Well hello again. Great news! Today’s missive treats you to more of the astonishing insights of Mr Y or Mr W or whatever the hell I called myself last time. All this in response, of course, to the rapturous welcome that my first two posts (A Male Perspective On All This Dating Business and Here’s Why You Shouldn’t Sleep With Someone On The First Date) received. (BTW please do more likes, tweets or RTs, whatever they are, because I think I get more nookie or something if I ahem ‘outperform’ Miss X online). And this time your friendly country-boy will even delve into the world of fashion, which might be interesting for you, if utterly confusing for me.
So here I am, wearing a fairly tight cheesecloth polo shirt with some trendy St Andrew’s golfer called Tom embroidered on it near the hem. This comes in a cool azzuro sort of colour, vaguely acknowledging my devastatingly desirable Italian heritage. On top of this, due to a slight crispness of the Friday night air, I have just pulled on John Smedley’s merino jumper although, if I might say so myself, I think I look a touch more rugged in it than Daniel Craig did. The top half is all quite clingy, giving me what I hope is a rippling Poldarkian profile, but gallopier. Mixing this up deftly with classic grey denim appears to be appropriate but I’m not sure that the blue camo-print Springfield trainers (cheap euro-chic) entirely meet with unconditional approval for some reason. Miss X hasn’t dared to tackle my footwear yet.
I realise that at this point you must think that I look pretty awesome, and you would be right, my dear perceptive readers, but it gets better yet. Oh yes, for tonight is the first outing of my metro-beard. Now generally I am not a fan of facial hair although I have seen quite a few chaps in our 1st XV and 1st XI (cricket, not the plebs who play football obviously) sporting a fair touch of stubble recently. Then Miss X suggested that there might perhaps be more in the bedroom department for me if I looked a bit like David Gandy (but more smoulderier, of course) and I started to see some logic in fashion at last. Plus it has a few dashing grey flecks in it (and mercifully no ginger), much like Mr Clooney but far more brooding, needless to say.
This girl really seems to have hit the jackpot with me.
All of which brings me in a roundabout sort of way on to Mr W’s Definitive Guide to Beards. Cut out and keep, fashionistas, here goes:
1) Metro. Trim at least twice a week with clippers on the shortest setting. Merge seamlessly into the sideburns. DO NOT let the furry little bugger creep down your neck. Gets you action, so should be considered for sure.
2) Rustic. Favoured by woodsmen, and often has bits of racoon caught up in it. Not a good look currently, nor has it been for at least 200 years.
3) Maritime. Popular with pirates. Should contain some smouldering wicks for lighting cannons with. Smells of gunpowder and seagull turds. Best avoided, certainly over the last 300 years. Especially if you are hoping to get laid because a whiff of fish intestines is apparently not an aphrodisiac.
4) Dickhead. This category encompasses all the other sorts of beards in the world. It applies in particular to all those arty tossers with goatees but, come to think of it, also includes Types 2 and 3.
So in conclusion, go Metro or go home. Particularly if you are a lumbersexual Hoxton knob. We just don’t want to see you.
Very informative, no doubt, you must be thinking, but why is all this anticipatory mise-en-scène going on? Ah, simple. Because Miss X is a fashion PR chick, and she enjoys dressing me up like a fashion-forward monkey. (Correct use of the terminology, no?) And you are fashion people and this is a dating blog, so eventually it all comes together at this critical juncture. Finally, you doubtless sigh.
So, well, we have a second date, and she doesn’t want me to embarrass her again. It’s one thing in rural Portugal, but apparently you trendy city folk are much less forgiving. Tonight she has wrangled us a classy night out in London and now I’m here to tell you everything about it, all the while looking slightly cooler than a Daniel Craig, David Gandy, Ross Poldark and Chris Robshaw hybrid. For me, you will no doubt have surmised, this did not require any special effort. Regardless, I made a big show of pretending to manscape myself (whatever that is – I just spent ages on the loo reading a magazine) because I understand that sort of thing is expected of us metro-males these days.
And now I’ll have to pause momentarily because at this point Mrs Web-mistress will quite rightly want to keep you hanging on for my next thrilling instalment, all about the date itself. Which obviously I haven’t actually written yet. And if that isn’t a properly good cliff-hanger then I don’t know what is…