I’ve been asking myself lately, how does a guy like me go about getting the girl of his dreams? Well, first I need to find out exactly what I can bring to the table. Why should someone good looking, with a great personality and has all similar interests to me, like me of all people?
Like so many of us have done on yet another Friday night alone at home, I’ve gone through my friend’s friends on facebook, ignoring anyone with a male name, clicked their profile, went straight to the ‘relationship status’ and gone through each and every single photo of anyone listed as “Single” or “It’s Complicated”, and maybe “Divorced” too, because at my grand old age of 27, that category has suddenly opened up. I would include ‘Widowed’ too, but I think I’m a bit young for that. The rules are half your age plus seven, so that’s anyone between twenty and a half (but anyone who counts ‘half’ automatically gets put off the list) and…. forty-seven.
That’s a pretty wide demographic; it covers everyone from fans of Hollyoaks to fans of Prime Minister’s Question Time. From Dizzee Rascal to Simon and Garfunkel. From Heat magazine to the Daily Mail (“only ‘cus I like the crossword”). People who remember what it was like to hate Thature to people who can’t remember the first Big Brother… probably. Surely there has to be someone out there.
So, what is it a guy like me has to offer to a very lucky lady?
My Generosity
My generosity knows no bounds.
As you can see from this photographic evidence, I am a very generous person. This week alone I’ve bought 3 poppies. The first one was because I bought sushi from the fabulous but very expensive (to me) sushi place down the road. I felt a tad guilty for this luxury, so thought the universe would balance out karma wise if I buy a poppy.
I wore it with pride for a couple of days and I wasn’t bothered by shaky tin people, until I noticed they were shaking their tins at me again. At some point I must have lost my badge of caring. In order to stop the pangs of guilt when walking past them, I emptied my penny section of my wallet and got another one. Alas, the look of acceptance amongst my fellow Londoner turned to shaky tin and scorn again, so there goes my change; I was looking forward to getting a can of ‘V’ drink when I got home too.
This third time though, I was going to get value for money, I decided to use the little pin they give you to go through the red bit and though my jacket. Fabulous, this one isn’t going anywhere. The next morning while at Kings Cross waiting for my train to Farringdon, some very important person barged right past me and it tore. I was horrified, worst than people thinking that I’m an apathetic Londoner, they’ll see the now tatty poppy and give me The Tut of Disapproval. So I binned that one while no body was looking and got the one I have to this moment.
I’m a published photographer and model.
I'm a published model and photographer !
I have had my ‘art’ (or ‘work’, what sound’s better? ‘Work’ or ‘art’?) Published in several places, such as my friend Julian’s facebook wall, and my friend Sam’s Flickr, which gets an audience of several billion trillion people. Apparently Google and YouTube have also featured me.
I am the very definition of Vogue.
The very height of fashion.
As you can see by my outfit here, I am at the very epicentre of fashion. I’m also a man who’s not afraid to order a fruity cocktail and a cheap cigar. If Del Boy can order one, then so can I.
I’m not chubby enough to fill John Prescott’s wheel chair.
Not big enough to fill John Prescott's wheelchair.
No explanation needed.
I have an amazing body
What a hunk !
Some people have to work at their bodies, going to the gym every day, some people are naturally good looking…. I, on the other hand, know Photoshop.
