I found this at the ever excellent Film Drunk website this week. I really don’t know what to say about it, but it still looks fucking excellent. And I have no idea how I am going to get to see it, but if anyone know if it’s going to get a screening in the UK then please let me know.

Tweet... 

Since my new year got off to its stunning start, I have been debating a return, at some point, to the world of internet dating. When I first went on one of these sites I was pleasantly surprised by how the concept worked so well. It got rid of all the trepidation: you know that someone fancies you, you know what they look like (sometimes), and you are meant to be able to deduce whether you actually have something in common.

But revisiting the site (it’s the one where you’re someone’s friend) got me thinking about how annoying some of these profiles can be; and can I be arsed to traipse through all these profiles to find a good one? And there are loads. Initially this is fun, but as someone said to me, then it does feel like you’re perving in some kind of cyber pub, rather than looking for someone you genuinely want to be with. Maybe that’s just me.

One of the most common annoyances with internet dating profiles is that they try to cover all the bases. If I have to read another profile about a person that is equally ‘at home’ going to a pub as they are to a club, going to a festival or chilling at home, bungee jumping or fucking fly fishing, then I’ll scream. If you don’t give us a point of reference, then it’s difficult to start a converstion for fuck’s sake!. Then girls write about what a great friend their girlfriends are, and all the girly things about them they adore.  They say things like: ‘She loves Gok’s Fashion fix and watches it religously every week’ — oh yeah, because we men love that show. Or it’s: ‘She’s such a good listener and you can turn up with a bottle of wine and tell her all your troubles’. Good God! And my personal favourite: ‘If she was a character from Sex in the City …’.  Men absolutely, positively, and without a doubt could not give fuck what character she is from Sex in the City … unless it’s Samantha, of course.

Tweet... 

Well, if she's not going to want it

To cut a long story short: I was left with a rather personal and expensive present this new year that was no longer wanted or needed (the receiver has told me that she is not going to want any presents from me in future). The intimate nature of the present and the risk it posed (that is, in me buying it) meant that, although the present had been initially accepted, I had still held on to the reciept. So when the new year came and the inevitable happened, I had to make the sad and lonely walk of shame to take back very expensive lingerie to a very expensive lingerie shop.

What happened next was an absolute masterclass in humiliation.

Not least because the type of store I was returning goods to, already makes the exercise embarrassing. That the returning goods were the entire matching set screams that your purchase either was some kind of futile gesture and you’re a loser, or it’s obvious that Christmas and new year did not go too well, and you’re still a loser.

Owing to the nature of the goods in question — that of ‘intimate apparel’ — the sales girl tells me:

‘Sorry, refunds are not available. What would you like to do?’

Erm, wear it myself? Wait until the next young lady comes along, and see if she is the same size and has the same taste as my previous girlfriend, and won’t mind wearing an erotic ensemble intended for someone else? Or do I sell it on ebay — saucy underwear for sale with the description ‘lingerie for sale, never worn but much leered at’?

All the while this is going on, the shop’s stereo is blasting out a song by Roy Orbison called, unbelievably, ‘It’s Over’.

‘I can offer you a credit note,’ she says.

Erm, ok. That’s gonna be the best bet. At least I can properly sell it with minimum grief.

‘It is good for six months,’ she continues.

Now the bit when she rips the heart right out of my chest, and then skewers it with her six-inch stiletto heel. She takes a good look at me and adds:

‘… but for you, I think that we could extend that time.’

Nice.

Tweet...