Diamond Geezer

Last Thursday I went to a singles night arranged by www.LovestruckLondon.com with a few of my girls. I had been to one of their singles nights before in June at Jewel bar in Covent Garden. It was ok and since the bar was open to the public a straw system was in order to differentiate singles from ordinary punters : red straws for daters and white for everyone else.

We got there ordered our drinks and wee told that the bar had no red straws so we had to use white ones. The place was absolutely packed so we ended up standing on the stairs which proved to be an ideal place to meet guys walking through the bar. A few of our number dropped out and went home because they couldn’t see many black men in the place, but I stayed with three others and were quickly approached by a couple of guys. One looked like a Bollywood heartthrob with his muscular frame, tight t-shirt and startling green eyes. The other was a good looking black South African guy. We had a pleasant conversation, but there was no real attraction.

We continued to languish on the stairs and a tall white guy with a shaved head approached us and asked if we were here for the dating night. We said yes and he informed us that the straw system had changed to white straws for daters. He was a charming guy and his charm was increased by the fact that he looked exactly like the French actor Vincent Cassel, from Ocean’s Twelve. I have a massive crush on Vincent Cassel and this guy even had the accent (even though it was Belgian rather than French, but it still worked for me!). We chatted for a long while, exchanged numbers and I met up with him for a drink. Although there was a mutual attraction there was no grounds for a relationship, so we just stayed as friends. (He’s still cute though!).

Therefore I had very high hopes for their event last week, but I was severely let down. The pub in Soho where it was held, was too cramped and nowhere near as nice as Jewel Bar. We left after a round of mojitos and discussed where to go on to. We decided to go to Jewel Bar, Soho and one of my girls went home – what a mistake to make.

Teetering past the burly bouncers in my after-work finest clobber, I sauntered into the bar and knew instantly how Lucy from The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe felt when she first encountered Narnia...the route from the door, past the bar and right on through to the private function room was littered with attractive men of all hues.

We found a seat and went up to a bar, but before we were even served a good-looking black guy approached my friend and offered to purchase our drinks – that was more like it! We got talking to him and found out that he was at the bar with a group of workmates on their company Christmas party, and we went and sat with them. I got chatting to his friend who on first glances looks like he only needs a pair of black braces, Doc Martens and a Ben Sherman shirt to look like an extra from the film We Are England, but he was totally cool to talk to. He was a proper East End geezer (who doesn’t but we had a great conversation and found some similarities : both seen Eminem and 50 Cent in concert at the same venue, similar attitude and sense of humour. It was refreshing after the litany of dates that I have been on this year to find somebody who I could get along with and understand with little to no effort.

We were attracting men left right and centre, like this one guy that took a shine to my friend, but did not approach her. His favoured tactic was to walk past our table, stand around for about five seconds and then scurry back to his friends. After the eight time, he bought a mate along for company but they both just looked awkward as my friend continued to ignore him, he really just should have said hello.

It was well after 11pm before we made a move, but numbers were exchanged and various meetups were arranged. He had even texted me by the time I woke up a few hours later! So far we have texted a lot and have a date booked for later this week, which I will update you on, but for now I definitely recommend checking out Jewel Bar , where you might find your own diamond in the rough!

Wink, wink, nudge, nudge

So I checked my match. com account and besides a couple of messages, I had received a wink from a guy that I had met on there and dated earlier in the summer...

I initially winked at him because he was an attractive professional black man in his mid-thirties, and we talked on the phone and I arranged to meet him for after-work drinks on a Friday at a bar near Bank station.

After a bit of confusion about which entrance to meet up at, I saw him and was surprised that he was better looking than his profile picture. We went to one of the bars, ordered some drinks and decided to drink them outside because it was such a pleasant evening. Since dating is somewhat a hobby of mine, I was not very nervous, unlike him because he had finished a long-term relationship at the start of the year and I was his first internet date because he dates only black women but has lots of interest from white ladies on match.

I knew exactly which of my dating anecdotes to tell him to put him at ease. I have one very simple philosophy when it comes to dating, be the most fun version of you that you can be – then who would not want to hang out with you? Then I asked him to ask me some questions and he asked me what can only be described as psychoanalytical interview questions:
Him: Think of a box. What colour is it?
Me: A box? Why a box? Erm (looking down at my top) Electric blue?
Him: Interesting (scratching chin like he’s Sigmund Freud). Now imagine that you have a ladder, where would you place it in relation to the box?
Me: (in my head, I can think of one choice place to put it, but it might make your eyes water) The left side?

Gladly we were interrupted by a mate of his who was meeting some people in the bar. He returned about 5 minutes later and announced that he was going to hang out with us, which my date agreed to. So much for an intimate date for two. In fact he didn’t even tell his mate that we were on a date (a first date at that!). The three of us had another drink at the bar and moved to Abacus, which had a massive queue outside it. So the friend decided that he would try to argue our way in by telling the bouncers that they had forgotten to stamp our hands when we were in there earlier. Obviously we did not get in and this was not my idea of romantic first date etiquette.

They asked me where else we could go and since it was Friday night I said Madam Jojo’s in Soho for the deep funk night. (This is my favourite club in the whole of London and I love funk music). They agreed to go and said that it’d better be good, but of course they didn’t offer any other suggestions. So off we went. Bear in mind I was dressed in three inch heels that I could walk along gracefully but hiking up the escalators was a one-way ticket to a sprained ankle in my book, so I chose to stand demurely on the right hand side clutching the hand rail while my date and his mate jogged up the left hand side. Obviously they complained that I was too slow but I was shocked by the lack of gentlemanly courtesy.

We got to there earlier than I usually get there and the basement club was a bit empty but the deep funk reverberated across the cavernous depths of the dance floor. I was grooving to the music, while the guys looked a bit surprised. His mate made his excuses and left and I was left with my date who had visually shrunk into the pleatherette seating around the edge of the dance floor. After about twenty minutes he said “I thought that this was going to be a black club”. Now his behaviour made sense. To me it doesn’t matter about the makeup of the people in the club so long as I can throw some serious shapes on the dance floor to my preferred type of music. I can assure you, that if I was into bhangra I would frequent West London bhangra spots without a second thought. But my date, he liked the music but could not get over the fact that most people in there were white (there was nobody scandalously drunk or acting like chavs – it was full of trendies and professionals out for a good night out). I just do not understand that mentality from somebody living in multicultural London.

I danced by myself because I was not wasting all the good tunes, and he sat stoically looking at the dance floor through the bars as if he was watching a turn of the century exhibition entitled ‘the lesser-spotted white funk music aficionados.’

I went back to sit with him while I polished off my Bacardi and Coke and he announced that he had a headache and had to go home. Seriously. We had been in the club for about 30 minutes and he faked a headache to get out of it. Funnily enough when he had thought that it was a black club, he had been prepared to dance until the 3am closing time, but he hadn’t even made the effort to step on the dance floor.

All the way to the tube station he kept going on that he was surprised that everybody was white and he didn’t know that white people liked funk music too (?!). He seemed culture-shocked and not very adventurous which is the exact opposite of me. Hmmm.

Anyway I gave him another chance putting the first date down to nerves and agreed to meet him in Brixton for a drink before going on to somewhere else. Since he was living in Morden, I called him when I left home so that he could meet me outside Brixton Tube station at 8pm. I arrived a bit early and called him and he said that he was just leaving the house and would drive up. I took the opportunity to walk around the Tesco Metro next to the station but after flicking through Heat, Closer and Look magazine, I thought that I’d better make tracks because the security guard was giving me funny looks. I waited outside of the train station and dodged the advances of various local men. By now I had been waiting for over 30 minutes and called to ask where he was, stuck in traffic he said. An hour and a half later, he turned up. I was mightily pissed off and cold so when we went to the Thai restaurant/ bar I quite rightly didn’t even fake that I was going to get my wallet out (you know what I mean girls).

So after one drink, he said that he wanted to take me to a club in Walthamstow called Soul Bar that played funk music. This pissed me off further because 1) I live in the East, travelled all the way to the South and spent an hour and a half waiting for him and now I’m going to travel all the way back to the North-East; 2) I had suggested The Soul Bar for our first date with dinner in a local restaurant which my friend had recommended, but he had refused because he had food at home (yup he’s that cheap).

So we went up there and obviously it was an all black club, and surprise, surprise, no headaches! It was ok, but I was blatantly the youngest person in there at 29 and I was getting some attitude from some of the women in there. He dropped me off at my house and I politely pecked him on the cheek like the French do but he lunged in for a full-on snog which was ok. I had a couple of texts from him after that but wasn’t really bothered because I was not really into him and I was dating other guys at the same time, so he was no loss to me.

...so I was very surprised to receive a wink from him on match. So what, he’s dated a few people on the website and things are getting dry since winter is just around the corner and he’s decided to try again with a woman that he last spoke to over 5 months ago! Nah man. Besides which he has my number so why didn’t he just call? I clicked the button to send the standard match response of ‘thanks for the interest, but no thanks’. I need to go because I need an aspirin - I think I have a headache coming on.

Workshop review

Hiya. I know that it’s been a little while, but I have been so busy and inundated with stuff, but I am ready to catch you up on everything that’s been happening.

First of all, last weekend – the I Can Find You a Good Black Man workshop run by dating coach Des O’Connor. The room was packed with over sixty black women, and was located next door to a bridal dress sale with a queue of exclusively non-black women stretched the length of the corridor. It was a jam-packed day filled with interesting information, practical tips to change your s-mindset and above all a panel of ten good black men that answered our questions. If you weren’t there, you really missed out. Des’s delivery was slick, smart and professional – I do not envy the man for having to keep 60+ black women in check for over 6 hours but he managed to do it with charm and humour.

Apart from the panel of men, there was a fantastic presentation by Sonia Brown of SistaTalk.co.uk, on Personal Branding. A pertinent question that she asked was, are you a Lidl or a Fortnum and Masons? I would personally have to rate myself as an Aldi – surprisingly good quality, unusual products and affordable to all. The exercises that Sonia took us through helped me to realise that I really need to work on my personal branding and the way that it can help to attract the right kind of man. So I’m planning to step up my game, get my personal branding sorted and work on my image. My deadline, is January 15th the first Des O’Connor all-black event. By then I will definitely be a Harrods – classy, opulent and desired by all.

Assistance Needed

What a day! It’s only mid-week but I am knackered-good thing Hitch is on to help me unwind from a stressful day. I worked in North London and took a well-deserved saunter down Finsbury Park’s Fonthill Road on my way home. I bounded out of one shop after with my bargain purchases to hand and walked smack bang into a guy that I had been on one date with in the summer. I’d better explain what happened back then before I carry on...

So after I attended the first How To Attract and Meet a Good Black Man this year I thought I’d start slowly and try one of the tips that Des O’Connor said – “just say good morning”. That sounded relatively straight forward. So I popped into my local Tesco Express to buy some milk for my nutritious morning porridge and a cheeky chocolate croissant for elevenses. I breezed through the automatic doors and saw a tall, good looking brother stacking the fruit and veg ; how interesting, I thought and limbered up to deliver my killer line. I sauntered along the aisle faking an interest in the seasonal corn and the cob on offer while I chose my moment. He looked up from his task and I swooped by and hit him with a breezy “good morning” with a coy smile on my face and sashayed over to the magazine rack to check out the glossies before grabbing my milk and croissant.

After battling with the self check-out machine that there was no “unexpected item in bagging area”, no matter how many times it bleated at me, I made my way back out of the store. To my surprise the guy introduced himself and we had a very pleasant conversation. He turned out to be French West African, 31 and available. He asked for my number, but I said that I would give it to him if I see him again in the shop (I had yet to set up my man phone) and he said that he would love to take me out sometime.

Result, I thought as I tucked into my chocolate croissant on the walk home (I was deluding myself that it would survive until elevenses) and surprised that Des’s tips actually worked. To cut a very long story considerably shorter, I did go for a date with him but he really wasn’t my kind of guy and I didn’t particularly like his attitude. Since then I have spoken to him in the store and he has called at times, but I have not been out with him again. I have dropped huge hints that I am not interested (by using such classics as “I’m focusing on my career at the moment” and “I’m not really in a place to get involved with anybody” to the truthful, “I’m dating other people”) and I thought that he had got the message until this afternoon...

So I bumped into him (he lives in the area) and he started to follow me round the shops. Fine, it’s on him if he wants to follow a sista getting her clothes shopping on but he must have been bored witless. Then he started asking about my other dates (rival dates as he called them) to which I replied there’s no need for you to know. Then he pulled me to one side of the pavement to stare longingly into my eyes and declare that he really fancied me in a manner which revealed that he has watched one too many Nigerian movies. To this I replied “yes you’re not my type and there are plenty more fish in the sea. He was not having any of it. He asked me for specifics about why I didn’t feel as intensely as he did e I about me, so I told him that we are too different, he’s not my type and I just don’t fancy him. By this stage we had made our way to the tube station so I could head back east, but he was adamant that he wanted to sit down and talk about our relationship (?!), even though I told him that there was no point because I had already made my mind up about him, while he had apparently been planning our nuptials and lives together.

Now I didn’t like his attitude on the first date and I was hating his attitude now, especially as he seemed to be getting aggressive and frankly rude. And then he tried to lean in for a kiss. One swift and hard push on the shoulder soon put to bed that ridiculous notion.

I’ve hinted at, told him outright and he’s still not getting the message. Does anyone else have any ideas? I just think that he should take some advice from his checkout machines because this is one serious case of Assistance Needed.

Since writing this blog entry SistaSearching no longer shops at her local Tesco Express. She is now a CostCutters girl.

Lies, sweet little lies.

Hello again!

I was just checking my match.com profile to see if I should update my pictures and I thought back to some of my more recent dates:

There was a former boxer who was a wonderful match for me on paper – professional, similar family backgrounds and with a chocolate six-pack that you could grate cheddar on. We spoke on the phone and had a great vibe then he threw me a curveball down the mobile...
“Oh by the way I’m not six feet like I said on the profile”, he said as casually.
“Er, ok. Just for clarification how tall are you”, I replied, hurriedly logging on match.com to check out his profile.
“I’m five feet ten”.
“Oh, that’s ok. Cool I’ll see you on the date”, breathing a huge sign of relief that he over estimated by just a couple of inches rather than a couple of feet.

I met him for a date at Guanabara, a Brazilian club near Covent Garden, and he was 20 minutes late. I had opted to wear a cute halter neck top, skinny flares and gladiator sandals. When he finally arrived he looked good, but as he got nearer I realised that he was definitely not five feet ten inches, in fact he was barely taller than me. Granted my gladiator sandals gave me an extra inch of height so I was five feet and six and a half inches if I walked on the balls of my feet where the heels were at their highest, but we were basically the same height. In my opinion he was five feet seven at the absolute maximum.

What got me was the fact that he had had the opportunity to tell me what his actual true height was, but he had lied for the second time! This put me off of him instantly, but I remained my usual easy-breezy self to get through the date. I have never been the type of girl to have an ideal height for my ideal man but ever since this date I have now started paying attention to the alleged heights of my dates.

Now it would not be so bad if this had been the only time that it had happened to me but six weeks later, I went on a date with a very promising man originally from Trinidad who I had lots in common with and he was incredibly muscular in his profile pictures which is always a bonus. I ended up being late by about 30 minutes and he sounded a bit annoyed. I got off my tube train and raced through Waterloo train station searching high for my six-foot tall hulk of a date. I should have looked low. He was the exact same height as me and I was wearing my trusty gladiators again! Now I was annoyed. I couldn’t even be bothered to ask why he had lied on his profile. It’s just as bad as using the picture of a Hollywood star and claiming that it’s you!

For the record, I did go on a date with a black Italian guy who claimed to be five feet tall in his profile and he was five feet tall in real life. We got on but he smoked and I felt like the black Katie Holmes and I do not like the idea of my husband standing on a box for the wedding photos. I suppose I’ve found out that when it comes to height, even I have my limits.

I'm on a break!

Hi, I'm writing this having some much needed R & R at home because I definitely need a break from the dating scene just for a couple of days.

In the past three months I have been proposed to at least three times during first date or first meeting scenarios, had an offer of an all-expenses paid round trip to Australia and even a new life building a diving business in the Grand Cayman Islands, but I have yet to meet the right guy for me!

Although I date an awful lot the main problem is that I just either don't fancy many of the guys that I date or they are blatant desperadoes (you know what I mean).

It can get frustrating to get to know somebody by email, then on the phone and then to find out that there is no chemistry when you finally meet in person, but such is the dating game nowadays.

I'm going to relax right here on the sofa and surfing satellite tv. But I am expecting a heavy weekend next week with the How To Find A Good Black Man workshop part 3 at Marble Arch and also possibly a date with a guy that I've been emailing on match.com. I'll keep you posted ;-)

Singles Party !

This past Saturday, I went attended a singles party run by SpeedDater Events in Piccadilly, Central London with two of my girls.

My expectations for the evening - very low. I hadn't even checked out the profiles of the guys that were due to attend online because I was saving up my disappointment. Hhaving said that though, I was really rather excited about going out, looking hot and testing out my best chat-up lines.

I chose to wear a cute aqua knee-length jumper dress with a plunging neckline and black ankle boots. After I put on the dress I attempted to conceal my clevage a tad by accessorising with a silver necklace and bracelet combo. My hair was looking fierce in an afro puff. I headed out just after 7pm to catch the tube into town still knackered from my afternoon's dance class and with only a Tesco spaghetti and meatballs microwave meal for sustinence and a quick shot of Morgans spiced rum for dutch (or should that be Caribbean?) courage.

So I arrived at the club where the party was taking place, Orchid, which was a fabulous location and just the right size for the 150-odd daters due at the event. After putting my coat in the cloakroom and registering I was presented with a small padlock on a chain. I had not actually realised that it was a lock and key party so I quickly had to face facts that no matter how blinging my necklace was it was not gong to disguise my cleavage which had now consumed my padlock as well.

The girls and I headed straight for the bar but struggled to make it to the actual bar for over 20 minutes because guys kept sticking thier keys in our locks (sounds so cheesy) and making polite conversation. When we finally regrouped with spirits and mixers in hand we discussed that it tookm some getting used to that all the men were single and available and that there were some good-looking guys there. Ratio-wise there were a couple of other black women apart fom us and a handful of black guys.

Mingling was not a problem, at all. There was a Ghanian doctor who must have been in his mid to late 40s who decided that he didn't need to talk to any other women in the place because we were the three black girls that he wanted to talk to. Shame about the breath, that was not cute.

We signed up for speed dating but my girls were veterans but I was a novice. The thing about speed dating is that I had pretty much the exact same conversation 15 times. Name, job, where you live in London, nearest tube station (for real), hobbies, who you came to the party with etc etc. Some guys just used their 3 minutes to complain about the event, which was in no way endearing. Of the 15, there were 3 guys that I quite liked. They were all white professionals living in the city, a lot of the others were very sweet but I felt no potential chemistry. I will fill in my preferences later this week on the website and see if there are any potential matches.

After a refreshing JD and lemonade, it was time for salsa dancing. I love, love, love to dance but haven't done slas for about 10 years so I was looking forward to it. I got chatting to a black Senegalese guy outside who was really into salsa and was quite attractive. He ticks a lot of boxes on my checklist : I have a big thing for French-speaking guys, so I was looking forward to dancing with him.

The dance teachers were from Salsa Flava and they were aewsome. They taught us the basic back, front, side, and spin movements and the women had to swicth partners every 5 minutes or so. Guess who was in our group, the doctor. The teacher put me with him at first and he hugged me so tight and breathed over me - I was not amused and just wanted the 5 minutes to elapse as quickly as possible. I got to dance with the Senegalese guys who was quite good, but needs to leasd a bit more. Some guys that refused to listen to the teachers instructions and did their own thing indicate that that is the way that they will behave in a relationship. It was a really good activity that I will do gain to meet and mix with single guys so I will have to attend Salsa Flava's wekly class at Digress City in East London one Tuesday evening soon.

After the class I continued chatting with The Senegalese guy who was really fun and bubbly and we had a bit of a boogie with on the dance floor. We exchanged numbers and talked about going to a salsa club on the following weekend. My girls and I decided to leave in order to catch the last tubes home.

The next day I woke up hangover- free but still smiling about having met a guy that likes dancing as much as me. I went out to run some errands and found that I had a missed call and message from him on my phone. At least I thought it was him, beause it sounded like a mix between Ja-Rule and Westwood giving it all "yeah baby". I guess he was still drunk from the night before. I watched the previous night's X-Factor online and he called sure enough still giving it the "yeah baby" stuff. How depressing. I told him to firstly call me my actual name and secondly to just be himself. ( I feared that he was putting on the gangsta talk because he said that he had never ever dated a black woman before). Sure enough he just kept on calling me baby, which I found so incredibly disrespectful. So I ended the call with a "I'll call you", which actually means "I will never call you or answer your calls, thank goodness for voicemail".

Typical, what a waste of optimism and my aqua dress.