Now, it’s a common phenomenon that men are from Mars and women are from Venus.
In essence, we think and act so differently, it’s surprising that so many of us decide to get married and put up with these huge disparities for the rest of time.
I’m starting a series. A series of stories that highlight some of the strangest ways I’ve known blokes to act. And I want your help. Every week, or how often I see fit, I’m going to furnish you lovely people with a story about a boy, (or a girl for that matter), acting weirder than weird.
In return for you being entertained, I want yours. Email them, tweet them, tell me in the pub. But I want to hear them.
Here’s how we start. This week’s edition:
Oh Chelsea Ben. Where art thou? If only I knew if you’d be reading this.
So. Let me set the scene. Hannah comes round to mine 6, 7, maybe 8 Sunday’s ago. We have a chat, chill out for a while. I realise I have no milk when offering up a cuppa. Answer? Pop to the shop and pick some up. Course not. Let’s go to the pub.
Off we toddle. I may add in at this point that I am wearing a top I wear to bed, some jeans and have scraped my hair up into an original Croydon facelift top knot. Make up – non existent. Sex appeal – in the gutter.
So. There we sit. In the garden. Of the local. I think at this point we’ve had two beers.
Along comes, as we now know him, Ben.
He makes a vague attempt to talk to us about buying a cigarette from us and determining what times the local news agents shut. As chat up lines go it wasn’t champion, but at least he made the effort. Off he pops to furnish himself with more cigarettes and before his return I go to the bar. Upon arriving back at my seat I find that not only have we been joined by Ben but also his friends, Billy Bob (long story) and Gentle Giant Jeff. Transpires Ben doesn’t have a nickname like the others so we give him one.Chelsea Ben. He doesn’t support Chelsea but won a bet that day on the blues so we decided to call him Chelsea Ben. After another two beers, Hannah and I obviously thought we were hilarious.
Pretty sure he supported West Ham. Anyway, I digress.
The night draws on. It’s apparent Billy Bob, real name Barry, has a thing for our Han. She’s having none of it. But he has world class banter so we let it continue. Ben’s quiet but quite sweet. Laughs along and all is swell. Several more beers later, they call last orders and despite the boy’s pleas Han & I head home.
Or so we think.
Uber, I cry. Out whips my little lady’s phone and low and behold ‘No car’s available’. Gutted. Only thing for it.
“‘Nother drink?” – famous last words.
Into the next pub along we walk to be met with Billy Bob, Gentle Giant Jeff and ah…lovely Chelsea Ben.
Billy Bob entertains Hannah with tales of what he would love to do to her given half the chance and I get chatting to Chelsea Ben. Lovely bloke, really humble and really quite funny. Bit of a nervous twitch which makes me warm to him. But fit. Really quite fit.
Last orders call for the second time in the night, Hannah finally gets in her cab and there stands Chelsea Ben & I.
‘I’m off’ I call, as he starts to tell me he lives down by the church (at the end of my road), so I say he can walk me home because well, I like to think it’s 1956 and people still do that.
So he does. Gent. Talks about his family and his want to be a fireman. What. A . Piece.
Asks me for my number at the end of my road and we part company without him seeing where I actually live, because it isn’t 1956 and he might be a nutcase. I leave with somewhat of a crush. He texts me straight away asking when he can see me again. Lush.
Texts back and forth all week, good banter, solid chat. Asks me out for a drink and I gladly accept.
I tell him that I’m off to the races that Saturday, but the week after suits me just fine.
Fast forward a few days to Saturday. I’m out all day, few texts flying back with old CB and he asks if I’ve had any big wins. Han, I & some other friends get off the train at East Croydon and fancy a night cap. In the meanwhile, I’ve received a call from ol’ Chelsea Ben. I’ve not answered.
We’ve tipped into The George and I’ve headed to the loo. Check my phone. ‘Chelsea Ben – 20 minutes ago’
‘Was just ringing to see if you fancied a drink on your way home, I’m going to call into The George on the way back from work’
‘How weird, I’ve just walked in The George with my mates, let me know when you get here’
Chelsea Ben ‘I know I just clocked you walk in, come say hello I’m at the bar’
I leave the toilet, go to my friends, repeat the story.
‘Ah yes, there he is in the grey jumper’ lovely ol Hannah shares.
I, fluff up the hair, and walk on over. Check with Dean how I look. Better than last week I’d imagine as I’m out of the PJ top and now in a frock with lipstick on. Well, it’s the races init.
Chelsea Ben’s at the bar on the phone. He waves, I wave back. He smiles. I action to him that I’ll come back cos he’s on the phone.
He gives the thumbs up and a wink.
I return to the table. ‘Ah, he’s on the phone’ I say, ‘give it a minute and I’ll go back over’
Take a sip of my drink, look up to chat to Dean and what do I see?
Walking straight past my table and out the bloody pub.
Oh yeah. Off he fucked. After asking me for a drink twice. Asking me to come say hello. He then jogs on.
Clearly the cute, little green number I thought I was sporting actually made me look like a troll who lived under a bridge.
I have the hump so message him ‘Well…that was weird’
Of course no reply. Another one bites the bust I think. ‘He was a knob anyway’ Han cries.
Oh no wait. It gets better.
Roll forward 1 week. I’m on holiday in France. Get some wifi, check my phone.
‘1 New Message – Chelsea Ben’
‘Hey – :)’
Yep. That actually happened.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I think it was the emoji that finished me off.
Boys. Are. Weird.
Now – get your stories over to me. On the double.