It’s amazing the things you find when you tidy out your room. Used panties, blood-stained teddy bears and half-sucked lollipops. And, less interestingly, half-finished blogs. Here we go then…

Last nite, I was stood up for the first time in my life. I’ve always wondered how it would feel, to be the sole representative at a meal for two, and now I can tell you - it’s fucking great. I had the pleasure of drinking a whole bottle of Chardonnay to myself. I only spent half as much money as usual. And I was able to eye up every hot waitress in the restaurant without getting a slap from my date. The waitress who showed me to my table was particularly cute. I like that - it’s the sign of a good establishment. Every guy loves it when a waitress flashes them a shy smile that most likely means ‘Good evening sir, if I grin at you like this all nite perhaps you will tip generously’ but which, in their male mind, could just as easily mean ‘Hey, forget my tip - it’s yours I’m after.’ I had turned up for my date looking exceptionally stylish, in a light pink t-shirt beneath a beige jacket, the sort of outfit a heterosexual guy can just about pull off so long as he’s got a girl on his arm. I had an arm - in fact I had two - but no girl to go with it, and so it was that I found myself alone, unwanted and looking like a raving homosexual. I take it now isn't the best moment to mention how good my hair was looking? I know it was looking good because a random guy in the restaurant stopped at my table and asked me if my starter was any good. What kind of a guy approaches another guy who’s wearing a pink t-shirt and asks him what his starter’s like? The sort of guy who wants to be finished off, with the help of one of my spare arms.
Thus far, I have transcribed this weblog from the restaurant napkin that it was written on. I ran out of funny things to write at this point, not because I was short of inspiration - god forbid - but because I suddenly remembered I had a whole bottle of Chardonnay to finish off. In any case, there’s not much else I can decipher from the napkin, other than that it got a bit blotchy round about here because I spilt some wine on it. I remember discussing 5-a-side football with the waiter, and how we should get a team together. This sort of networking would never have happened if I’d been staring into my girlfriend’s eyes, trying to catch my reflection in them to see if my hair was still straight. Or to be precise, stylishly messed-up. So to summarise, eating alone isn’t half as soul destroying as the movies would have you believe. But perhaps that’s because you’ve never eaten alone in my company. If I wasn’t so fascinating, I’d have bored myself to death by now. All those in favour of being stood up, stand up.