guys
if you want to pull a girl, do not - i repeat DO NOT - saunter over to her and say "you don't sweat much for a fat lass"
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 20:24, 6 replies)

Compliments
The quickest way to charm a lady are nuanced/unnuanced compliments and lies.

OMG what is that perfume?

I love the way your hair catches the sunlight.

WOW the lights in the club make your eyes look like starlight.

I love the way your grin/smile shows the perfect structure of your face.

HEY, you must have a rich dad with designer gear like that.

Your jewellery is so understated but sparkles in a way that catches everybody's eye.

You know (insert name, and look into her eyes and say in a deep voice) the way to a woman's heart is between her eyes, through words and gestures.
( The Scrunt Wants a Dozen Pints, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 20:22, 10 replies)

I don't have a lot of luck when it comes own to asking people out
A few years back I asked out this lovely young lady out for a drink, she said yes.

I was over the moon about this, life was good, it was going to be great. It was in fact the last time I ever saw her.
(Herr Doktor Lemminge Is bored, so cheer me up!, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 20:02, Reply)

You want chat up lines ?
I got chat up lines !

This one works :
"Hello, you'd look Damned Good on the end of my Knob"
It is important that you should say later :
"I was right - you Do look Damned Good on the end of my Knob."

This one doesn't work (or hasn't so far !) but it can get you slapped quite hard :
"Hello Darlin' Shit in me belly button and bark like a dog."
( The Mighty Gusset Doesn't Care - And Doesn't Care Who Knows It !, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:59, 2 replies)

Crying?!
In my defence, I was drunk and it seemed a good idea at the time.

Was out clubbing with some of my workmates one night and J was there. J is someone I work with so I have to pretend professionalism. But he's GORGEOUS. Not too tall, not too short, with shoulders and a chest to die for.
And, obviously mistakenly, I thought he liked me! He flirted and always found an excuse to hug me and would never let me get a taxi home alone. He's a real gentleman.

I digress.

We are out clubbing and having a lovely time and I decide that tonight is the night he shall find out that I'm totally wanting to wear him like a new coat. I make the fatal error of telling another colleague that I'm in looooove.
She tells her other half. Who has a thing for me, as evidenced by his continued attempts at groping and HIS attempt at pickup lines (you got great tits love, I'd well do you).

Before you get the wrong idea, she knows he is like this and when they go out, they both get free rein for the night to do whatever with each other. Not my place to judge, whatever works for them, etc etc.

I digress again. This bastard then goes and tells J "that she well wants to fuck you, mate, get in there".

Did I mention J is a gentleman? He runs a mental fucking mile away. Then twatface comes up and tells me what he's said and that J seemed less than impressed, "but don't worry cos you still got me like and I bet I got a bigger dick than him".

I'm drunk, I start to cry a little. My perfect plan and all the effort I made tonight is fucked up. J has seen me crying, and comes over.

NONONONONONNONONONO, don't come over. He does the "hey babe, I really like you, I do, but as really good friends. Please don't cry". Yep, he thinks I'm crying because I've been rejected by him. I just make some noise about I think he got his lines crossed somewhere as I don't know what he's talking about. He looks confused and walks away.

Bollocks.

Moral of this story. Tell a guy you like him to his face. Preferably without booze and interfering knob jockeys.

Or don't say anything at all and lust from afar, which is currently what I'm doing. It's the works Christmas party this Saturday... Do I try again?

And sorry for length, but this has been really cathartic :)
(becky_bubbles, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:40, 5 replies)

I really should get involved in the asking out process.....
My weirdest relationship kicked off when a mate of mine (who happens to be of the female persuasion) asked out a girl for me. I was at the tender age of 25 at the time and had been making those typical noises about how nice she was, and trying to get her name in to every sentence. Let's call that girl Laura L... wait, that's too obvious, uhh, let's say L Lennard. (I doubt she reads b3ta but I want to see how well the grapevine works)

Anyway, my mate sounds her out for me, we meet up (an idea which was sprung on me on a trip to Bristol to see friends) and it kicks off pretty well. Ours was a long distance relationship... I had moved to Bristol to take up a new job and she lived about 100 miles away, so we used to meet in Oxford as a convenient middle ground.

After a year of visiting nearly every sight and tourist attraction in Oxford, Oxfordshire, Berkshire, Hampshire, Gloucestershire, Londonshire and Isle of Wightshire it was getting a bit tedious. Anyway, she dumped me a day before valentines day (how heartless eh?). Even though I had considered breaking it off in the weeks previous, I was still a bit gutted. Guess that was just a bloke thing.

The moral of the story however is.... don't ever, no matter how tempting it is, get your friends to ask their friends out for you.
(badbob82 actually has mates called Rex and Wendy, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:36, Reply)

An act of desperation...
When I was 15 or 16, I spent the better part of an afternoon going through my AIM buddy list asking out nearly all of the attractive ladies of my school (in order of most fancied to least fancied) and came up with a whopping zero positive responses.

By the way, did you know womenfolk like to talk about such things to each other? Yes, I was quite the pariah after that.
(Zoidberg Jr - Food, you say?, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:34, Reply)

Bollard
Now, I should point out that my own 'mad skillz' with the ladies are not the most fine or honed. They usually consist of getting blind drunk and then saying something witty and erudite (read 'confusing and garbled) before leaving in what could only very charitably be called a 'dignified retreat', and would more accurately be called a panicked stumble. I, however, fall somewhat short in the incompetence stakes, of a gentleman who came to be known as 'bollard'.

As a teenager, the local music-school used to run yearly tours to foreign parts, a chance for young adults to go and play music for a couple of hours a day to bermused locals, and then spend the rest of the time either blind drunk, chasing pretty young ladies, or both.

Bollard, bless him, took to this second task with great gusto. His first pass, which we only heard about later, consisted of him going down 2 flights of stairs and into the apartment of a group of girls. These were members of the tour, who recognised him, but he was hardly firm friends. His 'moves' consisted of striding into the room, pausing a fraction, and then saying "hang on, I don't want to look gay", before changing his black shirt for a green vest.

I'll repeat that, changing his smart black shirt, for a skin-tight, neon-lime-green vest. In front of a group of confused young ladies he barely knew. Needless to say, his luck was not in. Incidentally, it was the neon-orange counterpart to this vest, when worn with the matching neon-orange shorts, that earned him the short-lived nickname of 'traffic cone', which mutated swiftly to the much more manageable 'bollard'.

A couple of weeks later, back in blighty, a group of us were in London going to a prom. Bollard was not with us, but made his presence felt by making a move on one of the ladies in our party, by the time-honoured medium of text message. Time has erased the exact text of the message from my memory, but I am pretty sure the last line was "txt bk 4 sm ht lvn". For the benefit of any laymen who may have wandered in, or those of you over the age of 13, this loosely translates as "text back for some hot loving."

Now, this missive is not, in and of itself, necessarily the worst chat-up attempt in history, but give it context. Bollard was, at the time,a pimply 14 year old. "I", the lady to whom it was directed, was (if memory serves) 19, and a goddess-like creature, all curves and wafting eyelashes. You can't fault his ambition, if nothing else.

Bless you, bollard, and any recipient of your 'ht lvn'.
(Serotonicity was a naughty boy on..., Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:11, Reply)

I've never been great on the follow through
but what I am resonably good at is getting chatting to girls. Perhaps they sense that I am incompetant when it comes to the 'close' and therefore essentially no threat.

Got talking to a girl in a bar once - can't remember how it started but in the course of conversation it turns out that her ex boyfriend is racing car driver, her ex husband is a fighter pilot and her dad is the village policeman.
What asked what I did I replied that in light of this information I was going to tell the truth but now I feel no option than to claim that I am DANGERMAN. Tall buildings climbed, bombs defused, kittens recused etc

Since I ended up in her bed either it worked or she had a strong charity ethic
(schrodingers cat now you see me, or not, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:04, 3 replies)

keith
i like a man who can make me laugh, so, when i spotted keith on the dancefloor gyrating like a tazered gibbon, i decided he was the one for me. due to the fact that i was drunk, my usual opinion of myself -that i'm gorgeous- had become a rock solid conviction. i walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. he turned around, i smiled and asked "what are you doing tonight, apart from taking me home?"
it worked! he walked me home and, by the time we got there, we were a couple.
it lasted 3 months. it wasn't his pathological tightness that ended it, nor his constant demands for sex(yeah, like i'd dump him for THAT), it was him crying that he loved me and asking me to marry him.
cue the running shoes...
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 19:00, 4 replies)

Do you want to go back to my tent?
Worked ok and it lasted 2 years :D
( thistle, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 18:50, 1 reply)

I asked
the would be mrs Bogeypie out at school.
Went up to her in library and asked "Would you like too make mad passionate love quietly? Because it's a library, shhhhhhh!"
She been Mrs Bogeypie for nearly 30 years now.
(Captain Spacker I lick windows, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 18:48, Reply)

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)

Yeah.
Right.
(baldmonkay You jew. You jew., Thu 10 Dec 2009, 18:28, 2 replies)

The reluctant Casanova
"Go on Moey, just a little line." I didn't want it, it never really agreed with me, nor me with it.

"Go oooooon, it's just a little bit of coke, what harm can it do, hey? Really? Reeeeeallllly?" They all seemed to chime the last bit in unison and I felt my resolve weaken with each over-used vowel.

My arm was soon sufficiently twisted; I was never one for standing up well to peer pressure: "Give us a little line then, you fiends." I said with an enthusiasm that belied my loathing and gingerly sniffed at it a bit before sitting back in stony silence for a while as it did the horrible glide down the inside of my face. I always hated the stuff, but never as much as when it was making its way through my sinuses and down my throat. Where others would sniff greedily then yabber like excited chimps, I would be rendered instantly speechless as the overwhelming gag reflex threatened to punctuate my every utterance with ridiculous retches.

Not many minutes later we were on the tube, beers in hand and excitement abound. We made stuttering progress through the antiquated tunnels beneath London and were soon spat out onto the cold streets of Shoreditch to join the ranks of the uber-trendy; where every head sported countless hairstyles, each seemingly crafted on top of the last.

The 333 was filled with a million haircuts and lively beats swayed them as reluctant dancers found themselves unable to resist the rhythms, forcing them drunkenly to shed their cool in favour of minimal movement. I felt more out of place than ever before, my head sporting only one haircut - one that was forced upon me by hereditary hairlessness - and my clothes lacking the labels that marked the others out as "with it". I've never known what "it" is, but I've always been happy to be without it, and I quickly found myself a little corner in which I could drink heavily and enjoy the music I was there to hear.

"So, what's your name?" she asked out of nowhere and I coughed "Moey" through a tight throat and went back to sipping my beer and staring vacantly. I'd just been given another nostril full of the bad stuff and it was leaving a chemical trail down the back of my throat, so talking wasn't in my plans for the next half hour at least. She wasn't to know this, however, and seemed to be staring expectantly at me. My voiceless request for her name was washed away in the swell of bleating trumpets and she glared at me like I was a mindless simpleton, which wasn't entirely inaccurate. An inconvenient gap opened in the tunes and I yelled my question far too loud, drawing dismissive tuts and glares from the cool kids and raising a barely concealed retch at the foot of my throat, while the target of my ever growing attention recoiled with a look of horror.

Shame-faced I resolved not to ask anything else and hoped that she'd leave me to my social awkwardness, but she was clearly very drunk and had taken an inexplicable fancy to this little bald bag of anxiety. Her questions, barely audible above the music, were answered without style or panache, but with a stuttered gibberish that was sliced up by the metallic cymbals and fell to the floor in pieces about her feet. I don't have chat up lines; they don't come naturally to one so socially inept, so despite deciding I was at least up to attempting the game, I had not the skills to perform at this level, particularly not in this arena among such seemingly seasoned athletes as surrounded me. I knew I'd have to make a move at some point, so I thought I'd test the water and see how warm it was.

I took a moment to compose myself; all I had planned was to ask whether she fancied going upstairs so we might talk easier. It wasn't overly presumptuous and who knew where it could lead. My body, however, had different ideas and she seemed distinctly disgusted as I leaned in close, fixed my voice finally to cut through the bellowing beats that filled the air and, with all the charm and wit of a retarded donkey, unleashed an almighty retch into her ear.

She suddenly had need for the bathroom, and is still using it to this day for all I know, I never saw her again.
( Moey, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:52, Reply)

Not me
But I was standing next to him.

He leaned over the bar, held out his sleeve, and shouted "Feel it!" at the barmaid. She felt his sleeve.

"Does that feel like boyfriend material to you?"
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:52, 2 replies)

Never asked anyone out to be honest...
which would explain my crapness with the fairer sex. I did try chatting up a whore in Dubai but she gave me a stony faced glare. All I did was say "hello" and smile...at her tits.
(RVD420 has his world coming down on, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:36, 2 replies)

Neatly combining this QOTW with last weeks:
At uni in Edinburgh, 5'10", scruffy, short beard, fond of real ale, very sarcastic, hates mornings, loves lasangne. Likes power kiting and skiing.

Any single and desperate girls out there?
( MatJ LOOK, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:35, 10 replies)

Gareth
On my best mate's stag do in Brum early this year, I had the onerous task of ending up with Gareth. Now, I'd known Gareth for years; he was a friend of the family and was going to be the brother-in-law of my best mate. Gareth wasn't blessed with an abundance of intelligence, the epithet 'Dippy' being accorded to him, strangely enough not due to his simpleton ways, but rather when he was playing football with my poor, departed brother, his reponse to the question as to what he'd had for breakfast that morning was 'dippy eggs'.

So I found myself in a taxi with Gareth on the way back to the premier hotspot of Broad Street. The main body of the party had gone on to the notorious nightspot of The Rocket Club, and Gareth, the naive thing he was, didn't fancy going along - it wasn't his kind of thing. I wasn't too fussed either. I was quite happy to forego forking out £4 for a bottle of lager and £20 every time I wanted to have a flash of Eastern European norks and growler and Gareth knew a pub just off the main thoroughfare. I'd had plenty, but wasn't averse to one or two more.

I was feeling a frisson of embarrassment as Gareth entertained the taxi driver with his latest trick. Being an Arsenal Football Club fan, and slightly peeved by Togolese striker Emmanuel Adebayor's recent defection to Manchester City, Gareth was bellowing at the top of his lungs:

"Adebayor, Adebayor!
Your Dad washes elephants
And your mother is a whore!"

Wishing the seat to swallow me up with the thought of accompanying this faux-racist for another hour, I decided that I'd have to use my Henry Kissinger-like diplomacy skills if Gareth decided to converse with the general public in the next sixty minutes or so.

So it was that we were deposited at The Tap and Spile public house. The taxi driver, genuinely amused by Gareth's offensive terrace chant, was paid off by myself, and wished us a nice evening. "Thanks. I'm gonna need it" I muttered under my breath as I handed him the requisite remuneration.

So we entered The Tap and Gareth hit upon the genius idea of splitting up in order to get served quicker, the pub having two bars - one at ground level and one below ground. He marched into the main bar and I trudged downstairs. We’d meet up with four pints in total – good thinking that man. Feeling a stirring in my bladder, I decided to nip into the Gents' to strain my greens.

Now, The Tap had the novel idea of employing an African guy to sit in the Gents' all night and dispense soap to visitors 'post-urination'. There was also hand tissue proferred for those blissfully unaware of the hand dryer affixed to the nearby wall as well as an array of cheap aftershaves and colognes for those who had deigned to leave the house without their favourite 'scent'. A guy, obviously a local, was chatting to the African attendant.

So, anyway, I did what I needed to do and washed up, giving in to The Tap's suspicions that I was incapable of doing it myself. The African guy and the local were still chatting, so I joined in the amiable banter. As I finished my ablutions and given the attendant a pound(!) for his troubles, I found myself walking out of the conveniences, in conversation with the local guy. As we entered the downstairs bar, the conversation stopped and I found him looking at me. But not just looking at me..."looking" at me.

"Do you want to come to a party later?" he said in a slight Brummy lilt. *Gulp* Almost quick as a flash I held my hand up, pointed and said "I'm with him". Now, as I was coming out of the little boys' room I'd espied Gareth sitting at a table with two full pints of lager, his head bowed and swaying. I was pointing at Gareth. As I realised the connation of what I'd just said, I remained in position, my mouth agape with the horrid realisation of what I had insinuated. "OK" he replied with a little, knowing smile and slowly walked off.*

As I stood in a freakish tableau of horror, surprise and stupidity he walked up the stairs and looked back at me with one of "those" looks. Eventually, I lowered my arm, closed my mouth and went over to where Gareth was slowly dribbling away in his drunken state. Within ten minutes he had managed to knock three of our four pints over and we left the pub.

*I wasn’t sure if he was smiling at the fact that I wasn’t gay and that he’d thought I was, or if he thought I was gay and was laughing at my *ahem* ‘taste’...
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Thu 10 Dec 2009, 17:27, Reply)

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)

The only time I ever asked anyone out
I wasn't going to (I never do, too damn shy in these matters). I only did after a Frasier-style sequence of misunderstandings.

The result being that he said no and I had to cover up the whole incident by destroying a picture of someone else's bollocks.

This is why my crushes now remain secret.
( Citizen Cavy Admires your passion for conformity, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:54, 5 replies)

Beppe
A friend of mine is one of our PAs at workand was telling me recently about the approaches made by an Italian guy we used to have in our office who, true to stereotypes, just couldn't control himself.

He'd tried it on with about 75% of the female half of the company, trying various approaches along the way, but the least likely-to-work line ever?

'I really want to come on your tits'
'Pardon?'
'I said: I really want to come on your tits.'

She told him if he ever spoke to her again she'd complain. I imagine he's used to that.
(SnowyTheWereRabbit the Leporid from Hell, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:54, 1 reply)

In a similar vein to stuj.....
...does this smell like chloroform to you?
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:50, 3 replies)

In my mid 20's...
I was successfully chatting this right sort up in a bar in London's West End. I was there for my mates Birthday, but took the opportunity to go after this 1 lovely looking lady.

Anyhow. I offered her a drink, she accepted, so off to the bar I went where I bumped in to the birthday boy. 20 minutes and several shots later and me now feeling extremely pissed, I made my way back to where I'd left the lovely.

There she was! Still waiting! Result! Except... there were 2 of her?!

Identical twins? Very similar looking bestest pals? Anyway, cue what felt like an eternity of me standing there trying to work out which one I'd been chatting up. So I had a 50/50 chance of getting it right. I gambled. "Here you go love", and handed the drink to the wrong one...

The drink came back rather quickly... in my face... gutted...
( addickted has attained freedom, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:50, 1 reply)

Smoking Skills
Back when I was a fresh out of college, clueless oaf, I got a job working in a large building that housed several independent businesses. My company shared the second floor with another company; we had separated internal spaces but shared areas like the stairs and the external fire escape.

The fire escape is also where the smokers used to gather. Both of the companies were fairly small and only a few people smoked from each. A girl from the other company and I being the only smokers of similar age got into the habit of going out for cigarettes together. If either of us saw the other going for a smoke we'd go out and keep each other company, smoke a cigarette, have a chat and go back in.

Only that’s not the only reason I went, she was stunning, a beautiful blonde lady with an indy / hippy style. She used to wear these baggy jeans, skate shoes and a skinny fit t-shirt which showed off about an inch of midriff. This really did it for me, her really pretty face and the flash of her flat stomach both seemed amplified, yet contrasted, by her plain and unassuming style.

From just spending time with each other smoking half a dozen times a day, we grew to be good friends and the more I knew about her, the more I liked. We got on great, we shared similar tastes in music, films, books, ideals and outlook and we seemed, to me at least, to be forming a close bond.
One day whilst having a smoke we both started singing, for no reason, "Undone: the sweater song" by Weezer. After which we laughed, then she gave me a hug and we both went back to work.

The hug played on my mind after that. She wouldn't just hug me if we were just smoking buddies would she?
Clearly this was the sign to act that I'd been waiting for her to give me. So I started thinking about how to ask her out. Being the dashing, suave and quite frankly brilliant man that I am I decided I'd write her a little poem on a cigarette, as that's how I got to know her after all.

So with some practice I managed to write on the side of a Marlboro light the following:

"I want to burn at your lips and die at your feet"

Awesome. She'd love it. She'd admire both my incredible and not at all cheesy prose and my not-to-be-underestimated skill of writing on a ciggy without it blotting up or tearing it. She'd be putty in my hand. Fetch the mop, things were going to get sticky round here.

So when I saw her walk past the window later that afternoon, I nipped out, smokes in hand.

As we leaned on the fire escape banister overlooking the car park, I passed her the cigarette carefully positioned so she could not fail to notice the writing on its side. She took it from my hand said "thanks", and then absently rolled it by the filter between her fingers whilst gazing across the business estate, before lighting it up and smoking it.

I didn't try it again. It really is quite tricky and a bit stupid to write love letters on cigarettes.
( Dervel OTBC, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:43, Reply)

I just stick to the never fail chat up line these days.
"Don't struggle, I've got a knife."
Did I mention that I'm wearing my lucky blue coat?
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:37, 1 reply)

"Make 'em laugh, make 'em laugh..."
Three years ago I sat my final accountancy exams, the December sittings were a week before Christmas and involved three days of exams. It was a big stressful pain in the arse but every cloud has a silver lining, in this case the cloud was in the shape of a beautiful redhead named Kerry. I had known Kerry from past courses and I had seen her at the exams on the first 2 days so I knew that my last chance to ask her out would be after the final exam. Tense stuff huh?

Anyhoo, after the last exam I pushed through the crowd to get to her before she got into her car and drove out of my life forever. “Hi Kerry, how’d it go?” She looked miserable and didn’t stop walking. I deduced that if I could cheer her up I would be in. “I’ve got a relevant seasonal joke for you” I quipped, “How did Santa know his workshop would be a profitable business venture?..He calculated the Net Present Value!” She looked at me like I was insane. “You know, NPV, like in question 5…” She stopped in her tracks; “WHAT. QUESTION. FIVE??” “Errr, the last question” I ventured, “On the back page”. She cupped her hands over her mouth and ran off crying.

So remember kids, always read the entire exam paper because Super-Ted cant always be there to save you.
( Colonel Dracula Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:36, Reply)

Not me.
Not even a mate.
But a mates mate.

Used to walk up to the girls and ask "Do you take it up the dunger?". He got as much slaps as he did shags apparently.
( Maffers I flow kinda strange like Spina Bifida footprints, Thu 10 Dec 2009, 16:31, 1 reply)