On Friday evening I attended my second speed dating event. For those who haven’t read about the first action-packed speed dating adventure, you can read it here.

Now, I believe that it’s very important to make the right impression at these events. You should walk in with enthusiasm and a positive and happy attitude. First impressions are important – you need to demonstrate that you’re fun, confident and have a passion for life. Seemingly, no-one had mentioned all of that to the man who walked in, plonked himself on the sofa in the corner, fell asleep and started dribbling on his own shoulder. I felt very tempted to walk over and draw a Poirot moustache on him…

Friday’s speed dating event took place at the Oceana club in Brighton in one of their many themed rooms. We were in the ‘Parisian Boudoir.’ It is described as “intimate and plush” with velvet cushions and a seating area in the middle that resembles a four poster bed. In short, an ideal location for a detective murder mystery or a 19th century swingers party.

Before beginning the speed dating, I think it’s always important to have a quick scan of the competition (not just to check for electronic tags). Scanning the room, the other men looked as nervous and scared as a guide dog in a Korean takeaway. The two lovely hosts (bonus points for me when they read this), Emma and Casey, signed everyone in with the words “here’s your date sheet and your pen” – they should then have continued with “and here’s a complimentary Valium. The emergency exits are *here, here and here* and we encourage you to relax, not to look like you’re about to shit yourself – this isn’t the bloody dentist!”

Have you ever been speed dating? Here’s a quick re-cap for those who haven’t. Ten women sit at numbered tables (or laying on plush beds), 10 men rotate around them and chat awkwardly for 5 minutes about nothing in particular whilst trying not to yawn, spit out bits of their dinner or discuss the current state of the economy. At the end of the allotted time, there’s a shake of hands, a tick of a box (‘date,’ ‘friend’ or ‘no thanks’) and a quick memo of “reminds me of Hercule Poirot and seems to have a strange stain on his shoulder” in the ‘notes’ section. Then it’s on to the next victim…

To aid my own conversations on Friday, I came up with another useful list of questions to ask. These included:

• Which womble would you be?
• What is your favourite allergy?
• Do you believe in hate at first sight?
• Have you ever pollenated a tomato plant using an electric toothbrush?
• What’s in your freezer? (an exciting variation on the ‘what’s in your fridge’ question from last time and an opportunity to catch out the psychopaths)
• Do you like my electronic tag – it’s even got pretty, flashing lights on it…?

The event was fun and much hilarity was had. By the time we got to the end, even ‘Poirot‘ looked like he was enjoying himself.

Following the event, a few of us got together to chat with a drink. One guy recounted the story of a previous speed date involving a disabled man who was speaking using a computer and voice synthesiser. That brought into my head the very humorous vision of Professor Stephen Hawking on a speed date…

A day or so after the speed dating, I was sitting in a cafe and received the email containing my results. Just as I was opening the email, a message which informed me that no-one had ticked my ‘date’ box (though 6 ticked ‘friend’), a Bee Gees song began playing in the background. The irony was not lost on me… “Tragedy… when the feeling’s gone and you can’t go on it’s a tragedy… it’s hard to bear, with no-one to love you you’re going nowhere…”

For those who haven’t read my last speed dating article, it is available here.

Do you have any funny speed dating experiences?

Yesterday evening, I decided to take the plunge and try speed dating. This is the story of the events that occurred. I was somewhat nervous to start off with – excusable considering I was a ‘speed dating virgin’ – but in the end it proved to be an enjoyable and fun evening.

In preparation for the event, I scoured the Internet for some advice and tips and also some suggestions for questions that I could ask. The advice was useful, but the question suggestions were either boring or ones that I’d rather smash a pint glass over my head than ask. For example, “So, which character in friends do you most identify with?” Uh!

On the evening of the event, I arrived at the pub and was presented with a card on which there were a series of boxes. I was told to write the number and name of each lady in the left hand column boxes after I had sat down and made my introduction. Next to those were 3 smaller tick boxes – “date,” “friend” and “no thanks.” Notable by their absence were the options for “quick shag outside by the back wall,” “restraining order” and “call the police, I’ve seen this guy on Crimewatch.”

There was also a column on the sheet marked “notes”, in which we could write facts about the person in order to aid our memory in the time that followed the event. Such scribbles could include “psychopath,” “reminds me of Margaret Thatcher” and “DO NOT GIVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER TO THIS LADY EVEN IF YOU ARE COMPLETELY PISSED!” Obviously, we were told not to write the notes infront of the person whilst talking to them. E.G: “I notice you have a glass eye, spit when you talk and look like my best friend’s ugly aunt, I’ll just make a quick note of that on my sheet…”

Helpfully, on the reverse of the card there were some ideas listed for questions that we could ask if we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of an awkward silence (so, no need for me to use my emergency ‘Friends character‘ question). Bizarrely, one of those questions was “what’s in your fridge?” It was so ridiculously random that I used it several times throughout the evening (phrased in a jokey manner). It did, however, backfire on me on one occasion, where the lady spent the following minute and a half listing everything in her fridge… I actually tried interrupting her in the middle, but she refused to stop until she had named everything. Perhaps a sign of OCD? (I used the time to jot that down on my ‘notes’ sheet whilst she was finishing her fridge items list). Definite traits of a Monica there (albeit a bit older).

We had a mammoth 7 minutes to talk to each lady, with 10 ladies in total. They stayed on the same sofa/chair/bar stool/hammock (no, not really) whilst the men rotated around the room looking like cows being led to the slaughter house. The 7 minutes seemed like a long time at first, but actually flew by on every occasion… with the exception of one. During that particular episode, the lady repeatedly answered my questions with one-word, nondescript answers – she was definitely a Phoebe!

There was a real mixture of women at the event and I got along well with all of them. Some were being very serious about the whole thing. E.G:

Lady: “I come to these regularly to find dates… what’s your star sign please?”
Me: “I’m not sure, but I think it’s in the constellation with Uranus…”
Lady: ………

Other ladies were taking things less seriously. With that being said, I was disappointed not to get an opportunity at any point to ask a question from my list of unusual questions, such as:

1. So, what is your stance on cannibalism?
2. Would you date a guy who lived in a tent?
3. Why don’t sheep shrink in the rain?
4. Has anyone ever told you that you look like Bill Cosby? (no, I obviously wasn’t intending to use that one)

After all the 7 minute torture sessions where over, everyone headed to the bar to relax, and, in the case of a few people, get completely shit-faced. The results weren’t pretty – at one point one of the ladies pulled down the top of her trousers to show me her ‘Mr Tickle’…

Anyway, enough about tattoos of Mr Men characters (well, what else did you think I was talking about?). This speed dating event was fun. However, due to the fact that I had chosen an “over 30s” event, everyone there was older than me and most were over 40 (hey, I still got 3 phone numbers). It’ll be interesting to compare it with a speed dating event for a 26-39 age group (which I hope to attend in a couple of weeks time). I suspect they will be less fun, more serious and won’t be arriving by way of their free bus passes…

…I wonder what they’ll have in their fridge? Hey, come to think of it, what have you got in yours?

Why not read my latest speed dating article, speed dating in the boudoir?

Well, it was inevitable. Your partner bought you cake and chocolates for your birthday and now they’re showing on your waist. You looked in the mirror today and your self-esteem dropped through the floor. Thank goodness your home was built well, otherwise you might have plummeted through the floor with it. With the weather being so cold outside, the idea of a run seems about as enviable as a night in doing your tax return. There’s only one thing for it – you’re going to have to make a visit to the gym…

Prising yourself out of the warmth of your home, and wearing your most fashionable leotard, you head along to the local fitness centre – Waist Management.

After paying your entrance fee, you squeeze through the turnstiles and are greeted with a plethora of torture devices. It’s decision time; should you try the rowing machine, the cross-trainer or the treadmill?

Decision time

As if things aren’t already uncomfortable enough for you, in your over-tight leotard, you’ve just spotted someone that you know and, inevitably, hate. It’s your work colleague, Hal (surname: Itosis), a man with a mouth so gargantuan that he could use a broom to brush his teeth. He enjoys winding you up with his sarcastic comments (whilst wafting a mixture of marmite and espresso breath past your nostrils). The annoying shit is leaning on the water machine trying to pretend he’s Arnold Schwarzenegger. He’ll no doubt take pleasure in watching you prance up and down on a cross-trainer looking like the back half of a pantomime cow.

Whilst thoughts of dread echo through your mind, one of the cross-trainers becomes free, as the man drags himself off and crawls away towards the water machine. He’s left behind a present for you – his sweat; all over the machine.

After dragging the entire contents of the paper towel dispenser across the room, tripping up several people in the process, you dry the cross-trainer, clamber on and start your exercising. You set the machine to level 1 difficulty so that you can move really fast and look far more impressively fit than you are. Instead of looking at you, everyone will be looking at the guy to your left, Jim, who is struggling on level 10 (whilst listening to ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ from the Rocky film). You’ve nicknamed him Jim because of his uncanny resemblance to Jimmy Saville.

A few minutes later…

After three minutes on the cross-trainer, you’re beginning to feel bored. No-one is sharing conversation (so much for the gym being a social thing). Instead, everyone around you is wearing earphones; plugged into their music mix of Lady GaGa, Bon Jovi and the Village People. In need of something to break the tedium, you stare at the television that sits bolted to the wall at the front of the room. It’s showing music videos. Well, they’re supposed to be music videos. They actually seem to be a mixture of nudity, sadomasochism and debauchery… with lyrics that you can’t actually hear.

Ten minutes more hard work go by…

You’re kicking up quite a sweat. The realisation then hits you that you’ve been in a trance for the last five minutes – unable to drag your eyes from the hypnotic movement of the female walrus on the running machine in front. Determined not to focus on her repetitive buttock movement (RBM), you look back up at the television screen. The music channel has taken a commercial break and the television is now taunting you with an advert for fish and chips. Wow, that looks good…

There must be some consolation for this continued torture – the exercise must be doing you good. You’ve probably burned off enough calories for…. fish and chips. You look down at your screen for some statistics and it’s only too willing to show you – you’ve been exercising for 15 minutes, you’ve burned off 100 calories and your heart rate is…. it’s not showing. It was showing a minute ago, but now it’s not. That’s it then – you’re dead. You decide to warn Jim on the machine next to you that he may need to call an ambulance. He’s still got his headphones in, so you’ll need to scribble it down…. “Dear Jim, please can you fix it for me to have an ambulance, as I think my heart has stopped?”

Life and death

Ten minutes further on and you’re still alive and kicking – it looks as if you won’t need that ambulance after all. The same can’t be said for poor Jim, who is laying face down on the floor. A brief, cruel smirk rises across your face as you remember that he was, ironically, listening to a song by Survivor ten minutes ago.

Looking around at the other people in the room, the walrus has finished on her running machine and is now fiddling with her briefs to try and extract them from her bottom. The gym instructor is looking frustrated at the immense pile of paper towel sitting on the floor next to your cross-trainer… you decide not to acknowledge him and hope that he doesn’t realise you were responsible. Wondering where Hal’s gone, you look behind you and realise that he’s been on the weight machines staring hypnotically at your bottom for the last 20 minutes. The shit – he’s going to have a field day with this one.

You’ve finished!

After finishing your workout, you stagger to the water machine. As you stand there, feeling tired but good, the paramedics carry Jim past you on a stretcher. The poor bugger.

Gym session over. Tomorrow you’re going to feel stiffer than a w*nker’s hanky. The question is: which will hurt more – the aching from your gym session or the sarcastic comments from Hal?

Right, time for fish and chips….

Today I’m going to have a rant about something (or rather, ‘someone’) that really pisses me off…

The guy (or woman – this isn’t a gender-specific annoyance) who walks into a cafe on a cold day and leaves the door open. It only takes 2 seconds to close the door and save everyone from a chilling blast of arctic cold up their jacksey.

Yet this idiot, wearing his super-thick winter coat, doesn’t think about that, does he?

So, what happens next?

You get up from your chair and walk across to ‘ferme la porte‘, ensuring that you slam it hard enough that the noise resonates around the room and shakes all the pictures off the walls. Everyone looks up at you, except for the ignorant ‘merde‘ who left it ajar in the first place. You then trudge back to your seat (although in your mind you’re walking up to the man, grabbing his head and bashing it onto the counter infront of him).

You sit down, feeling irritated, and continue with what you were doing (the crossword in the newspaper, in which, coincidentally, the answer to 4 across is ‘tosspot’ – well, it’s not really, but it does fit, so f*ck it!)

Just as your mood begins to return to somewhere near normality, the inevitable happens. The guy has ordered take-away and, having paid for his sandwich and coffee by emptying the entire collection of loose change from his wallet, bag and coat pockets into a heap on to the counter, he opens the door and goes to walk out. You’re waiting for him to either shut the door behind him or give you the motive for murder.

Instead, he taunts you by doing neither and begins a long goodbye speech to the cafe owner (with the door wide open). Well, that’s enough for you – you get up off your chair, spilling the unfinished crossword to the floor, and sprint across the room, slamming the door in his face and knocking him and his coffee half way down the street. That’ll teach the little ‘4 across!’

Valentines Day is fast approaching – the time of year that florists and card shop owners rejoice, whilst the rest of us cringe with dread.

One wonders who hates Valentine’s Day more – the man trying to find something suitably romantic for his partner or the guy who receives nothing and ends the day unloved… and locked up for stalking.

So, for a man, how does a typical Valentine’s Day shopping trip turn out…

It’s February the 13th and you’ve left it late. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow and you’ve put the dreaded shopping trip off as long as you can. Your prayers for a nuclear holocaust have gone unanswered. What’s more, your clever scheme to coat the 2010 calendar in dog food didn’t work either. Your hungry dog, Charlie, ignored it and chewed through your favourite pair of slippers instead. There’s only one thing for it, you’re going to have to go out shopping.

So, what should you buy? You’re going to need one hell of a romantic gesture to beat last year’s effort. Spelling “I love you Catharine Elizabeth Alexandra Mackenzie” in your own blood, whilst bungee jumping from a crane, resulted in a month in the Intensive Care ward. You can only blame yourself… for choosing a partner with such a long name. On the plus side, the effort did win you immense respect (from other men).

Not only do you have to contend with bettering last year, but you also have to out-romance your partner’s best friend. A week hardly goes by without your partner’s friend bragging about the romantic gestures that her husband makes, and your partner thinks nothing of mentioning them to you in conversation. The cow (that’s aimed at the friend, obviously, not your partner!).

The Card Shop

(the easiest part of the shopping expedition… supposedly)

So, what message should you look for in a Valentine’s Day card? If you’re in a relationship, you’re looking for a card that gives the message “I love you more than life itself,” without going over the top. If you’re playing the field a bit, you’re looking for the card that says “you are the one and only,” in a ‘buy one, get one free’ offer…

You walk into the card shop and are immediately greeted by a sea of red Valentine’s Cards, going on as far as the eye can see. The last time you saw this amount of red concentrated in one place was when you drunkenly knocked a bottle of Merlot on to your friend’s carpet (and proceeded to try and lick it up). Standing in front of the abundant rows of cards are lines of confused-looking men, scratching their heads, leaning to one side and dribbling from one side of the mouth. You walk over to join them. At this point one of two things happen:

1. You pick up the first card, open it and find it has the perfect message:

   I bought this Valentine’s card at the store, in hope that, later, you’d be my whore.

   OR

   Through all the things that came to pass, our love has grown… but so’s your ass.

   OR

   Our love will never become cold and hollow, unless, one day, you refuse to swallow!

   Thinking, “wow, that was easy,” you make your way to pay.

2. You pick up card after card, but can’t find one that looks right or conveys the right message. What’s more, every card seems to read like a miniature novel on how your love life should be, but isn’t. If you plump for a card at random, you know fully well that she’ll be thinking “he didn’t really make an effort with this one, did he?” After two and a half hours of looking, with legs wobbling and brain rotting, you opt for the best one that you can find – a £20 gold-patterned card with a pig on it (let’s hope she doesn’t think you’re calling her one).

Choosing a Present

Right, so, you’ve bought the card. Now you have to think about a present…

Flowers

Flowers are a good option for your loved one for Valentine’s Day (and they represent your relationship well – after a while they wither and die). Now then, would she prefer red, yellow, white or pink and how much should you spend?

Chocolates

Ordinarily, chocolates would make a good present. But you know fully well that she’ll only scoff the lot and then ask you the question “do you think I look fat?” two days later.

Lingerie

A romantic idea. However, you’ll only get the wrong size and, besides, the last time you tried to buy lingerie you were thrown out for ogling the breasts of the sales girls.

Dinner

You could take her out for dinner. But you’ve left it late and all the decent restaurants have been booked up already. So, it’s either a meal at the local greasy spoon or a take-away kebab.

There’s always the romantic thought of cooking her dinner. But last time you cooked beans on toast you accidentally destroyed her favourite saucepan and set fire to Charlie. She’d never forgive you if you did that again, and neither would Charlie (what’s left of him).

Conclusion

It looks pretty hopeless – you’d better find yourself a bungee cord and a crane (I suggest you just draw a heart this year and forget about her name!).

We’ve all been there – the nervous first date. You meet up with your victim/date and sit down to chat over a coffee. But, after a while you’ve exhausted the regular questions like “so, what do you do for a living?” and “lovely weather, isn’t it?” There’s an awkward silence as you both reach for the last digestive biscuit…

To help you, I’ve come up with a handy list of questions that you can ask your date, to get the conversation moving again.

Here’s some good ones:

1. What is your dream job?
2. Do you have any interesting collections?
3. If you could wake up tomorrow with any ability, what would you choose?
4. If you throw a cat out of a car window, does it become kitty litter?
5. If a cow laughed, would milk come out of its nose?
6. If someone with multiple personality disorder threatens suicide, is that considered a hostage situation?

And here’s some alternative ones:

1. That’s a lovely outfit… have you always been colour blind?
2. You have a really interesting haircut… how much sponsorship money have you raised?
3. So, how long have you been in the witness relocation programme?
4. Are you a nun? Do you have any bad habits? (ok, that was a terrible joke)
5. Have you given names to all of your head lice or just the special ones?
6. Have you ever been on a date, but found that there was no spark? Well, you won’t get that problem with me – I’m an arsonist!
7. Is that piercing supposed to be there or has someone attacked you with a staple gun?
8. So, how long have you owned your womble costume?
9. I highly recommend colonic irrigation – have you ever tried it?
10. Have you always had a moustache… I’m not sure it goes with that blouse?
11. Why are you staring at me like that – haven’t you ever seen a naked man before?
12. Have you ever had the feeling you were being watched? No, good… (quickly change subject)
13. Has anyone ever told you that when you laugh, you sound like the woman from the Krankies? Come to think of it, you don’t look too dissimilar either…
14. I’ve been trying to figure it out all night… are those breasts real?
15. So, what do you think of my “I Shag On The First Date” t-shirt?
16. Has anyone ever told you that you have very big hands for a lady… and is that an adams apple?
17. Did I mention that I’m Gillian McKeith’s younger brother? If you’d like to take a crap into this plastic box, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with your diet…
18. Have you ever considered plastic surgery? I mean, they can do wonders with noses these days!
19. Have you met my imaginary friend Phillip? Say hello, Phillip…
20. Where would you like to go for our honeymoon – I was thinking Morocco…?

You know what? Snow reminds me of a distant Auntie’s visit on Christmas Day. Everything seems very pleasant and enjoyable for the first 5 minutes and the children enjoy playing with her. But then you realise that she hasn’t really brought anything nice with her. She then overstays her welcome, irritates you to the point of hatred and gives you a frosty reception when you attempt to reshape her into a man.

Still, at least you can rely on teenagers to provide a smile in the snowy weather. I don’t know about you, but I feel positive that the future of our country will be safe in the hands of our young folk; particularly the ‘sensible ones’ who walk around in the bitter cold wearing t-shirts (or hoodies) and writing “amusing” messages on the front of parked cars. I watch them walk down the road, hoping that at some point they might slip over and impale themselves on a fence post. Should it happen, I intend to nip out and transcribe the word “twat!” in the pool of blood lying next to them. Hey, I may even draw a little picture.

Is Social Networking Breeding a New Culture Of Self-importance?

So, you’ve got 200 Facebook friends and 20 Twitter followers. You feel important – right up there, in celebrity status, alongside Tom Cruise, Pope Benedict XVI and… Susan Boyle. People seem to want to follow your every move – and you oblige by telling them when you eat breakfast, visit the toilet and wash your best pair of pants.

Then, one day, you go through your friends list and it hits you – 195 of your 200 Facebook friends are actually made up of the following:

1) Former classmates from school (who you didn’t really know because you were busy studying in the library or hiding in the janitor’s cupboard whilst they were fighting, smoking and having teenage sex behind the lockers)

2) Old work colleagues (who regularly taunted you for your unusual dress sense and over-large nose).

3) People you met once at a social occasion, but never really spoke to. You just remember their name and the fact that they like bird watching.

4) People who mistake you for someone else (well, you did put a picture of Scooby Doo as your profile photo) and then can’t be bothered to remove you when they realise you’re not who they thought you were.

Despite discovering all this, you still find yourself needing to log on to Facebook and Twitter at every available opportunity to check whether someone has written on your wall (technically, graffiti), posted a follow-up to your comment, or to see if someone has re-tweeted your earlier 140 character creation of genius. Later that day, your only real friend goes through your Twitter followers list and breaks some extra bad news to you: 18 of your 20 Twitter followers are actually just porn pedlars.

The Lives Of The Self-Important

So, why do social networking websites make people think that they must share everything with the world? Perhaps it is down to the questions that they ask: “what are you doing?” or “what’s happening?” (Twitter) or “what’s on your mind?” (Facebook). It’s a dream come true for people with over-inflated egos.

I’m amazed when people tweet that they’re sitting in traffic on the motorway, washing their hair or about to go out and buy a new pair of knickers. Now, if they were about to meet Pope Benedict XVI (or Susan Boyle, I don’t mind which) and present him (or her) with the fore-mentioned pair of knickers, I would be interested (and would probably even re-tweet it to my own *tens* of ‘interested’ followers). For me, these people put the “twit” into Twitter.

When out in public, the behaviour of the self-important is extraordinary to watch. I observed one such person on Friday night. I was in a busy cocktail bar and as it got towards the end of the night, I glanced to the side of the room to observe a rather inebriated man sit down at a computer screen and log in to Facebook. You could tell he was drunk – it was a real struggle for him to locate and type each letter of his username and password. If that wasn’t a complete giveaway to his drunken state, his next action certainly was, as he got up shouted out “I’ve got my lasagne” and then proceeded to pull a small plastic bag out of his pocket (containing said lasagne) and whirl it round and round his head in celebration…

Now then, at that point I could have considered it to be a monumental moment worth sharing with the Internet world, taken out my iPhone and tweeted ‘just stood in a cocktail bar and watched a man whirl lasagne around his head”. Did I? No… damn, why didn’t I?

To conclude this rant, an idea: Perhaps Twitter should change its initial question to say: “so, what makes you think you’re so bloody interesting today?”

Maybe someone should also start a list of ‘self-important people‘ (not to be confused with ‘self impotent’ people – that’s a different blog post altogether), gather them all in the same place, with their computers and mobile phones, and see what happens. Forget the Hadron Collider and the Maya 2012 predictions  – this idea could really cause the destruction of mankind!

“If I was to punch that rich looking guy, would he sue me?” That was the question I put to my brother whilst we were walking around our Onsen Hotel in Kotohira, Japan. His response was quick: “No, he’d probably apologise for walking into your fist.”

It’s funny, but it does actually make an interesting point about how friendly Japanese people are. My brother is right – the man would probably stand there and apologise and bow profusely. To get him to stop bowing, I’d probably have to punch him again… harder… somewhere in the chest cavity… with some knuckle dusters…

At times it seemed quite bizarre to me, as a Westerner (oh no, I used *that* word). Walk in or out of a hotel, restaurant, shop or cafe and you will find the staff thanking you, bowing, smiling – sincerely happy to see you (but not glad to see you leave). Yes, it’s nice but come on – I should be thanking you for my nice meal or service or for allowing me to look around your lovely shop. I feel like giving them a violent shake – no, not a liquid refreshment made of milk. What does a violent milkshake look like anyway, for goodness sake? Is it served with a machete instead of a straw?

Anyway, back to my point – what a difference this kind of service makes from the brand outlets in the UK, where they serve you in a shop, mumble the price, wipe their nose on their sleeve (well, at least it’s not your sleeve) and then stare at you as if to say “go on then, I’ve done my bit, you can put it in a bag yourself.” I want to be served my spinach doughnuts with a smile, not with a snarl and a fart from Mr ASBO.

Now, onto another point about service. When you’re out somewhere (a bit of a non-specific statement, I know) and a Japanese person goes above and beyond for you (like cleaning your windscreen in the petrol station), they don’t expect a tip for it. It’s all part of the service. Go to give the man a tip and he wont know what to do with it.

Question: when is green not green, but actually blue? Hint: It’s nothing to do with a convention of colourblind frogs. Answer: At Japanese road crossings and street lights. Yes, despite the light being as green as a mouldy apple jelly baby sitting on a plate of cress in Cafe Vert (note to self: don’t go there for the ‘dish of the day!’) , the light is blue blue and it’s a blue man, not a green one.

Whilst on the subject of the green (or blue) man, I found it highly entertaining to watch Japanese people at crossings. In Japan, the ‘stop, look, listen’ rule has been replaced with ‘stop…. stare at blue man…. hope….’ Despite the fact that a car hasn’t been spotted in either direction for months, they stand there… waiting for the blue man and the inevitable muzac (probably the tune of The Proclaimers ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles… But There’s A Red Man Stopping Me’). I was told that it is considered shameful to cross when the red man is showing. So, people wait… and wait… and then suddenly one man thinks ‘sod it, I’m going to be late for my chiropodist’ and goes to cross. Like wildebeest waiting to cross a crocodile-infested river; once one goes, suddenly they all go. It’s obviously less shameful to cross on the red man once someone else has done it. There’s comfort in being shamed as a group… just ask X-Factor singing duo ‘John and Edward’.

On to Japanese women now (about time too!). One thing I admire greatly about Japanese women is their effort in wearing short skirts and shorts in any weather. Amazing…. ok, enough admiring!

Oh, and whilst it comes to the opposite sex, I found out that in Japanese, the words for ‘hot‘ and ‘thick‘ are the same. As are ‘tall‘ and ‘expensive‘. So, next time you hear your Japanese friend saying that she has met a tall, hot man… you might want to think twice before seeking an introduction and asking if they have any similar friends.

So, why do such a high percentage of men find Japanese women so attractive (apart from the way that they dress?). Well, I have a theory, and it’s all about pupil dilation. It has been scientifically proven that people become more attractive when their pupils dilate – it’s a sign that someone is attracted to you (or that someone is incredibly drunk). With Japanese women, their eyes tend to be very dark, which makes it seem as if their pupils are dilated (or they’re hammered!). So, if you’re not gazing at their legs, you’re gazing into their eyes. Well, that’s what I find, anyway. I mean, check out the image below. Her eyes…. are amazing.

Vicki Larrieux, a 22-year-old student from Portsmouth, claims she is unable to keep to a healthy diet because she is frightened of vegetables. She suffers from a fear known as lachanophobia, which leaves her sweating and stricken with panic attacks at the merest sight of a sprout or a pea.

Miss Larrieux survives on a diet of meat, potatoes, cereals and an occasional apple but refuses even a single slice of carrot on her dinner plate. ”I have always had an irrational fear of vegetables even as a child I used to properly freak out if some carrots or a few peas were on my plate,” she said. ”But as it continued into adult life I started to think it might not just be a dislike for vegetables but an actual phobia.

“Every time I would see vegetables not just on my plate, but anywhere I would get feelings of panic, start sweating and my heart rate would shoot up.

Read the full article on the Telegraph website