Patrick

As I have mentioned a number of times, this blog uses Kirsty MacColl song titles for each entry. As I plough through her backlist, it becomes harder and harder to match a song to a post.

So, this entry is dedicated to men called Patrick. Sadly, I can only ever recall knowing two Patricks personally in my life. I cannot really justify dedicating it to the second incarnation of Doctor Who.

The first 'Patrick' of my life was one I wish I could erase from my memory...

My friend Suzy had a cute boyfriend called Matt (I think that was his name, but it was years ago and considering his looks were the best part about him, I can be forgiven for forgetting his name, right?) and, like a lot of young, naive heterosexual males, he was under the misapprehension that two gay men would be perfect for each other because they had one thing in common... being gay. Ah *shakes head wearily* - no.

So, Matt decided to set me up on a blind date. Matt, Suzy and I went to a pub in Chesterfield to meet this supposedly "hot date" and I was terribly nervous. I had only recently acknowledged my sexuality to others at this point and wasn't perfectly happy with my situation, but I went along for the ride all the same.
We ordered some drinks - a bit of dutch courage for myself - and we waited.
A few minutes later, in walked Patrick.

Oh.

Now, before I go on, let me explain. I am not one to judge people by their appearances. Personality counts a great deal... but seriously??

In walked Patrick. Tall (tick), blonde (tick), smiley (tick)...
Eighty billion pounds overweight and wearing a bright orange velour tracksuit?? (CROSS, CROSS, CROSS, ERASE, SCRIBBLE OUT!!!)

FUCK! Or rather, No thank you, I've got a headache!! The term 'bloated citrus fruit' springs to mind (Thank you Saffy!)

I didn't know what to do! I am sure he must have had a beautiful personality and a great sense of humour, so I decided to put my prejudices aside - however, he was one of those - oh, you know the ones... everything is "gay, gay, gay!" Waving hands, laughing at every innuendo, including the ones he was making up for himself.
I was at a loss. So, instead of continuing the conversation, I swigged a couple of large glasses of Jack Daniels and headed to the dance floor alone where I danced like a lunatic and lost all the buttons of my shirt in a mad extravagant dance.

Oddly enough, he never got in touch.

Cripes. remind me never to go on a blind date ever again.

The second Patrick in my life was a devilishly handsome delivery guy who dropped off stock at the bookstore I worked at eleven years ago. He was married, but was the sort of straight guy who likes to flirt outrageously with we of the other persuasion. God, I loved him, even if he was a prick-tease.

So, that's my post about 'Patrick'. Maybe one day I will meet another.

At some point in the future, I am going to have to visit New York to use up some 'Big Apple'-themed songs of Kirsty's and heaven knows how I am going to get I'm Going Out With an Eighty Year Old Millionaire into this blog.
Call me Anna-Nicole Smith??