Oh God, this digs up bad memories
Some of the most excruciating times of my life have centred around asking girls out.

People who know me now might be surprised, but I was a painfully shy teen - I suspect most of my brash exterior may just be an overcompensating cover-up to make sure some of the 15-year-old tragedies which still haunt my life never re-surface. Until this QoW, of course.

To excise a history which would otherwise have me curled up in a little ball and weeping like Gwynneth Paltrow on Oscars night, I will simply present the story of Asheley.

Asheley (I still remember the oddball spelling to this day) was sex appeal personified. Glorious secretary-specs like those worn by Michelle Pfeiffer in The Witches Of Eastwick, an enticing bob of hair, and a full-length school skirt that she only occasionally allowed to reveal a glimpse of perfectly-rounded calf. She was relaxed, chatty and used to do a pouty thing with her lips that drove me wild. I spent hours talking to her, and it was so easy. Not like talking to other girls that I fancied: conversation with Asheley was so natural, so easy, and we talked through a range of topics beyond most teenagers. Politics, books, theatre, nothing was beyond our expertise. She must have known I was at least interested. With the benefit of my wisdom, I know now I should have just kept up the chatty relationship and - one day - she would have succumbed. Instead, I chose to write...THE LETTER.

Heaven knows why I ever thought it was a good idea, but I asked out an unconscionable number of girls via letter in my teens. As is fairly evident, I have no problems with florid prose and I suspected a few Shakespeare sonnets might be the finishing touch. Obviously, no luck. I'm pretty sure one lass contacted the police about a suspected stalker, and another potential bedmate interpreted my letter as an intention to sleep with her Mum (really, don't ask).

Anyway, I swore things would be different with Asheley. I knew she was bookish, and a big fan of Black Beauty. I painstakingly read swathes of Anna Sewell biographies, cringing horribly as I did so (at the time my reading material of choice was good sturdy thrillers by Alistair MacLean). I carefully composed a letter from Asheley's very own 'Black Beauty', expressing my loneliness and very subtly hinting that I'd like an equestrian-minded female to come and be my stable-mate. It was, if I might say so, a work of genius.

With trembling hands, I sealed the whole thing up in a powder-blue envelope, and casually sauntered around the corner to where Asheley lived. When I was 99% sure that no-one was home, I dashed down the drive, shoved it through the letterbox and ran like Linford Christie with a bulldog biting his goolies.

I sat at home and pined for three days. Every love song on VH1 (I really was a sad child) was devoted, in my mind, to Asheley. I used to lean on the windowsill, stare out and shed tiny tears as I wondered what she was doing. I was willing her to come cautiously up to our drive on tiptoe, powder-blue envelope in hand. Was she undergoing the same agonies I was? Did she have the same feelings of curiosity? Would my sexual experiences carry on being limited to a brief and unerotic fumble with Tracey, the town bike?

Eventually, my father forced me away from the rainy windows and dragged me off to play nine holes of golf. Two pathetically unfulfilling hours later, I dragged my grubby golf shoes over the doorstep, only to put spike-marks and mud all over a delicate, lacy-edged envelope...

Ohmigod! My heart literally leapt. There's no feeling like it when you feel your chest push you up with excitement and anticipation. I could barely breathe. I whisked the envelope up to my bedroom, inhaled deeply of the perfume that coated the letter (trying to ignore the overtones of local grass and dogshit), and - oh so carefully - slit the envelope open.

What Asheley had written turned me upside-down. I've kept it ever since, hidden from all future girlfriends and wives. Every now and then, when I've felt like I can't sink any lower, I've sneaked out this grubby bit of paper from a desk drawer and read through it a few times. It never fails to work. And I am sharing it, with b3ta, for the first ever time.

What did she say to me?

This.

...
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 20:46, 42 replies)

The multiverse of Spimf
At precisely 11.51 on Dec 24 2009 Mrs Spimf and I will have been together for 21 years. As a fan of 'Back to the Future' see here this anal level of precision works well for me, that and the fact I am a hopeless romantic and do very much believe in the power of love.

It will also be our fourth wedding anniversary and exactly 5 years since I proposed. The proposal story is also quite QOTW friendly, “my proposal involved a concealed kitten a Christmas tree and some industrial fireworks - how did you, or would you propose to your beloved?”

Anyway…

Christmas Eve, 1988 there’s the fresh faced Spimf, 19-year-old and not really in the mood to go out that night. I was at my gran's house with my mum and sister. It was a particularly cold wet and miserable night even by Glasgow standards. My wee Welsh gran had the gas fire on a little bit too high. The combination of the moist thick heat and soft hissing noise from a gas fire has always made me feel safe, secure and a bit sleepy (having said that maybe the fire simply hadn’t been serviced for a while), I was quite settled for a quiet night in. After all Santa was coming and there would be presents in the morning! But I was an adult now and my mate Mark was not ready to let me forget this. After calling to assure me our usual haunt would be “hoachin with fanny” (we were such regulars our little laminated VIP passes were numbers 3 & 4 – oh yes! very much the young blades) I was confidently assured that if I didn’t go out that night, I was a 'definite bender' reluctantly I agreed to get ready for a night out. High waisted stonewash jeans, ridiculous huge gelled 80’s hair, a liberal dousing of Kouros and there it was – chick Kryptonite. Did I mention the rather expensive handmade cowboy boots? Well aside from now being deeply embarrassing they are also highly significant, and in hindsight probably made me look like a 'definite bender'.

Eventually the cabbie announced his arrival with a few impatient pumps on the horn. I kissed my mum, sister and wee welsh Gran goodnight, promised to be back in time for Christmas dinner, then set off into the drizzle worrying about my extravagantly gelled hair. Walking down the pathway to the taxi I still felt distinctly unenthused about going out. Then the heel of my stupid bloody handmade cowboy boot hit a wet leaf – immediately everything expanded to Matrix bullet time. Doing my flailing slo-mo goosestep I remember thinking very clearly “right, if I go arse-over-tit and get all wet and manky – fuck it! I’m staying in.” Somehow I regained my footing and what little composure I had in that get-up. Space-time was restored and some way off in the distant future, in a picture next to my bed my son faded back into view.

So there we are in the club, Joe Paparazzo’s in Glasgow, not our usual haunt; Tin Pan Alley in Mitchell Lane – no! A deviation was made from the norm that night, the gears of fate had shifted, an alternate time line had been struck (big queue outside Tin Pan Alley, fuck that).

So new horizons, fresh prey: there I was scanning ‘Joe Paps’; a converted porn cinema apparently, popular with the dirty mac brigade before VHS allowed us to perv in the comfort of our own homes and killed the sleazy cinema trade dead in its sticky slacks. Then it happened, amidst the ironic Santa hats and hair gel I chanced upon the most lustrous mane of long dark tumbling hair.

There she was. Slender, pretty and petite wearing a lacy black dress (80’s remember) some high spiky black heels accentuating a finely turned ankle, and cracking legs. Then she spun round, tossing her beautiful hair over her shoulder (things might have gone a bit slo-mo again here) and looked directly at me, as if somehow she knew I was there. I found out later her dumpy mate was on point saying, “right, he's looking now”. Men are indeed innocent lambs before the connivances of a woman and her fat mate.

Her eyes were dark, dangerous and utterly beguiling. After all too brief a glance she looked away disinterestedly but arched her back and extended one leg backwards slightly (apparently this made her bum look even more perfect - like I say, innocent lambs). I was crestfallen. Clearly she was out of my league. She looked a little older than me and far more sophisticated (not difficult). But that didn't stop me staring. Pathetically, I was utterly unable to approach. At that point my best chat up approach was a slightly deranged looking stare. This went on for a while, a long while, then a friend of a friend who was with our group moved in for the kill. Ramie; an unsavory character, dodgy, bit of a car thief, conman and womaniser, but handsome and smooth with it. Bastard. It all began to slip away from me, the picture of my future son self-erasing by my bedside.

Action was required. Immediate action. I strode over, all the while looking into her huge brown eyes. Spinning on my (Cuban) heel I turned to the smirking Ramie, “your round mate”. He looked me up and down, sneered a bit, then turned to Mrs Spimf “he reckons it's my round, what do you think?” Mrs Spimf looked at him sweetly, held out her glass and said innocently “fresh orange and lemonade please”.

We talked. She was perfect. I glanced at my watch to see when it would be Christmas – 9 minutes to go. At midnight we shared an awkward peck on the cheek, I’d muffed it again. Shortly afterward Mrs. Spimf looked deep into my eyes and asked...

“So did you have a nice Christmas”?

I kid her now that she was pouting and swooning at this point, to be honest she was more likely thinking “Christ! will this Muppet ever make a move?”

We kissed, I had a cheeky grope at her bum. All the future pictures were drawn.

On Christmas eve at precisely 11.51 we enter our 22nd year together, Mrs Spimf remains perfect, as does my son, smiling away happily in a picture beside my bed.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 14:22, 21 replies)

B3ta: turning meaningless sex into true love since 2009.
I went to a b3ta bash in central London and got horrendously drunk on white wine. I was having difficulty finding my way out of the pub let alone to Paddington station and lo, I missed my train. Fortunately help came in the line delivered by fellow b3tan, Captain V. "You can come home with me and stay at my parents' house," he said, and I immediately knew I'd be safe as he lived with his mummy and daddy, and was from Off Topic and therefore gay.

After a lengthy journey back to his home he nobly made up the sofa bed for me, and then, like a true gentleman, wouldn't let me sleep alone. I woke up with a hangover, a massive grin, and a 155 mile walk of shame ahead of me in a broken pair of shoes. Turns out he wasn't gay and his innocent offer of sanctuary involved a family-sized box of condoms and a double duvet.

He lives with me now. We're getting married next year. Ta, b3ta.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 10:28, 22 replies)

Girls can be so cruel...
I used to live in a Suffolk town where going rollerskating every weekend was pretty much the only thing to do as a 13 yr old, and also a good way to be allowed to stay out on a Friday night until..ooooh....at least 9:30pm.

My friend and I saved for our own skates so we didn't have to hire the crappy brown ones and thought we were Kings amongst men. I'd had my eye on this girl who we saw there most weeks for a while and judging by the huddled giggles her friends and her shared everytime I skated past, she/they had noticed.

One night after a particularly successful game of 'train' I stood beside the rink having a much needed coke feeling rather like 'the man'. Suddenly her and her 'cackle' of friends approached - obviously impressed I thought by my skills. I tried to remain cool as they got closer.

"Would you like to go out with me?" she said. I GULPED and tried not to let my weak knees give way to the wheels attached to my feet.

"Yes" I replied, probably a little (lot) too eagerly.

"That's a shame" she said through the beginnings of a laugh. "I wouldn't like to go out with you!". Upon which point her and her friends fell about laughing. As did the crowd of 'mates' who were standing with me.

About 5 years later when we had all grown tall and old enough, we relocated these nights out to the nightclub next door. Skating was for kids - pretending we were on drugs and raving like mentals was where it was at. As I was cutting shapes with my friends I noticed a girl watching me with a group of friends at the side of the dancefloor. "Shit", I thought, "That's her and she's all grown up".

Ambling up to her I smiled and asked. "Would you like to dance with me?" She looked at her friends, who gave her not too subtle encouragement.

"Yes" she replied (a bit, no a LOT too eagerly - or so I like to remember). "That's a shame" I replied, "I wouldn't like to dance with you". I'll never forget the look of embarassment, realisation, and anger crossing her face.

Now, given at this point I was 18 - it was a little sad, and given that she was a cracker, not just a little bit of a wasted opportunity. However, I think I enjoyed my revenge more than any grope of her big tits on the comfy sofas at the back.*


* May not be true.

Apologies for length - If I can hold a petty grudge for 5 years..what did you expect?
(Galahad is out of his gourd on yellow bentines, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 12:51, 12 replies)

Good grief I was crap with girls when I was 16. (Repost)
I was a bit geeky at school. (Gee, really?) My romantic entanglements tended to be quantum in nature - i.e. they happened at a distance and were undetectable to outside observers, especially the target of my affections.

I remember one time I had a crush on someone in the year above. After many months agonizing, I approached her and asked if she wanted a screw.

Now, I had a backup plan - when (not if) she said no, I would take a screw out of my pocket, say "Pity, it's a nice one" and beat a retreat.

She said yes.

Fzzzt. My entire prefrontal cortex fuses and I resort to plan B anyway, handing her the screw and beating a hasty retreat.

So, on the minuscule chance that Amanda is a B3tan, if it's any consolation, I've felt dumb about this for 20+ years. And now I'm airing it on B3ta, confirming the fact that I am irrepressably geeky.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 18:29, 4 replies)

Not really asking someone out, but a chat up line nonetheless...
But I think it fits.

Back when I was in high school, me and my best mate (David) were often referred to as the same person, because you'd usually find one of us taking the piss out of the other. All was well.

We had a decent sized group of friends, about evenly split between lads and girls. Between the two of us, we ended up either snogging/going out with all of the girls bar 2. One was a really nice girl (Becca), and had been with her fella for a couple of years at this point, so there was no chance. Angelic in behaviour, but with a sense of humour so dark, it would have made Chris Morris shit himself. The other was just a munter. Great laugh, but ugly as sin.

This story concerns the first girl. One monday we came in, to find her obviously quite upset. Turns out her fella had dumped her out of the blue (he was a bit of a tosser), and she'd spent the weekend feeling sorry for herself. Having decided against my original plan to cheer her up*, me and my best mate came up with something which is still one of my favourite lines.

At lunchtime, one of the knobheads had made a comment about her panda eyes, and she'd got even more upset. She'd eventually calmed down, and just quickly redone her makeup, showing how pretty she really was. We see her stood with her mates, walk over, and begin:

David: Wow Becca, you look half decent again! (we were cheeky little sods, but we were just charming enough to pull it off)
Me: Definitely
Becca: Aww, thanks guys.
M: I do have to ask something though...Did it hurt?
B: Did what hurt?
D: When you fell from heaven...
B & Mates: Awwww
Me:...And landed on your face.

Her face went from happy, to confusion, to shock, then to complete and utter amusement. She almost shat herself laughing, while her mates (who were all innocent and boring) looked at us as if we were the biggest pair of twats ever.

She later admitted that it was just what she needed that day, and I'm still glad we were able to brighten it!

*Knob her myself
( Agnostic Antichrist Baltimora, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:16, 2 replies)

How I learned to get THEM to come to YOU.
I got my lip pierced back in 2005:



A year later I was flirting with this girl from class when it occurred to me that a) she was really into me, and 2) she mentions how much she really likes my lip ring a lot...

It made me think, you know what? I've had comments on it from OTHER girls that I thought maybe I had a shot with.

You may have noticed the background in that picture. I work in a research lab. So I did what I do best: I formed a hypothesis and designed a way to test it.

HYPOTHESIS: Any girl that mentions my lip ring will totally make out with me.

EXPERIMENT: Proposition every girl that mentions my lip ring. If they bring it up, apropos of nothing, and say "hey, I like your lip ring" then respond with: Well, if you want to give it a spin, I'm looking to maybe get into some trouble later. Then just go from there.

RESULTS: In three years I have made out with 100% of the girls that have mentioned my lip ring. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. Only once has the girl not been attractive to me, but damnit this is science, and I had to do it to be sure.

CONCLUSION: I have a shot with any gal that compliments my lip ring, or even goes far enough to feign interest in whether it hurt or not (nb: not one bit). I don't know why this is, but I imagine that for whatever reason, it's not universal. Some gals think it gives me a "bad boy" image, some gals are into me for other reasons and are looking for something nice to say as a subtle green light for me to make a move, and some gals aren't really interested at all until I make a bold move, which in itself impresses them.

SUPPLEMENTAL DATA: I had a dude once ask me about it at a dinner party. I told him about this idea and the people in attendance were all amused. I later had a gal pull me aside, smirk, and say "so hey, I like your lip ring..." That's when I knew that this was the single best $40 I've ever spent.
(jessemoya, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 3:46, 32 replies)

Oh god, I'd forgotten about this.
Me and a few friends were in a dingy meat market of a nightclub. The drunken knobhead of our group sidles up to two girls. One was hot, the other was... less hot*.
He walks straight up to the ugly one of the two and says "do you wanna dance?". She nods enthusiastically, bingo wings aflappin', a look of mingled joy and surprise spreading across her face.
She turns to head for the dance floor but my mate doesn't move. She looks back in polite incomprehension, and he drops the bomb: "go on, then. I'm trying to chat your mate up".
Bingo wings or not, she had a fantastic right hook on her.
Totally worth it, he reckoned.

*Wouldn't have looked completely out of place in a circus.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:26, 1 reply)

MEMENTO
I have a memento, a keepsake I carry round in my wallet which reminds me what a spectacular twat I can be sometimes…

Back in 1993 when I was enjoying the fine weather and ambiance of Manchester as a student, I ended up going back to the halls of residence with a girl named Marilyn. And I’m proud to say that this fine daughter of Exeter took my cherry. Not too sure how that happened – chat up lines are a bit of a misnomer, I’d say. Personally I prefer the shotgun approach; just open your mouth and see what comes out. As a failsafe you could always try the real shotgun approach – but apparently its against the law in this country to demand sexual favors from a pissed up stranger whilst pointing a barrel of a gun at them.

Anyway, Marilyn and I did the deed and I left to stagger back to my own room just across the way. Feeling all manly on account of finally finding some bird who’d let me violate her body. But something weird happened while I was with Marilyn. Something unexpected. I actually felt – in our brief time together – feelings… the type of feelings that up until that point I’d never actually felt before. I actually wanted to be with her, just hang out, I thought I actually enjoyed her company past the point that she was in ownership of a fully functioning and working vagina. OK, she had let me experience the insides of a nice warm, moist vag for the first time ever, but… I felt I was actually in the very early stages of falling in love with her.

This obviously scared the living shit out of me and I went through the next week attempting to come to terms with this bizarre new development. I avoided Marilyn like the fucking plague. I was too much of a pussy to actually go and ask her out, properly like. Even though we’d done the deed this was mainly down to my best mate Boddingtons and her best mate Bacardi and coke. We’d hardly ever actually exchanged a word. (Actually, I do recall on the big night I whispered, very lovingly in her ear: “I want to fuck you like an animal,” which didn’t go down too fucking well). I was an absolute fucking mess.

So, being completely chickenshit, I hit on the idea of writing her a note and posting it in her letterbox (not her fanny, the actual real letterbox for her halls). Took me ages to write. I had to come up with something not too heavy, but also something that would make her realize I really was the one for her. I had to convince her she was definitely onto a good thing if she wanted to take things further. So I wrote the note, sat back and waited. This is what I wrote:



Which reads: Marilyn, You are incredibly hot. I think I love you! When we were together it was like time stood still. We should get together more often. I'd really like to be your boyfriend! Let me know what you think. PS – I promise I usually last longer than 10 seconds! (First night nerves)!

Now, you’re probably wondering how I managed to get this note back so I could fold it into a teeny tiny square and secrete it away in my wallet to wail and wank over for year to come… No, she didn’t come running into my arms, gushing, crying with joy. No, she didn’t pop it back into my own letterbox without another word. No, she didn’t call the police and have a court injunction taken out against me.

No – instead one drizzly March morning I heard a loud repetitive bang on my room door, followed by: “Spanky, you twat!” I opened my door and one of my flatmates, Blackpool Ben held in his hands a photocopy of my letter. “TEN FUCKING SECONDS! WOOOO! YOU SUPER FUCKING STUD!”
I snatched the letter out of his hands, seriously pissed off. I was lovestruck, vulnerable… I savagely tore the letter into little pieces and lobbed it in my bin. Blackpool Ben continued: “No point doin’ that, son. Marilyn and her flatmates have taped about a zillion copies all over the fucking place…”

Fucker…

Didn’t get laid for a whole year after that. Just had random people coming up to me in the SU saying: “Are you the ten second man?” with a look of utter contempt, disgust, or consolation on their face.

Chatup lines, possibly… Chatup LETTERS…

Don’t. Just fucking don’t.
( SpankyHanky, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 14:12, 6 replies)

Can I smell your fanny?
Eons ago, my mate Stu and I used to run a DJ, pub quiz, karaoke, entertainment type outfit. Just part time but we made enough to pay off the gear in a few months and even cleared enough to hire people to do the gigs we couldn't be bothered doing. The best gigs we did though were quizzes in big pubs that we hosted together ... have a laugh on stage and get paid enough to have a night out afterwards and a taxi back in the morning for the gear.

One night we had a bonus round, whereby teams had to write down the worst chat up line they could think of, and the winning team would get to see one of us use it later on in a club, on a girl of their choice. (We'd had a few and it seemed like a good idea ... )

The winner by a mile was,

"Can I smell your fanny?"

"No!"

"Oh, it must be your feet."

So half an hour later we're in the said club, across the road from the pub where we'd had the quiz. Most of the people from the quiz are in and we've formed an unusal gathering by the toilets as Stu and I toss a coin to see who's going to get slapped. He won! So he sighs, pulls up his belt a bit and wanders over to the lass the winning team have chosen.

We can't hear anything above the music, but her face was enough ... curiosity ... shock ... anger ... then ... then ... a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth ... then a big grin ... then huge laughter.

She calls her pals over who laugh too, then we see Stu obviously explaining what made him do it ... she looks over at our big group, sticks her tongue out then grabs Stu and sticks her tougue in his mouth. We Cheer. A few months later, they got engaged.
( Cheeses of Nazareth Where's Captain Kirk? www.whereiskirk.com, Sun 13 Dec 2009, 16:32, 2 replies)

Drunken Honesty
Late 2005 I was out with some boorish banker clients and, as visitors to our fair shores, they wanted to go and see Hong Kong's Wanchai girly bars. Sperm splashed velveteen has never really been my thing and certainly not with clients. So we made the sort of plan that only makes sense after a skinfull - I would wait in the 'normal' bar (Mes Amis if you know it) and they would join me afterward.

So there I am, nursing another drink I don't need, slowly realising they aren't coming back (intelligence is not a strong suit) when I see a vision. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen - if cartoon physiology was real my jaw would have hit the floor. She was in a big mixed group but as far as I could see not with anyone of them in particular.

I knew I should just leave and not make a tool of myself but it was like a challenge from the Gods. She was waaaay out of my league - I knew that even pissed. I was drunk, reeking of ale and deadliest of all, on my own, but I knew being blown out would be less painful than kicking myself for not trying.

But what to say? "Hello Chick, my name's Dick, want some"? just didn't seem appropriate. I decided I would near finish my drink and speak to her as I was on my way out to lessen the pain should she loudly tell me, just as the music dips, to fuck off - which is what I expected. And without a clue what to say I decided to go with fate and just say the first thing than came to mind. I drank slowly and fearfully.

The moment came and I slouched from my chair in my least drunken stalkerish way. I sat beside her and said "I was about to leave but I had to talk to you first. You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen".

No I don't know where it came from either. She smiled. And we talked. And laughed. And then at 5am she said she had a flight to catch in 3 hours and she really had to rush off. Oh yeah I thought - super excuse though. We swapped numbers and I thought that would be that. But it wasn't by a long way.

We're still together, married and have little Prescottsflu now. And she still reckons she's out of my league. She's right of course, but I win.
(prescottsflu infected you at, Wed 16 Dec 2009, 4:51, 9 replies)

How to pull: A fuckwits guide
During my years of borderline alcoholism, I’ve encountered a number of chat up lines that can be grouped into a few disparate categories. Here’s a few I can be arsed to recall:

Intelligence
Coming from Coventry this was a technique I didn’t see firsthand before I went to University. Pretty straightforward; you’re average run-of-the-mill bloke tries to trick some random girl into thinking he’s got the frightening intellect of Plato, Stephen Hawking, and that Jean Luc Picard when he’s in the X-Men all wrapped into one. Apparently if you come across as super-brainy, those knickers will just melt away like rice paper as they react with the gushing lady juices.
The main drawback of this approach is that the only fellas who could claim to actually possess a thunderously stonking intellect are actually locked away in a room somewhere reading books and doing hard maths. Those fuckwits who are actually out on the pull are not – in point of fact – super geniuses.
Best Intelligence related chat up line I heard: “Cows have got four stomachs, impressive, ehh? Can I buy you a drink? NO!?! Are you sure? OK, in that case can I buy your mate a drink – did you know that cows have got four stomachs?” Needless to say that particular mate went home alone. Knowledge of bovine anatomy does not, as it turns out, guarantee pussy – who’d have thought, ehh?

Manly Man Man
Some people avoid the two golden rules when it comes to hitting people: one, always pick on someone smaller than you, preferably sporting some kind of physical disability or impairment (the wheelchair bound are an absolute walk over). Two: avoid fisticuffs with ‘the mentalists’. Those mad fuckers can call upon superhuman strength, Incredible Hulk style, and probably wouldn’t bat an eyelid before they’ve ripped out your testicles to playing the fuckers like a set of soggy maracas before your eyes, with your screams of agony acting as a counterpoint to the samba rhythm.
But some men, when in close proximity to fur burger, actually view the fine and ancient art of twatting someone as an aide to pulling. They’ll suddenly come on all Steven Segal and Hulk Hogan, literally go Rambo-to-the-extreme on someone’s ass in the hope of attracting some minge. Obviously, this is a flimsy pretext to hide their latent homosexual tendencies, but I’m fucked if I’m going to tell them this. Apparently some ladies – according to these Neanderthals in Abercrombie & Fitch shirts, drenched in enough Hugo Boss to suffocate an army of small horses, actually believe being a manly man man, having a good old fashioned punch up, will end in a splashy ejaculation at the cervix of some munter.
Best Manly Man Man Chat Up Line Contender: “See these guns?” stroking his tree trunk sized biceps. “These have personally destroyed a whole carriage full of Crystal Palace supporters...” I presume this upstanding denizen of society was a follower of Millwall... Either way it worked for him as moments later he’d taken the girl to a quiet sofa area at the back of the club so he could very lovingly and tenderly finger fuck her with the skill and dexterity of an out of control piston engine on a rampage. Of course, the girl was uglier than one of those deep-sea angling fish, mind, but he’s the man who’d be offering the smell of fresh, sweaty quim to his mates several minutes later and the kudos this bestowed. The rest of us had to settle for the usual finger smell of Marlborough lights and stale piss instead...

Pity
For those of us lacking in wit, charm, good lucks, or a cock that should be swinging on the rear end of a horny rhinoceros, we have this tried and tested means of obtaining a positive result from any potential flirt-and-squirt encounter. Pity. The premise works like this: Make her feel sorry for you. If you make her feel sorry for you she is absolutely guaranteed to let you have a go bashing away at her innards. She’ll let you do this as she is a humanitarian. Its charity work for her. She’ll be left feeling like some kind of slutty Mother Teresa figure, and you’ll have come – you’re both happy.
Best pity chat up line I’ve encountered (Ian you know who you are): “I never knew who my mum and dad were... Yeah, ‘s sad innit?” Rueful shake of the head. “But you know what – I’ve never been able to tell anyone about this before. You know, I think we might have some kind of a connection. Sorry if that freaks you out a bit.” Now at this point this tactic actually seemed to be working. Very fucking weird. The girl started leaning into Ian, she looked genuinely impressed that my mate had chosen her to spill his beans (prior to spilling beans of a different kind) to. But Ian being Ian, he had to go and fuck it up: “I’ve only got a ten pound note on me – d’you have any change for the condom machine? They’ve got one in the toilets in here, I know, I’ve been here before...”

The Comedy Line
Apparently making a girl laugh means she’s more likely to fuck you. This is, of course, absolute bollocks. But you can actually have a bit of fun feeding lines to your mates in the hope that they’ll say something so horrendously offensive to a complete stranger they’ll end up losing their ability to father children in the future.
One that spring to mind was when my mate Dan, upon seeing a girl I vaguely knew, asked me for a decent opening line. I noticed she was wearing blue, predominantly. Some sort of ethnic material trouser things that made her look like one of those hot science birds off of Time Team. I fed Dan the line, he didn’t think much of it. I explained the line, that this girl would love it if you paid her a compliment on her ‘kooky’ fashion sense. Dan went scuttling off. I watched from a distance as he repeated the line. I watched from a distance as Dan received a slap round the face. I started pissing myself as he returned, crestfallen.

“What the fuck went wrong there?” he enquired.

“That Sarah knows her smut, mate. You just asked her if she likes kneeling on the floor while a shitload of horny Japanese dudes shoot their load in her face. As a rule, that's a bit of a non-starter, mate.”

“Ehh???" said Dan, "‘Do you wear blue khaki often, it looks good on you?’” Then he stopped, thought about it, “You utter, utter, BASTARD!!!”


Chat up lines: Stopped using them after I hit puberty. Just have a nice little chat, and try your hardest to convince the girl you’re a nice, decent, wonderful, amazing, witty, intelligent, manly man man (and if you can slip into the conversation somewhere you struggle to fit an empty pint glass over your erect cock, what harm could that possibly do?).
( SpankyHanky, Mon 14 Dec 2009, 16:26, 5 replies)

Blunt and to the point
My first attempt at asking someone out was to pine after them for months, eventually get their phone number from the order form they put in where I worked and call them with a desperate "Go out with me."

"What..? Er... why?"
"Because I'm fed up with thinking about it."
"Er... I can't."

That's about all I remember, my brain skipped over the rest of it. She might remember the rest (she's a member here so you may be in luck) but I doubt it. At least I was forthright, is all I can say.

Now have a slightly more successful pearoast.

I was in Cardiff's premier student spot, Solus nightclub in the student union. I was out with my newly agreed housemates on a pre-living-together outing when I spotted a girl being strangled. Seriously, some dickhead had a belt round her neck on the dancefloor. I went over and with my customary good grace told him to "fuck off and stop being such a fucking knob".

(in another bravado-related incident a couple of months beforehand I had told a group of lairy chavs to "CALM THE FUCK DOWN" at the top of my voice. Surprisingly, they did)

Well, the girl was very grateful. And her friend was very appreciative. Her friend also had something about her that I found extremely attractive, and to wit, I spent a few minutes working my frankly resistable charm. And lo and behold, it worked, and vigorous tongueplay took place for much of the rest of the night. I'd forgotten her name, of course. So when her friend came to the bar while we were buying drinks later and said "So.. you and Nicola blah blah blah whocaresimnotlisteninganymoreyoujustgotmeoutofahole" I was very happy. Still, I fancied more.

Now this is where it gets interesting. Anyone ever read a book called the Dice Man? If you haven't, it's about a guy who governs his life by rolling dice for every decision he makes and then does what the dice command.

Now while I wasn't going to go as far as he did (I'm not into rape and murder) I had thought it would be a good way to decide things I don't care about - which drink do I want? Which club do we go to? etc - and maybe inject a bit of spontaneity into my life, which had become rather stale and shit since a bad break-up the previous year.

So at this point, I had two dice in my pocket. A plan formed. A few minutes later, with a mischievous smile, I laid my trap.

"So... tell me, have you ever wanted to be more spontaneous?"
"Well, of course, why?"
"I'm going to roll these two dice. Less than five, we go and have sex now. Less than ten, we wait until later. More than ten, we don't have sex tonight. Deal?"
"...yeah, okay."

In like Flynn! I am a golden God! I am the Prince Of Punani! I am flying by the pre-emptive feeling of my balls ridding themselves of 10cc of unnecessary semen. The more mathematically-minded of you may also notice that I had strategically put the odds utterly in my favour, insofar as there was a mere 1 in 12 chance of failure to get myself well and truly laid that night.

...rolled a fucking 11.
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 14:38, 7 replies)

Stay calm and concentrate.
I'd been quietly ogling her from the other side of the room for a couple of weeks now, and it had taken me nearly as long to grow the balls to ask her out.
As I walked across the room I toyed with two possible sentences: "Do you want to meet me for a drink some time?" and "Do you want to go out on the piss?".
I'm getting nearer, and my lust-addled panic-stricken mind still hasn't decided.
Closer, closer, out on the piss or meet for a drink, out on the piss or meet for a drink, out on the...
Too late. She's right there, right in front of me, she grins, says hi, plays with her hair, do it! Now's the time! Say it! Say something! Say anything! Don't just stand there!!
"Uhh. Hey, look, I've got Friday off, I wondered if you wanted to meet me, maybe we could go for a piss together?"
Imagine my desperate cheesy grin.
Imagine her look of confusion.
Imagine the look on my face as I replay my sentence in my head.
Imagine me slowly realising that she thinks I'm a piss fetishist.
...
Imagine my surprise upon discovering that some girls really do like a GSOH.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 12:52, 4 replies)

I can only apologise for taking up half of a page in one go
I have insomnia you see. Anyway.

"Hello, I am a government inspector, may I please weigh your breasts?" Then grab them and go "Weeeeeeeyyyyyyyy!" whilst jiggling. In my view a quick way to either casualty or barlinnie prison, but apparently it has "worked" on numerous occasions.

Similarly, "I bet you a pound I can make your boobs move without touching them." Then a similar grab and jiggle move, followed by handing the young maiden in question a shiny pound coin as soon as she protests. Again, seems like a quick way to being put on some sort of register to me.

The most dangerous approach I ever witnessed was attempted by a young friend of a friend on a night out in newcastle. I was "gannin doon the toon" a few months back when I witnessed one of the folk in my company dipping his fingers in his drink and flicking at a..... generously proportioned young lady. Understandably annoyed, she enquired as to what said young gentleman was about.

"What tha' fuck yee deein, man?"

"Just keepin ya wet til greenpeace arrives, pet"

I lost a good half of my drink out my nostrils.
( baw__bag contains traces of nuts on, Wed 16 Dec 2009, 4:44, 5 replies)

Alcohol seems to be a common thread...
Me and all my drinking buddies went all out one evening and decided to splurge on ridiculously expensive booze. Being young and poor, this was an extremely exciting event. After pretentiously tasting each bottle, we decided it was a good time to go out and belt out the entirety of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody in public.

As we were drunkenly stumbling back home, I found myself alone with one guy I didn't know very well. However, he seemed intent on knowing me very, very well. On the way, he uttered two lines that I will never forget as long as I live:

"You're so pretty and delicate... you remind me of my cousin."

"Your... what?"

"My cousin... You look just like her."

If slightly eerie incestuous comments weren't enough, he added the icing on the cake:

"Would you give me... consent?"

Gentlemen, please, please do not ask to sleep with a girl in the context of not raping her. She won't like it at all.
(PanelDePon, Tue 15 Dec 2009, 19:26, 2 replies)

Don't remember it, but this is how it was related to me
As I mentioned earlier I don't do chat-up lines. To paraphrase from the film Singles, not having a thing is my thing. I still have a thing but, well, you know what I mean. My friends though gave me a line to deliver - "There's a party in my pants baby, and you're the guest of honour" - and pointed in the direction of the young lady to try it on.

I barely managed to shuffle over to her table without falling over before loudly reciting:

"There's a party in my pants baby..."

There then follows a pause while it's apparent that I've completely forgotten what comes next. Barely a second later I've recovered though and with hands in the air and loud, enthusiastic gusto I complete the line:

"Wahey!"
( djtrialprice, Mon 14 Dec 2009, 13:50, 4 replies)

Fabric, Knickers & Boxers
In this day and age of equality of the sexes, I hate to say it but the ladies have a better deal when it comes to the common or garden chat up line. Your average lady only has to have one thing to pull: a pulse. And things that might work for the ladies don’t ever, I mean EVER, work the other way round.

I’ll give you the best example I’ve got:

One time in Fabric (fuck knows what I was doing in there, hardly my scene), I was off my tits on Malibu dancing like a man with syphilis in need of a piss who’d just been set on fire. All of a sudden this pretty girly I’d been chatting to earlier walks up to me and places something warm and moist in my hand, she smiles, walks off… I glance down and in the gloom, finding it hard to concentrate on what I’m looking at on account of the incredibly loud and shit dance music, I realize I’m holding something dainty, smooth, containing a few wiry pubes: it was her tiny knickers. After a quick reflex sniff I was salivating and more horny than a peado watching a Pampers commercial. The girl had pulled. It was fucking easy. Like taking candy from a baby.

A few weeks later in a different club, remembering this monumental night, I tried the same thing. After chatting to this random girl for fucking ages, I wandered off for a piss, had this bright idea, returned, placed my boxers in her hand – almost forcing her to take them, really. And was greeted with:

“What the fuck is this? “

“It’s my pants,” I replied, suddenly realizing this wasn’t a very good idea and perhaps, just perhaps, I shouldn’t have worn the same pair of grundies out clubbing that I’d had on for the previous two days.

“Your pants?”

No, really not a very good idea at all. “Ummm… yeah… well, errrr – do you, errr, ... .... ..... .... like ... ... ... .... them?”

She regarded me as if I’d just escaped from some asylum somewhere, then she screwed up her face and spat: “Do I like your fucking pants? I’m sorry, did I hear you right you fucking perv?”

“...I thought, you know, I thought it would be... errr... sorry. I'm so very, very, very sorry... Ummmm.... errr... could I have my pants back, please?”

Result? Fuck no. I received a swift knee in the knackers, a smack round the gob (those North London girls don’t take any shit, I can tell you), and the closest I got to any form of sexual congress that evening was when the burly, big, fuck ugly bouncer nearly rammed his cock up my arse as he held me squeezed tight in a bear hug that nearly broke my fucking ribs as he threw me out into the pissing rain.

Lesson learned: Don’t give random strangers your pants in the hope of getting laid (well, not unless you’re a woman or a man with something approaching what would be considered the required minimum level personal hygiene standards in polite society, at a push)…
( SpankyHanky, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 16:58, 8 replies)

She knew I promised to treat her like a princess
so I can't work out why she dumped me after I got drunk and crashed the car.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 14 Dec 2009, 13:16, 4 replies)

I had it easy. Six years ago, a very fat man in dire need of hot chocolate pushed past me in a crowded coffee shop.
I was shoved into the corner, pushing down a girl studying a large pile of medical texts. I spilled her drink and ruined her books. I said 'sorry,' then 'hi.'

We are getting married in June. Thank you, mysterious fat man.
( Digeridude Lord Wellington's Beef Trapeze, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:18, 4 replies)

Rakky’s guide to asking someone out
And believe me, this hasn’t failed me yet.

1. Select object of your desires. It is important that he, whilst seeming normal and well balanced have some fundamental flaw rendering him totally inaccessible, for example, having a really possessive girlfriend, or having been thoroughly screwed over in his last relationship. EDIT. Or gay.
2. Make friends with aforementioned object.
3. Develop painful, overwhelming passionate crush.
4. Bore friends with crush for 6-8 months.
5. Get drunk and finally admit to object of desires that you’re desperately, hopelessly besotted with them and ask will they go out with you.
6. Publically, react stoically and calmly when they say no. In private, cry till you dehydrate.
7. Wait five years.
8. Repeat steps 1 through 7.
9. After 3-4 iterations, admit defeat, adopt 14 cats and consign yourself to being the mad woman with egg on her cardigan who lives at the end of the street and shouts at children.


By my reckoning I’m on my third iteration, about to enter stage 6. Any b3tards who wish to accompany me to the cat shelter will be welcome.
(Rakky (forgot her password) The muffin maverick, Tue 15 Dec 2009, 9:07, 26 replies)

Wing girl

Asked a barmaid if she knew who the girl sat at the end of the bar was and if she was single, just a bit of prep before making an approach. She says, 'I dunno' then leans over and shouts across the entire bar '"Excuse me, this guy wants to know if you're single".

I died on the spot, surrounded by people pointing and laughing.

She found it hilarious though and I got a date.
( Regger, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 14:45, 4 replies)

Mortifying.
I was 15 and secretly in love with a girl from school called Helen Shackle. She had everything I could ever want in a woman - she was beautiful, witty, she played classical piano and had breasts like great big pickled onions. (The shape, not the smell). I loved her.

Anyway, I'd noticed one day that she was humming Duran Duran's "Save A Prayer", so I hatched a plan to woo her by proving I was a fellow Durannie. (I wasn't, I actually thought Le Bon was a great big puff. I was a fan of the enormously-manly Frankie Goes To Hollywood at the time. I know. Let's not dwell.)

Anyroad, the next day I saw Shackles in the dinner queue and skillfully-maneuvered myself into position right behind her, where I began whistling Duran's "The Reflex" in her direction, in an attempt to spark her interest.

It worked. She slowly turned round, looked me straight in the eye, and said in full earshot of the rest of the dinner queue, "Do you mind not whistling, your breath fucking stinks.".
(Leemondus, Fri 11 Dec 2009, 2:19, 1 reply)

Chickens
Apparently farmyard birds find it quite difficult to ask out the opposite sex. As such, I saw a gap in the market and set up a dating agency for chickens. Unfortunately I had to give it up after a while as there was no money in it, and I found it difficult to make hens meet.
(marcooosa has no idea what a board sig is, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 12:06, 10 replies)

You pays your money and you takes your choice
Right then, I'll say straight off that this is the sort of thing that happens once in your life. Or never if you're fuck-ugly. Which I don't think I am or I'm fairly certain this story would have ended rather differently.

As I mentioned in a previous post I was (un)fortunate enough to spend a couple of seasons working in fashion PR. This included working at London Fashion Week where I buggered about sorting out interviews and photoshoots and whatnot while surviving on a diet of Red Bull, champagne and some rather wonderful pharmaceutical substances (it's not big or clever, but it came with the job, it was free for me and it was funny as fuck on a number of occasions). This all came to an end after a somewhat, erm, "difficult" conversation with a British supermodel who has a reputation for being a bit temperamental in the same way that Hitler had a reputation for being a bit racist.

Anyway, after a quiet word with my then boss at one of the last after-parties it was mutually decided that perhaps I wasn't best suited for the hectic world of high fashion PR. We celebrated what had been a thoroughly pleasant working relationship with a couple of Martinis, and so I was not in an entirely sober frame of mind when I caught site of a group of possibly the best looking women I have ever seen, before or since. They were models of course; but not the waif-like child-women that you saw in most of the catwalk shows. Oh no, these were full on WIMMIN with a very pronounced capital W. Curves and bumps in all the correct places, athletic rather than emaciated and by the looks of it every single one of them (five in total, and I sort of recognised a couple of them) were letting off steam with a couple of glasses of fizz. Underwear models. Otherwise known as the Harlequin's cup of tea, or perfection for short.

It must have been the sly glances I kept throwing their way, or possibly the puddle of drool under my seat but my canny boss somehow saw that my attention had been diverted from our conversation and proceeded to subject these visions of loveliness to the kind of dispassionate assessment that only a long term fashionista can give. She then said a line that you do not expect to hear from your blue-eyed, cold as iron, ever-so-slightly terrifying boss. Ever.

"Oh go and talk to them Harlequin you pillock, the dark haired one on the left keeps looking at you when you're talking to me."
...
Say what now? Me? Talk to her? Are you off your bloody rocker love?

The Harlequin has been relatively blessed in the looks department - no unsightly birthmarks, unusual facial ticks or excess ear hair - but tall as I am I knew I would need a bastard long ladder to punch high enough above my weight to register on this angel's radar.

And angels they all were, in name as well as features, due to the branding of one particular manufacturer of ladies unmentionables. So after a quick internal pole of the pro's and cons -

Harlequin: Should I do it?
DevilHarlequin: Of course! Strap on a pair, cowboy the fuck up and get over there!
VoiceOfReasonHarlequin: Look I could say stuff about self respect, embarrassment when you're shot down and all that, but it's basically bollocks. Like my evil counterpart said, stop being a fucking girl and carpe diem!
...

So I did.

...
I'm not sure what the opening line was exactly as I honestly can't remember but I was suddenly talking to the most astonishingly striking Brazilian - no not Gisele Bundchen, but she could have been her cousin. Her name was Bella. And she was laughing at my jokes! And at my piss poor attempts at Portuguese and teaching me how to say some extremely rude things in her mother tongue (Chaps - nothing hotter than being taught to swear profusely in a foreign language by an insanely attractive woman). There was general outrageous flirting going on and then we had a dance. Now there's all this stuff about how well South Americans move. In point of fact it is absolutely, 110%, word of god true. It was and remains the single most erotic experience of my life with all my clothes on. Now given that I'm white, middle class and English it was all I could do to keep from tripping over my feet and making a twat of myself but she seemed to like my limited repertoire of crazy dancing shapes as, when the music was dying after a particularly raunchy number, she looked up at me and asked, in a slight accent, "So, is this a kiss me moment?"

Turns out it was.

Turns out it was more than a kiss me moment as well. It was a grab-a-cab-to-her-hotel-start-undressing-each-other-in-the-lift-and-bang-the-life-out-of-each-other moment. And you don't get many of those.

The following morning, after a thoroughly entertaining time in a walk-in shower, we said our goodbyes. Lingering kiss and then off she sashayed to the airport. It should have been the walk of shame for me, but seriously, would you be ashamed of successfully chatting up a Victoria's Secret model?

Length? Totally unaffected by the Martinis and seemed to go down very well thank you so much for asking.
(DarkHarlequin putting babies on spikes since, Mon 14 Dec 2009, 12:25, 31 replies)

I was chatting to a colleague at the work Xmas do last night...
She's quite shy, far more than I'd realised actually, and the conversation was pretty stilted... I noticed she had nice red shoes on and commented, and she replied with

"Nice shoes as in nice shoes, or nice shoes as in you want to nail me?"

:D
(Professor Kenny Martin Hmm? What?, Sat 12 Dec 2009, 12:24, 5 replies)

I once figured
that whatever it was you said as your chosen chat-up line was not important, as the girl would be using the time in which you said something she'd undoubtedly heard before making a snap judgement of you.

So I decided to see what would happen if I walked up to random girls and said "Hi! Generic chat-up line! Can we have sex now?"



(By the way, the answer is no)
(HarryTheMole whatever's on my finger is going in your mouth, Sat 12 Dec 2009, 2:40, 1 reply)

Last year
I sealed the deal with a young man thusly:
'I'm not asking you out. I'm telling you out.'

Oh, to have that confidence again...
(jennymnemonic, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 15:41, 5 replies)

Hmm, little bit of a backstory, but it all turns out good in the end...
At Uni. back in '97/'98 I hit a 'low point' after being mugged three times in the space of a few months, the last time being in hospital for a little while due to being knifed. Also hit (and run) by a car twice in the same years and also having a considerable health scare, all of which put me on a bit of a downward spiral. Ended up coming away from Uni in May '98 and went through a rough patch and a few dark months. (Breakdown, but not dwelling on that here) Come November '98 I was starting to get to grips with things, and started (albeit on a very small level) going out again and seeking out old friends. Not wishing to rush too fast into things as it had been a good few months since I'd even wanted to leave the house let alone acheived it, I struck up a penpal relationship with a lovely young lady in the depths of Wiltshire (I'm across the country in Norfolk)

At this time, and after giving myself a swift kick up the arse to try and deal with things, I had also started a job doing what I was studying at Uni. and also being paid to continue and complete my training. Life was getting better. This young lady and I continued on writing letters back and forth, which progressed to emails, text messages, the odd phone call etc. and all was good. We'd never met, but considered each other good pals.

Skip forward to December 31st 1999 - Millennium Eve. By this time, I had a strong inkling she was 'the one' (even though we'd never actually met each other face to face, merely seen photos of each other) but was very reticent (probably due to previous experiences over the previous couple of years) to actually do anything about it in case it f*cked everything up and I'd lose someone I thought the world of.

Anyway, it gets later on in the evening and we've had a chat on the phone, wishing each other a good new year etc etc and we then say goodbye and enjoy the rest of the evening our differnet ways. Come near to 11.30pm I get a text from her saying hi, which starts a ball rolling. By this time, I'd had a little to drink (back in the days when I could actually have a drink) and we're texting back and forth, and with a little dutch courage, just before midnight I take the plunge and say something along the lines of 'y'know, I really need to meet up with you for real and ask you out on a proper date you know, wonderful person, really like you etc etc'. As said, this was just before midnight, New year's Eve just about to see in a new Millennium...

Now, if some of you remember texting anyone around that time, you may remember the networks got completely overloaded, and had MASSIVE backlogs of texts needing to be processed and sent, all around that time.

What started at around 11.30pm as a great text exchange led to my text just before midnight asking her out. Her response?... Nothing. cue the next 5 and a half hours thinking I'd blown it, cursing myself, and believing she didn't actually feel the same way. Curses. 5.30am comes around and my phone goes off - text received. The lady in question had replied along the lines of 'That would be great. If you hadn't of asked me, I'd have been forced to ask you to get it out of the way :)'. Turns out, she'd replied to the text immediately after I'd sent it at midnight, but it never got to me until a few hours later. She, of course, was a little concerned why I hadn't replied back to her text, and so begins (later that morning) a conversation which put us both on a path which now, after over 10 years of knowing her, has her living with me here in Norfolk, really happy together since millennium night 2000. We knew each other pretty well via letters and emails/phone calls before we'd physically met, and I'd still go through all the sh*t I did at Uni. as it was all that which led - purely by a chance letter - to being very happy and settled with the present mrs. architect right now :)

Top Tip right here though, NEVER ask someone out by text on New Year's Eve.

on the plus side, I NEVER forget the anniversary of us first 'getting together' as a couple, as we still consider it the Millennium night, 2000. And if I get my way next year, I'll be asking her to marry me at the top of the London 'Millennium' Eye. *Fingers crossed*
( The Great Architect is still waiting for his account to be deleted on, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 13:24, 14 replies)

I was 19...
"What are you doing tonight?" I asked.
"Not going out with you" She replied.
(Pytchblend Had Tarmac for tea, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 13:08, 2 replies)