say the friend was mortified, the effects of the incident so far reaching that they have psychologically scarred her for life.

Adding to this, one morning a few weeks back I proudly announced that I was the only one of my social group to have retained a barnett devoid of grey. The very same day my French hairdressing housemate pointed out, amid shrieks of mock-horror, that he had discovered not just one, but a whole patch of silvery strands erupting from my scalp. As confirmation of his discovery, he yanked several out, handing me the stone-cold evidence of a dissipating youth.

Yes we fear the wrinkles and the aches and pains that lay ahead. But we’re trapped in a vicious cycle of clock watching as the minutes of our nine ‘til five monotonous existences tick by, only to spend the evenings and weekends wondering where the years have gone.

Obviously there are some things that demonstrate the demise into middle-aged-dom. Steadily slipping away from Radio 1 and into the realms of “dad rock” Radio 2, and finding ourselves cursing the youth of today for their lack of respect.

But asides for a minor boy-hating lesbian phase at the age of four, when I visualised walking up the aisle with another woman, I have always romanticised the idea of marrying the love of my life moving a cosy cottage, with a dog for our son Radley and a budgerigar for wee daughter Tilly.

We’d eat organic and drink fair-trade and buy all our clothes from Gap and Next.

But the years are definitely getting shorter, there’s not enough time to do everything I want to do while I’m young. I still want all the things that adults have. But when I grow up. When the fuck that is going to happen, I cannot even hazard a guess.

The virtues of the morbidly obese

Once upon a time, not so long ago, the world was a happy, jovial place. The British Broadcasting Corporation aired only the crème de la crème of entertainment and licence payers could rest assure that their fees were being put to the best of use.

But one fateful afternoon a child entered the world. A very fat child and the fate of the future of British entertainment was sealed.

As a foetus, the child’s appetite was so advanced that his mother, one Mrs Corden, could not satiate his needs. To make matters worse she developed cravings for bacon sandwiches during the pregnancy.

Now everyone knows the smell of fried bacon is, not only irresistible, but so powerful a smell that it can be detected from far and wide. The unborn babe was daily tempted by the continuous whiff of porky goodness, which carried all the way up in his womby cocoon.

One day the urge became so unbearable that the tot made like Pacman™ and chomped his way right through Mrs Corden’s stomach and out into the open, snatching the bacon treat straight from her ravenous hand.

Mrs Corden died almost instantaneously, but not before begging her son be called James after her great, great, great, great, great grandfather thrice removed. Who was also rather fat.

Being born drastically overweight and three months premature, James was something of a medical phenomenon. Some said he was the largest newborn baby since records began.

This disposition set him in good stead for life. Several food manufacturers, seeing the potential financial benefits of this unexpected “celebrity,” took to sponsoring him, giving him free snacks for as long as he may live.

And so fat James got fatter. And fatter. He wasn’t expected to live past nine-and-three-quarters. So on his tenth birthday, his stepparents threw him a huge surprise party to celebrate his reaching double figures.

The child stared agog when the blindfold was removed and he clapped his piggy little eyes on his village hall, decked out in banners, bunting and balloons and filled with presents and more food than even he could ever imagine. What a feast it was, with all his favourite snacks laid out on a table big enough to fill a football stadium. Pickled eggs, fried chicken, jam doughnuts, cream cakes and a mountain of cheesy puffs.

After gorging on such a rich selection of delicacies, James simply wanted more. But even his gargantuan belly could not accommodate it all.

It was then that James spotted some youths from his year in school. They were each taking it in turns to suck the helium from his party balloons, which decorated the village hall. Through utter desperation, and for the first time in his life, James put two and two together and came up with an almighty four.

“Helium makes balloons expand and rise,” he thought to himself.

“And stomachs are kind of like balloons………”

So by inhaling vast quantities of the gas, he too could expand so much so that there would be room to eat and eat and eat without ever feeling full in the slightest.

And so on his 10^th birthday, James’ helium addiction began. Luckily the amount of food he consumed on a daily basis kept him well and truly grounded. However there was a flipside, he caused permanent damage to his vocal chords and was plagued with sounding distinctly like a hyena for evermore.

One day, some five years later, as he waddled down the street to his local fish and chip shop, James was approached by three members of the production team for ITV drama, Fat Friends. They had been hunting high and low for morbidly obese people to take part in their programme, talent regardless.

Forward thinking James snapped up the opportunity straight away.

“So what if I can’t act,” he squeaked between mouthfuls of battered sausage,“ “the royalties will mean I can buy even more Krispy Kremes.”

So his excessive weight gained him his first acting job and, from then on, for reasons unfathomable, James Corden has spread faster than HIV onto almost every single prime time television programme currently aired on national television.

The fall and rise of Florence Leontine Mary Welch (real name Florence Moomin)

Many years ago, twenty-two and three quarters to be ever so precise, all was calm and well in Moominsville.

But that blissful day, when the skylarks sang, while the grasshopper hopped a merry jig and the water babbled along gently in the river, all was about to change.

To the beautiful sounds of nature all around came another sound, that of a baby expelling its first piercing cry.

“Whaaaaaaahhhh!!!”

Yes, Mummy Moomin had given birth to a little baby girl.

“Owwhh!!!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched wail; “she’s perfect. But whatever shall I call her?”

A huge fan of all time drug-induced hit children’s classic, The Magic Roundabout, Mummy Moomin had planned to call her first-born son Dougal Dylan Moomin. The very fact that Dougal had turned out female threw a spanner in the works.

“Ermintrude is such a lovely name but I can’t call my daughter after a cow!” thought Mummy Moomin aloud.

And so she rubbed her chin, pondering, for a good six seconds before the light bulb finally pinged.

“Owhhh, how silly of me!” she continued, as she remembered the lead female protagonist of the show. That big lollipop-head, that little button nose, the luscious brown dreaded locks and impeccable dress sense – what more could one wish for their child?

“Child-birth has made me ever so forgetful,” mummy Moomin mused, “I shall call her Florence. My beaaooowwutiful little Florence,” she trilled with the affection only a first-time mother could muster.

Sadly Mummy Moomin wasn’t well versed on the unwritten rules of the land. Unbeknown to her, to be a fan of any other children’s animation was strictly forbidden in Moominsville and punishable by death.

So when she skipped merrily to the registrar to officially name her first-born child, it will come as no surprise to you, reader, to hear that Mummy Moomin was tackled to the ground, handcuffed, blindfolded and hurtled into the back of a riot van with an almighty THUD.

The van threw her to and thro all the way to Moominsville town centre, where she was shot multiple times by a firing squad in front of an audience of thousands, including her newborn infant.

Now everybody knows that newborn children have delicate ears and even the drop of a feather could well leave them audibly impaired. So to be as close to the firing squad as Florence was had a detrimental effect on the vulnerable tot, who heard the first gunshot clear as bell.

“Boooooooooooommm bannnnggghhh!!” the shot rang out. But the following rounds were as clear as mud “duff…dufff…dufff” came the muffled shots. And so to the sound of her mother’s untimely end, Florence’s eardrums were perforated beyond repair.

As she grew it quickly became clear that poor deaf Florence would never blossom into the beauty that her late mother had intended.

Her nose was enormous, even by moomin standards, and not as rounded as one may have hoped. And her fiery ginger locks, in Moominsville, suggested foul play and witchcraft.

Thus it was not long before Florence was ousted from the land and left to perish in the dark, dark woods with nothing but the rags on her back.

So Florence walked and walked, living off nuts, seeds, bugs and the occasional dead squirrel. Poor feral Florence was incapable of hunting. Being deaf she made too much noise, stomping through the twigs and leaves, as her meal scurried off into the distance.

To keep herself entertained, Florence hummed and muffled hum and by the time she reached civilisation, approximately three and a half weeks later, this had become so loud and profound that the townsfolk ran to see what this strange, wailing creature could be.

They all gathered round as Florence emerged from the woods wailing as she came.

“Are you in pain?” they asked. But of course Florence couldn’t understand them so they called for the doctor anyway.

Cleared with a full bill of health, the doctor failed to notice Florence’s inability to hear, instead misdiagnosing her misfortune as that of a child raised by the wolves.

Soon the paparazzi arrived and followed her for a fortnight or more and Florence was soon under the impression that the townsfolk worshipped her strange humming noise. She was given a council house, enough benefits to feed a family of six and a plasma screen television, which took up an entire wall.

What luxury!

So Florence whiled away the hours watching MTV all day long. But one day, as she watched Girls Aloud, it suddenly dawned on her…

If all these people could take their strange facial expressions to the stage, get paid for it and gain global notoriety, then why couldn’t she?

After all people had been in awe of her when she first arrived in the town.

And so Florence’s dreams were realised. She was snapped up by a record label, took to the stage and quickly rocketed to stardom.

The music critics praised her eclectic diversity as “one of a kind” and the musical bible, NME said to its followers “thou shalt listen and be happy.” And so they did as they were instructed.

And that, my friends, is the story of the fall and Rise of Florence and the Machine.

Religion is the root of all evil

Major uproar was sparked this week when someone with an important job suggested the Pope should open an abortion clinic, bless a homosexual marriage and launch his own range of condoms during his upcoming visit to the UK.

Of course to even insinuate that same sex relationships, or birth control to limit the spread of sexual disease, is acceptable in the 21st century is just so risque.

Through the ages the Catholic faith has long been the root of all evil. The no condom rules saw thousands of god-fearing parents dumping their young daughters, who had fallen pregnant out of wedlock, in Irish “Magdalene” asylums. The girls gave birth and remained incarcerated for life, working around the clock, never to see their children again. And the spare moments when they weren't working, they had the joy of a good round of sexual abuse from a heavenly father of the church, all expenses paid. What could be better?

And lets not forget the constant allegations against catholic priests doing "bad things" to young boys in their care. And all in the name of a non-existent deity.

Father Christmas may fly through the sky on magic reindeer delivering presents down the chimney pots of millions of children in 24 short hours. But this is far more believable than a man who can feed 5,000 hungry mouths with five loaves and two fish (bearing in mind Father C missed out an entire third world continent). Unless the fish were killer whales, or Jesus was feeding midgits, the story is just so unfeasible.

Walking on water? Turning it into wine? Jesus sounds like the David Copperfield of his day.

But back to Pope Benedict. Where is the morality in living in a magical world, more commonly known as the Vatican, surrounded by wealth and riches, while the paupers on the outskirts of the city can hardly afford to put food on the table?

Rape, greed, abuse, is this what God would have wanted? I think not. And the church should be the first to agree it’s a fucking blessing he doesn’t exist, or they’d be the first to be launched into the firey pits of hell.