Tall men make me melt

At the top of my “must have” list when it comes to men is height. I will not date a short man, I absolutely refuse. I was disappointed to hear a few weeks back, courtesy of Trinny and Susannah, that the average height of a guy in the UK is 5ft 8ins. That’s one whole inch shorter than me. And believe me, inches are important.

Height is a “must have” for me, for several reasons. I do not want to be the bloke in a relationship and the traditionalist in me says men should be taller than their girflfriends, and preferably wider too. Do I want to roll over in the night and crush my boyf to death because I’m twice the size of him? Do I want my toes to be further down the bed than his? Do I want to bend down to kiss him? No, no, no! I want to feel protected by a big, tall guy; I want to look upwards to gaze into a man’s eyes and I want to stand on tip toes so I can kiss him. Tall men make me melt.

So, at the weekend-long sporting tournament/social event I attended up north I was distracted somewhat by a very tall guy. His baby face suggested he’d be a few years younger than me – seven to be precise; he is only 21 – but he was cute and tall to boot.

Our eyes met at the bar on Saturday night and the dribble down my chin probably indicated to him that I fancied him a little. No, scrap that – a lot! He asked me and my buddy if we were enjoying ourselves before he made his way to the dance floor. Our eyes met a few times after that but I didn’t think he’d make a move – men are often slow to react in these situations I find.

But, towards the end of the night our feet danced their way towards each other and we did a bit of grinding to some R&B number before I walked him back to his caravan. I should point out that he did have good manners and offered to escort me back to my tent but I thought, being the older and wiser, I should walk him home. It also put me in control of any “situation”.

Long gone are the days I can get pissed up, stumble home with a guy on my arm, fall into bed and wake up feeling shit and embarrassed. Hmm, apart from a few weeks back at my mate’s wedding that is (see this blog post). We all have our weak moments, and to be fair I was gagging for it at that point, but I’m defo getting too old for that kind of behaviour. But there’s nowt wrong with a snog and swapping numbers.

So, this tight chested 21-year-old is as sporty as I am and at 6ft 6ins tall I imagine he’s a lot better at volleyball than I am. He’s foreign (don’t usually go for foreigners, but his English was good and with that height he could have been Saddam Hussein for all I cared.) He had amazing arms and when he pulled me towards him for a round of kissing, it sent shivers down my spine.

Oh, I’ve still got it. I took his number (half thinking he may have given me the Flirt Divert number) and when I managed to tear myself away from his lips I text him as I walked home. He’d given me the right number, yay!

I didn’t see him during the next day’s sporting events – wind and rain aren’t a good combination for a seaside volleyball tourament - and as I was wearing a waterproof jacket with just my eyes poking out I don’t think he’d have recognised me anyway.

But, on returning home to hot showers and sand-free accommodation, we exchanged texts and he wants to see me again. He lives three hours away though, that’s the problem. I’m not sure anything will come of it but we’ll see. Not sure why a lithe young man like him would want to liaise with an old duffer like me when he can surely have his pick of the university chicks? Did I mention he was a student? Bless. And that he’s 6ft 6ins tall? Melt.

Bad advertisement for the male brand

My date for the last wedding I attended was hunted down on her hen night and I was hoping to do the same thing for my mate’s forthcoming nuptials. No such luck.

Nearly 20 of us hit the streets of Nottingham at the weekend, dressed as Pink Ladies a la Grease, and armed with dare cards and peg. The peg game rocks – the first girly to get rid of her 10 allocated pegs (the wooden washing line variety) by attaching them to guys without them knowing is the winner. The fun isn’t in getting rid of your pegs first but in the hilarity of unsuspecting guys hanging at the bar with their mates, completely unaware they they have two dozen pegs attached to the back of their shirt. Most men take this in good spirits and are happy to play along when their pals get pegged.

Anyway, yes, I was hoping that maybe the streets of Nottingham might throw forth a decent looking male who I could swap numbers and invite to be my wedding date in a month’s time. However, the streets were not paved with gold. Although there were at least three other gaggles of attractive hen parties strutting around the bars of Robin Hood terrotory, the good looking guys were clearly having a night off.

This is what we found:

• A guy who thinks Milton Keynes is a – and I quote – “shit hole” because it has lots of roundabouts. When asked why lots of traffic islands makes a place a “shit hole” he couldn’t answer. I think his brain stopped working at this point. Never trust the opinion of a guy with less than a dozen teeth in his mouth, that’s what I say.
• A guy who asked if I was a personal trainer because my calves were huge. Not sure if this is a compliment or not. The jury’s out.
• A guy that thought anyone wearing a Pink Ladies jacket would be up for a cuddle. Back off Mr Tactile.
• Two complete scumbags, clearly off their heads, who starting spitting at some of the girls in our party because an attack of paranoia meant they thought we were laughing at them. They must have been real tough guys threatening a bunch of girls wearing pink sparkly eyeshadow and limping home in their high heels. Losers! In all seriousness, they were incredibly threatening, had one of the girls in fits of tears, and were a terrible representation of the male brand. So we dobbed them in to the sexy looking coppers who happened to drive past a minute later. Ha!
• Lots of ugly guys who probably spend their weekends looking for hen parties to prey on.

So, all in all, not a successful night on the talent front. However, it succeeded in the girly bonding stakes. We shared jokes about men, swapped make-up application tips, expressed sympathy over the agony of wearing killer heels, danced in a variety of crazy styles and sang cheesy dance tunes until we could barely speak. You can’t beat a good girly weekend, even if it does result in a headache from hell and spending the better part of a gloriously sunny day sleeping off the effects of a heavy weekend.

But the dilemma remains – no date for the wedding! Maybe I’ll remain true to my single buddies and go it alone?