Meat Market

Dear gentle reader.
I am not single. I spent most of Sunday particularly thankful for that fact...

Let me enlighten you.
One of my best mates came around to help me with my PC on Saturday evening (long story, don't get me started on my PC illiteracy) and it turned into me making him dinner. (He's probably blogging about food poisoning right now.) Anyway, buddy-boy has been single for some time now after a lengthy relationship and is quite keen to go out and meet a suitable young lady on whom to lavish his attentions.

So I stupidly agree to go along and play wingman.

The sense of desperation was un-f*cking-believable! Everybody was eyeing everybody else, sizing them up. I had the unfair advantage of not giving a f*ck, as my far better half was at home keeping the bed warm, so I managed a bit of objectivity. Admittedly I did some boob-staring, but that was strictly so I wouldn't seem out of place, you know...
It seems no-one in this fine establishment had heard of "beggars can't be choosers" for as much ogling as was going on, it was Strike Out City. Everyone wants the hottest chick or guy to make out with even if they certainly aren't. TV has f*cked up our generation's level of expectation.

And let me tell you this place was full. It was so full there was a queue outside (in this cold) of hopefuls. Which makes the phenomenon of being inside a teeming cesspit of desperate bodies and NOT scoring even more perplexing. Bodies are brushing up against each other with the general flow of people to and from the dancefloor and bar, however, barely an acknowledgement of contact between anyone...

Oh and do not get me started on the music either. At the end of the night I had come to the conclusion that all of these singles had been dumped for their pathetic music tastes.

Anyway, I delighted in blotting out the experience with copious amounts of alcohol yesterday, so I am sorely hung over right now - Happy Monster Moanday!