Hell hath no fury…

About a month ago I received a message on Facebook, but because of that stupid “other” folder (that no one ever checks) I only saw it today. This is what it said:

Hi. This will seem a little strange and sorry if I have the wrong person, but if you’ve been on any dates with Max Lawson you might want to read this blog: http://diaryofadickhead.com*

Sorry for messaging you out of the blue, just woman to woman I feel like you deserve to see it. I wish I’d known about it sooner.

To be fair, he’s much nicer about you than he is about other people but it might still be interesting.

*this is not actually the name of his blog – I’ve changed it, not because I want to protect his identity but because I don’t want to inadvertently grow his (already fucked up) readership.

I’ve decided that MAX LAWSON of Angel, London is not getting the luxury of anonymity in this blog for reasons I will divulge as this post develops. But seeing as he kindly took the time to give us girls such creative and well thought out pseudonyms such as ‘She’, ‘Chatty’ and ‘Dalston Girl’ (I was known simply as ’Half Italian’) I feel he probably deserves one too  – just for fun…

‘D-Bag’ springs to mind, as does ‘Weirdo_Cat_Lover_87’ but actually, on account of his stupidly large hair, I think ’Jimmy Neutron’ will suffice. Yeah, that suits him well. I’ll call him Jimmy for short.

So after I received this message from Chatty, I was naturally a little confused and also weirdly nervous. I started backtracking through the dates I’d had with Jimmy, trying to remember if I’d done anything notable enough to feature in one of his woman-bashing blogs! I followed the link Chatty had sent me but of course, like all good tossers, Jimmy had covered his tracks.

Max Lawson

That’s when I started to feel miffed! Really fucking miffed! I thought, Come on Jimmy, don’t be shy. If you’re going to write about me then at least let me read it, ya twat! I have a vagina. I am your muse.Your raison d’etre! Don’t you want to hear my notes!?

Or maybe you just want me to shut my mouth, lay down and relax as you ‘come’ on my back ‘like a piece of meat’? (Ooh yes ladies and gents, that’s a direct quote from his blog – not about me I might add but you know… a girl can dream!)

After 24 years, you’d have thought I’d have learned not to react to anything whilst angry. Unfortunately, this is not the case. I am, as ever, a slave to my emotions. I am also notoriously nosey and so I really wanted to see what Jimmy had written about me. So of course, when I couldn’t access his page I angrily clicked on the ‘request access’ button…

I immediately regretted this decision!

Now he’d know that I knew! I’d given up the element of surprise that would have worked completely to my advantage as I plotted my revenge on behalf of womankind!

Nay bother…it’s cool… the damage is done… no point fretting about it now … (DAMMIT TO HELL!)

So I couldn’t access the blog but I could talk to Chatty and try to find out what she remembered from his posts. I liked this girl. She was ballsy. She was, quite rightly, pissed off about what he’d said about her and us other girls but instead of just shrugging it off with a sigh and a “boys will be boys” attitude, she was actually doing something about it. I liked that she had the moral integrity to let us know what was happening.

“Good for you” I thought. “You go girl!”

… Then I did that Tyra Banks style head wobble.

Chatty started to tell me about some of the stuff Jimmy had written. He’d blocked her from seeing it too so all she had to go on was her trusty memory and a few screenshots she’d taken to show friends and presumably throw gin at whilst shouting “YOU CAD!”

So yeah, Chatty started detailing the stuff that Jimmy had blogged about, and as his vile poisonous words started to appear on my screen I began to wish I wasn’t at work. The stuff he’d said and done on his “dates” with some of these girls was most definitely sociopathic. I was furious and upset and wanted to grab my company laptop, shake it and shout “YOU WOT MATE!? YOU WOT!?” in my brassiest midlands accent!

But I didn’t. I remained calm. A fountain of serenity on the outside – laughing at the jokes my team were making, keeping on top of the emails – but inside I was a seething mass of pent up wrath! How dare he talk about me, them, PEOPLE IN GENERAL in this way… AND ON THE INTERNET TOO! If you want to keep a diary of your abusive sexual exploits then please, keep a fucking diary. Lock it with one of those naff bendy keys, hide it in a sock and push it deep to the back of your stinking underwear draw where it belongs. Don’t fucking put “www.” in front of it!

Here are some of the things Chatty told me had featured on Belle du WANKER’S blog:

  1. All the dates he’s been on, including any sexual activities in some detail. (He must be spending a small fortune on beer and condoms!)
  2. Ratings and scores for each girl and comparisons between them – ‘this girl was better at this, that girl was better at that.’ (Oo yeah, like the way you might test drive a car or sample that new sofa you’re thinking of buying? News flash! Women are people not commodities.)
  3. Covertly-taken photos of the girls’ underwear (Pervert!)
  4. Grand statements about himself like “the girls were hanging off my every word”, “sparks were flying” etc… (HAHAHA…HAHAH…HAAAHAHAHAAA. Knob)
  5. A lovely recollection of how he came on ones girl’s back like she was “a piece of meat”! (Oh wait I told you that one already didn’t ? OO yuck, bleurgh!)
  6. A selection of his “anticipations” and “expectations” for date number 2. ANTICIPATE THIS, BITCH (*SLAP*)

And yadayadayada… You get the disgusting drift.

After Chatty had given me the low-down on this low life (and after I’d taken a few deep breaths to calm down) I began to feel a peculiar mix of loathing and hysteria building up inside of me. Yes, what this guy had been doing was like, real gosh darn dastardly, but BECAUSE he’d been doing it we were now fully within our right, on behalf of vaginas around the world, to execute our cunning and vindicated revenge!

Hell hath no fury…

(To be continued)

Hell hath no fury…

This one time, at speed dating (part 1)

This is going to be somewhat of a retrospective blog about the first and only time I will ever go speed dating.

Luckily for you the events of that night were just so bloody strange that they have happily set up camp in a dusty corner of my memory, there to reside for eternity I imagine.

It was all Gustavo’s fault.

“Guys! So I’ve always wanted to give speed dating a go and seeing as we’ll all probably be in long-term committed relationships within the month (we weren’t), do you fancy going next week?”

At £10 a pop and the impending possibility of meeting a Gerard Butler lookalike (whom I would woo in four minutes with my discerning wit and goofy good looks, of course) how could I refuse?

Safe to say Gerard wasn’t there.

Gustavo, Esperanza and I walked into the room expectantly, excited by the prospect of candle light and soft acoustic guitar rhythms.

Instead we got a room that looked like the weekend hangout spot for some dodgy 90’s rapper. With a blingtastic bar, more spot lighting than was probably healthy and white leather sofas that would have looked more at home in R Kelly’s ‘Ignition’ video , I wasn’t feeling it.

Gustavo went to the bar while we girls made a b-line for the pimped out toilets, tactfully checking out any potential “action” on the way.

There was no action. Not even a smidgen of activity. There was a big fat ass nothing rocking around in the space where all the hot guys should have been.

We left the loos and went straight to the bar.

Gustavo had already allied himself with a couple of the troll men that were to be our dates for the evening…


So I ordered tequila! And a beer!

And then some more tequila.

I was so busy self-medicating for the night ahead that I completely missed the start of the dating!

I rushed back to my allocated seat to find a buttoned up Chinese guy waiting for me, already two minutes in to our four minute date.

“Oh hi, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realise we’d started. Here, I bought you a shot of tequila!”

“No thanks”

Strike one.

As far as dates go (and they were about to enter a whole new level of bizarre) this guy was pretty harmless. Granted, by the time I had sedated myself to a satisfactory level we only had two minutes left to chat, and you have to be pretty talented to make something goddamn awful in two minutes.

I can’t really remember what we talked about now. The only defining characteristic of date no.1 was his terrifying hysterical laugh that jarred uncomfortably with his very serious suit.

I made him laugh once and got scared. So I took off my funny hat for the rest of our date.


One down… fourteen to go!

So I don’t know about you but until speed date no.2 I didn’t have a clue what DKNY stood for.

“Hi, nice to meet you!  My name’s Valentina.” (You’ve probably guessed by now that I have a penchant for Spanish pseudonyms)

“I’m Karan. As in DKNY.”


Turns out DKNY stands for Donna KARAN New York.

Fine. Great! But…


This guy was just weird. Mainly because he had a silly hat on and was coked up to his eyeballs.

My four minutes with him were spent sat as far back in my seat as was physically possible, swatting away the barrage of aggressive drug fuelled flirtation that was coming my way.

Sweet baby Jesus ring the bell! Any second I could be roofied, chopped up into little pieces and stuffed into his DKNY suitcase!


So the tone of the evening was set …

I was in for an evening of atrocious flirting attempts the likes of which the world has never seen, including:

  1. A guy whose personal space boundaries left much to be desired. (He thought 3cm was an appropriate distance between our faces and he let his head RICOCHET INTO MY LAP when he laughed!!!)
  2. A guy who basically shouted at me for four minutes
  3. A guy who was practically trembling with pent-up sexual frustration

But more of that in part two…

This one time, at speed dating (part 1)