All At Sea

Bear with me, as I'm feeling a little sorry for myself today. It could be the mild hangover, it could be the change in weather and the fact that it is getting darker earlier, whatever it is, I am not feeling as chipper as I normally would be. 

To be completely honest, my confidence has been a bit shot of late, when it comes to romance at least. One of the reasons I have been so quiet since August is because I was dating someone for that time period. Someone who appeared to be a Darcy. He was a gentleman, and although not traditionally what I would consider my type, I was willing to give something different a try, as dating idiots seems to have become a past time for me, and I really need to break out of it. It took a while for us to get comfortable with each other, as he hadn't really had very much experience with girls, and at times conversation could be awkward. But I stuck it out, and we had a nice rapport going. I waited dutifully for a month before inviting him in after a date, and then the problems began. He had performance issues, in that there was no performance. At first I thought that this might be because of his earlier issues concerning awkwardness around girls, and that he was probably just nervous and the next time everything would be fine. I was wrong. It wasn't fine. And it happened a number of times before I finally asked him what I could do, and he told me not to worry about it. I was worried, and the relationship has since petered out, but not before it made me feel incredibly unattractive. I know that I am not, and that his issue probably had nothing to do with the way that I look, god knows that other men have not had such problems. But it still hurts a little bit, especially because an explanation was never offered, and I was left to ponder why. 

I picked up and continued on from where I had left my former self, ie. going out pretty much every weekend and flirting relentlessly with men. I had some success on Halloween, kissing a lovely boy from Monaghan. It was a very brief encounter though. But Halloween also brought me another little surprise. My friends and I were admiring from afar a rather tall, handsome in a way that only Irish men can be, gentleman dressed very stylishly as a gangster. As we walked past him later I commented upon his rather big gun. This prompted him to say things to me that no man has ever said to me before. Let's just say a wall, a shower, and a bed were all involved in his suggestions to me. Normally such behaviour would have resulted in a stern rebuke from myself, but I am at a point of desperation, and he was very nice looking. I know that I said before I am trying to avoid idiots, but, eh, what is one to do when faced with such an opportunity? I did not take him up on his offer that evening, but he did take my number and some texting occurred the next day. He has since befriended me on a social networking site (ah, who am I kidding, THE social networking site) and on Friday night a conversation took place that if I was to be completely honest about, has not left my mind since. He openly suggested that we become friends with benefits, or, to put it another way, (insert expletive) buddies. I am wary of this situation, I have been in it before and it did not end well. To be fair though, the person I was in that situation with was the King of Emotional Fuckwittery and it was after we had broken up, so there were always going to be residual emotions floating about, tampering with the very fine balance that is the friends with benefits situation. I have a feeling that it might just work with this guy though. For starters I have no feelings of a romantic nature towards him, just a sense of mild amusement at his outright cockiness. And I am very attracted to him, in a physical sense. Intellectually though, not so much. He can barely spell, and struggles constructing basic sentences, so I don't think that I would be tempted to take it any further than the bedroom. Another plus in the situation is that he does not live in Dublin, he is a Galway man, which makes sense, seeing as all of the gorgeous men in Ireland seem to reside West of me. At first I did not view this as a plus, seeing as he can't be on call at the drop of a hat, or a drunken text. But I guess in a way it works out, he comes to Dublin fairly regularly, and he can just blow in from time to time, and then blow right back out again, leaving me free to do as I please in the interim. At the moment though, this is all pure speculation. The offer has been made, I have tentatively accepted, but who knows whether anything will come of it. I did send a drunken text last night, and am yet to hear back. Not a great sign for the beginning of a fantastic physical relationship. Time will tell. 

So, I am feeling a little wounded, pride wise, due to the lack of response to my text, but also for a couple of other reasons which I will mention briefly. I spent a long time attempting to tune two separate men last night and nothing came of it, I feel like it was a wasted night. I have a fairly high strike rate here, usually all I have to do is smile and speak, and the second my Australian accent is heard I'm in like Flynn. It probably didn't help that my friends both picked up (one of them kissed three different guys!) and I went home alone to ponder the safety issues of attempting to make a bacon and egg sandwich whilst drunk at 1:30am (the risk was ultimately assessed as too high, and I had to wait until later this morning). My failure with one of the guys bothered me more than the other. It really is not fair that a guy with the most beautiful smile I have ever seen, gorgeous blue eyes, and slightly curly brown hair is called Laurie. It immediately made me think of Little Women and I ramped my seduction (snort, I was so drunk I don't really blame him for displaying very little interest in me) techniques up a notch. I pulled out all the stops, I smiled a lot, I touched him on the arm and chest, leant in when we were talking to each other, and was very confused as to why he didn't respond. I probably just wasn't his type, but weirdly it was him who approached me first, rather than the other way around, so I am still a little perplexed.

Anyhow, that is my whinge session for now. Back to the drawing board, and here's hoping my friend with benefits comes through with some benefits very, very soon. 

A little shaken, but still stirred,

B. J. Barnes

Why Me?

Sigh. Unrequited love. It's a bitch. Especially when you're single, and they're not, and when you know that they are very unlikely to be single ever again, and that you are likely to be single forever. Again, sigh.

I've been mad about someone who wasn't so mad in return once before. But when this madness was in full swing I was in a long-term relationship with someone else, and it was more a case of 'the grass is greener' (it was much greener, think lush rolling green fields compared to a barren desert with the occasional tumbleweed). It is much easier to love someone else from afar when you're relatively secure in a relationship, and they're also taken, because it is just a little fantasy you revert to when times are bad in your own relationship, it's not something that consumes you. In hindsight I know that I was thinking about my ex whilst in another relationship because I was idealising him and the brief relationship we had. I felt like circumstances had ruined our chance, but that we were actually meant to be together, and that one day he would break up with his (horrid) girlfriend and come running to me, giving me a golden opportunity to escape the dead-end relationship I was trapped in. I thought that we would rule the country together, that he would go far in politics and that I would be right there beside him, urging him on, that we would have a family and be happy and successful and perfect. I knew that this was madness, but it was a form of escapism, and I'm a sucker for that. I'm a romantic escapist, a very dangerous combination. But I'm also capable of being rather pragmatic, and I know that the reality was that I just didn't get enough closure with Chinchilla to properly move on, and that if we had stayed together or got back together at a later stage chances are it wouldn't have worked, because there were aspects of his personality (particularly his propensity to bitch relentlessly about people behind their backs but be their besties when face to face) that would have irked me, and vice versa. This wasn't some magical, fated relationship (even if our first kiss was at a ball and we walked the city streets afterwards and kissed on a park bench whilst wearing our finery). Not to him anyway. It was just a brief, largely meaningless mistake he made with a girl who to that point had been his friend. I still think about him sometimes, but I know that it is foolish of me to do so, because he's not the one and I need to accept that. 

But if all of this sounds bad, it is nothing compared to my current predicament. I've been working in a temporary job for the last few months and I am madly, completely, I-am-literally-going-slightly-insane, in love with one of my co-workers. He is loveliness personified. But, of course, of course, OF COURSE, he has a girlfriend. A girlfriend that he lives with. A girlfriend that he is moving countries for next year. A girlfriend that he loves more than anything. A girlfriend that one day will be his wife and a mother to his children. And I wish it was me. More than anything, I wish I could go home to him at the end of the day, and see him smile, and be with him. It is heartbreaking and ridiculous and creepy, but it is how I feel. It is like someone took everything that I could ever dream of and made a man. Sweet, smart, good-looking, funny, and just the perfect amount of nerdy to make it a decent match. I'm going all Bridget Jones on myself, but I can't help it, if you met him you would understand. It's impossible to be around this guy and not fall a little bit in love with him. Harumph. 

In short, I need to meet someone, even if only for a brief fling, incredibly soon, or I am going to lose my mind, as well as my heart. 

Your Creeper, 

B. J. Barnes

Am I, Like, Fifteen Again? Seriously

Firstly, I am back, and have been very lax in my posts lately, due partly to work, and partly to a really bad illness from which I thought I might never recover. Luckily both of those pesky distractions have since disappeared and I am free to blog at will. 

I had a really bizarre experience the other day whilst walking the streets of Dublin. First, some background will be essential in order for you to fully appreciate the reaction I had. 

Many moons ago, somewhere amongst the mess that comprises my romantic history, one particularly amusing train wreck occurred. Amusing in hindsight, at the time, not so funny. I was a fresh-faced twenty year old, with only one serious past relationship under my belt, and hence very little experience of the male variety. I was in my first year of a new degree, having just traded up. And there was a boy studying the same degree who I was very, very, very interested in. Now he was a typical Bluck (black hair, blue eyes, generally very good looking young man), and hence exactly my type. He was actually one of the first Blucks I ever encountered, and he set in train an obsession with that particular look that does not appear to be lessening with age. He was in one of my tutorials and my best friend Porgie and I made it a fairly regular mission to sit in the back of this class giggling and hoping that he would turn and look at me. Things moved forward, a rather drunken school function occurred, and I succeeded in my goal of kissing the Original Bluck. Victory was mine! After this encounter we formed what I would call an uneasy friendship. We talked a lot in the library (let's just say that my library usage increased... a lot), assisted in making awkward conversation by another lovely young man, let's call him Chinchilla, who was also in our class. This went on for months, there was not another school function in sight and chances of kissing in the library were nought, I had to take affirmative action. One day, after hours of conversation in the library, I trudged off to my car to drive home and feel sorry for my cowardly self. I arrived at my car and suddenly realised that I had just left the Original Bluck back in the library by himself, and had missed a golden opportunity to ask him out. I, being young and inexperienced, had never asked a guy out before, and it took a gargantuan effort for me to run back to the library with that aim in mind. As I arrived back he was walking out and I crashed into him. Great start to an epic romance. He was very confused and asked why I was back, and I stuttered out something about forgetting a book. Just as he was saying goodbye I blurted out something along the lines of 'Would you like to have dinner, or lunch, or a drink, or a coffee, or something with me, maybe, sometime?' He gave a simple yes in response and my heart soared. 

So there I was, poised at the precipice of a very exciting date with the Original Bluck. We had settled on the coming Saturday and it was to be a lunch date, which was good, in my mind, not too much pressure, nice and relaxed, a good way to kick off what I was certain was set to be the greatest love of all time, surpassing that of Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Marc Antony, Scarlett and Rhett, Lizzie and Darcy, you get the picture. I went to bed on the Friday night sick with anticipation. At roughly 3am the following morning (read: the time of night when all the clubs are closing and people are starting to get desperate) my slumber was interrupted by the rude ringing of my mobile phone. I groggily answered it and was shocked to hear the slurring of the Original Bluck on the other end of the line:

OB: Are you out tonight?

BJ: No, I'm in bed

OB: Oh, ok. I'm out. Listen, we're still meeting up today for lunch right?

BJ: Yes

OB: Great, great. Look, there's something I need to tell you before we go out for lunch.

BJ: Mmmhmm?

OB: I'm a 'have sex with' type of guy, not a 'going out with' type of guy. Is that ok with you?

BJ (slightly shell-shocked and still half asleep): Ummmm, I don't know.

OB: What do you mean you don't know? Are you ok with that or not?

BJ: Listen (insert first name), I actually don't know, it's three o'clock in the morning.

OB: Alright, well how about you just come over to my place tomorrow and we'll sort everything out from there.

BJ (young, foolish, and still hoping that this is some sort of nightmare): Um, ok, see you then.

End of call

The next day I received a text message stating that he was far too hungover to go out for lunch and asking for a raincheck. I gave one, with some relief. After this I became intensely rageful towards the Original Bluck and three months went by with neither one of us breaking the silence. I eventually started talking to him again, after I started dating the King of Emotional Fuckwittery (who at that point was a sweet, lovely boy of eighteen, you would never have guessed what he was to become), and forgave him for his sins. 

In hindsight, hilarious, that I would get so self-righteous and horrified by a guy behaving like a drunken moron, and not just laugh and tell him to rack off (god, that's a phrase I never thought I would use). Unfortunately for the Original Bluck, things just got worse, and about six months after our big falling out he started going out with a girl from the year ahead of us. He moved in with her within a few months and they are now engaged. Shocking, that the 'have sex with' type of guy was so easily tamed, and disheartening, that I was not the one to do it. A lot of what ifs flew through my mind. What if I had just succumbed to his desires? Would he have realised that he was, in fact, a 'going out with' type of guy and promptly shacked up with me, followed closely by a proposal and a happy, long, joy-filled marriage? Probably not, because he was a bit of a dick. But still. 

Anyway, I'll get to the point. I hadn't heard from the Original Bluck in years, and I was quite happy with that arrangement. We run in different circles, he in his engaged 'I'm a dick' circles, and I in my single, happy, carefree, 'I'm not a dick' circles. We are "friends" on Facebook, but he appears to lead a very boring existence and he's gotten a bit ugly with age, so he is not really cyber-stalk-worthy, and I had sort of half-forgotten about him. Then , BAM. The Original Bluck IM'd me on FB (oh, listen to me with my techno acronyms, I am so down with the technology etc) about a month ago, and asked if I was living in Ireland. Why, yes, I am. OB responded by telling me he is currently living in England (conveniently left out that he lives there with fiance, who, by the way, appears to be a jealous bitch from hell, perfect for him, really. The only time I ever met her, and I use the word met loosely, was when I was talking to OB following an exam and she marched over, and stood about two metres away from us with her arms folded across her chest until he stopped talking to me and ran over to her). OB (whose mother is Irish and father is English) told me that he often comes to Dublin to visit family and that next time he was over we should catch up. Yes, I responded, great idea (secretly thinking, yeah right, like that's going to happen!). I thought that would be it. 

Life went on, I once again forgot about OB, after laughingly telling my friends about his ridiculous IM-ing and chortling over how much of a dick he is. What a dick. This Saturday just gone I was walking home from Henry Street, crossing the O'Connell Bridge, when I saw someone who looked a little like OB. I glanced over and acknowledged this resemblance. Then I looked again and realised, with growing panic, that it was OB. FUUUUCCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!!!!! I also registered that Jealous Bitch from Hell Fiance was marching along in front of him, no doubt on a mission to stare down anyone who so much as smiled at him (not that anyone would anymore, he has lost the magic, that's what impending doom, oops, I mean marriage, does to you). I didn't know what to do. Did I call out to him and have an awkward 'Hey, what a bizarre coincidence', 'I was going to FB message you tonight to see if you wanted to catch up (internally: 'not really, oh fuck, I can't believe I saw her here, now my jealous bitch from hell fiance is going to be on my back for months'),' 'Haha, great, yeah, we should totally catch up (internally: 'please shoot me now, omg, jealous bitch from hell fiance looks like she is going to attack me. She's smaller than me, I could probably take her, although I have to factor in the fact that she is way meaner looking than me)' conversation? Or did I pretend that I hadn't seen him and hope he hadn't seen me? I, in true fifteen year old style, looked at the first opportunity I had to speak to an old "friend" (I guess he was kind of a friend, once, before I realised he was a dick) from home, the first person from home I have randomly seen in a foreign city, and I put my head down and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Proving what? That I am reverting back to behaving like a weird teenager? Probably.

Anyway, that's my story. Pointless, I know. But kind of amusing. The good times just keep on coming. 

Like, Whatever,

B. J. Barnes

Men Are Like Fruit (A Rant About One Particularly Annoying Young Man Who Was Unfortunately Also A Brilliant Kisser)

This is, as the title would suggest, a rant against men generally, but particularly against one young Irish man who took my list of why Irish men are better than Australian men, took a big crap on it, and set it on fire. Yes, it was Wickham, and, yes, I know that I predicted this type of ending, but I am an eternal optimist with a touch of the romantic (despite what my previous self-loathing, emo-styled post would suggest) and thought that I might be wrong about this one. I most definitely was not. A date occurred, fun was had, kissing occurred (lots and lots and lots of kissing, did I mention the fact that it was brilliant?), and at the end of said date young Wickham suggested a second date. I agreed to the arrangement and he promised to contact me to organise further details. I did hear from young Wickham again, the very next night, stating that he had had, and I quote 'a great time' and that he would really like to see me again. I replied that this was a grand idea, and that he should contact me when he was free. Apparently young Wickham has been quite the busy bee, because I have now not heard from him for two and a half weeks since this last hope-filling conversation. Needless to say, I passed through a stage of blind rage, and am still slightly irritated by this turn of events, but have had my own personal revenge by deleting his phone number from my telephone (very cathartic, even if he never knows about it). The whole situation was very confusing and I did ask three gentleman for their take on the situation. My work friend, Mr. Arizona, said that he would never write to someone expressing a desire to see them again if he had no interest in doing so, and one of my flatmates, Donut, agreed. My other flatmate, Smartie, who fancies himself a bit of a Casanova (really not, not at all), told me that he would make it common practice to make such contact after a date, 'just to keep his options open.' Surely you can keep your options open without suggesting further contact?! With a message such as 'I had a nice time last night' or 'it was nice to hang out with you,' etc, etc, etc! There are any number of ways you can approach it. In my view it is just bloody bad form to suggest something which you have no intention of following through with. I don't understand men at all, they are all confusing, infuriating, weird, alien creatures who make no sense to me whatsoever. Why say something you don't mean? ARGH!

In an attempt to rationalise this (which is virtually impossible) I have come up with the following formula: Men Are Like Fruit. How so, you ask? Well, in my infinite wisdom I have decided that there is an optimum time to pick men. Too soon and they are not ripe enough, lacking a fullness of character and flavour, not having experienced enough of the world to be truly satisfying. If you pick them too late, chances are they are rotten, having been trampled on by many others before you found them cold and lonely on the ground and decided to take them home. The rotten flavour may not be immediately discernible, but the more you bite into their personality, the more obvious it becomes. Be they too green, or too ripe, either way, you're fucked. I've experienced both ends of the spectrum. The King of Emotional Fuckwittery was definitely too green, and the Lord of Emotional Fuckwittery was rotten to the core (thanks to his never-ending list of failed relationships that had gone before, 'it just didn't work out because she was very unhappy' was the line I heard about several of his exes. Did you ever stop to think that perhaps that means there is something wrong with you, and that you should take a long hard look at why you keep making people miserable? Sorry, side rant). Young Wickham definitely falls to the side of too green. I am yet to meet a man who was perfectly ripe for the picking (with the exception of one, who I suspect was right in the zone, but, alas, I myself was not yet ripe enough and was still clinging helplessly to my branch as the King of Emotional Fuckwittery was growing right by my side).

I figure that if I am meant to be with someone, we will meet when we are both perfectly ripe. I can feel myself getting close to that point now, so I hope he hurries up and that there aren't too many more Wickhams before him.

Fruity Yet Fabulous,

B. J. Barnes

A Brave New World?

Before I embarked on my odyssey, and since arriving here on the other side of the world, a lot of people have referred to my decision to leave everything behind on a whim as 'brave.' I don't know if this is the word that I would personally attribute to my decision. I say this mainly because, if anything, and as pointed out by my lovely best friend Porgie, I am at heart an escapist. I feel a little bit like I am running away from the realities of day to day adult life as fast as I possibly can, and this feeling has continued to grow since arriving here, as I really have very little desire to return home anytime soon, the thought makes me feel a little queasy. All of my friends are settling comfortably into adult life back in Australia, getting married, buying houses, moving up in their jobs, living with their partners. What am I doing? I am living in a foreign country, going out on the tear every weekend, kissing lots of Irish lads, attending music festivals, working in menial jobs, share-housing; in short, I am basically doing what most people do when they're in their late teens or very early twenties, before they settle down, going absolutely mental and loving it. 

I am not complaining about this, but it raises some serious questions about my level of maturity, and my ability to settle generally. In a way, I missed out on the crazy lifestyle that lots of young people have, I went straight from school to university, I studied hard for six years, then went straight into full-time work. Of course, whilst at university there were some fun nights out, but I had never travelled and felt that something was missing. I spent a large chunk of time in a relationship with the King of Emotional Fuckwittery, and thought that that relationship might logically end in marriage (thank god that particular turn of events never occurred, I shudder to think of what my life might have been). By the time my parents were my age they had two children, were divorced, and were in new live-in relationships with different people. I can't say that I would have been happy with that situation for myself, not at all, but I sometimes wonder if I will ever settle. 

I've never had a live-in relationship with a man before, despite two major, long-term relationships, and, to be completely honest, I've never really felt content with anything in my life before. I have always been restless, and coming overseas hasn't caused homesickness, rather it has just upped my capacity to be restless, I constantly want to be running around, seeing everything, cramming lots of activities into short spaces of time. And I feel the clock ticking ominously, counting down the months to when I have to go home, and it makes me feel a bit ill. Because at this point I don't really want to go home. Because it will mean facing up to reality and dealing with a few issues. Like why I can't seem to hold down a relationship, or why I struggle to establish them in the first place. Is it really because I keep picking the wrong men? Or is there something about me that makes it impossible for men to want to stick around. I am becoming increasingly convinced that it is the latter, and that is terrifying, because even though I don't mind being single, the thought of being alone for the rest of my life, and of never having the opportunity to have children (if I want them at all) is overwhelming. I'll also need to address what it is I really want to do with my life. Did I waste six years at university doing a highly specialised degree, only to find out that I don't have the willpower and/or talent to get anywhere that I actually want to be, or that the specialisation I chose for myself really isn't for me after all? I worry that I'll never make enough money to own my own home, or to be able to save. I worry about a lot of things, and coming here was a way to push all of those things to the side and focus on myself as a person, minus all of those pesky big questions. It has worked, to a degree, and I am loving it here, but the problem with that is it makes me want to stay in this limbo world forever, and that says something about me as a person which, quite frankly, frightens me. 

Yours in restless contemplation,

B. J. Barnes

Dating Do's and Dating Don'ts

 The 'rules' surrounding dating have always alluded me. I've been thinking about them a lot lately as I've been doing a little bit of 'dating,' trying to determine what I should say, how I should act, what I should wear. I've heard you should:

• ask lots of questions; 
• smile a lot;
• touch their arms;
• laugh at any attempt at a joke, no matter how lame; and
• compliment them.

I've heard that you shouldn't:

• talk about any of your exes;
• criticise them;
• talk too much; or
• question anything they say.

I'm going on what I would consider an important date on Sunday. I've been on a few dates since arriving here, and didn't have much of an interest in the guy I was on the dates with, so I was being a little lazier than I normally would be. I didn't 'date' much back home and I'm not really very good at it. I don't make a great first impression, men tend to think I'm a little weird, I'm either intense or disinterested. But the date that I'm going on this Sunday is a bit different, because I actually am very interested in, and very attracted to, this guy (yes, it is Wickham from the previous post, so it will end badly).

Because I am so interested I have been thinking a lot about how I should behave in order to secure a second date. To be honest we didn't get off to a great start. When he stated that he liked all of the 'blonde girls' from Home & Away (seriously Irish people, stop asking me about Home & Away!) I might have snorted with derision and told him that he was predictable. I may then have proceeded to have an argument with him over this particular issue. This all happened about ten seconds after we were introduced. In spite of this (and in spite of the fact that I looked like a bit of a grub in my jeans, white t-shirt and thongs) he kissed me (alcohol makes people do strange things). But because of this weird start, now I'm obsessing over everything. Should I go casual again? Should I keep up the witty argumentative banter, which is really just part of my personality, or should I keep my criticisms to myself and smile and laugh a lot? Should I try to kiss him again straight away or should I wait for him to do it? ARGH! 

But, in the midst of my obsessive torturous thoughts, something came to me. I remembered an episode of How I Met Your Mother (one of the greatest television programs of all time, I'm putting that out there, legend-wait for it- dary). Now HIMYM sometimes offers sage advice (oh, who am I kidding? Sometimes? All the time), and this particular episode was about Ted going on a blind date with a woman who he had actually already dated years before, but forgotten. It was all about how they were reliving the same bad date, and then they decided that they should just tell the other what things they disliked about them, so that they could use the constructive criticism on future dates. In the end, however, Ted comes to the conclusion that they shouldn't modify their behaviour for future dates, because the person that they were meant to be with wouldn't have a problem with it, because that is just who they were as people.

Lesson learnt, I am going to be myself, weird, intense, or disinterested (very unlikely, this guy is gorgeous). If he likes me, he likes me, if he doesn't, he doesn't. I'll survive either way, because some day I might meet someone who likes all of my little idiosyncrasies, and I don't want to start off pretending that I'm something I'm not. So from today onwards, when dating, I'll be myself, and I won't obsess over the minor stuff, because in the end everything works out, or at least that's what I'm led to believe. 

The New Bridget Jones,

B. J. Barnes

Lizzie Would Have Had More Fun If She Married Wickham

Blasphemy, I know. But, come on, even you die-hard Darcy lovers out there have to cave and admit that Wickham, minus the paedophilia, linked as it was to a penchant for deflowering flighty young things, and overt gold-digging, was a touch more fun. 

I consider myself to be a Darcy lover (particularly when said Darcy is portrayed by Colin Firth), and Darcy's appeal is most certainly his cold indifference, his stuffy top-button-done-up hauter (mmm, I would love to rip open that top button and cravat), but if you were Lizzie wouldn't you sometimes long for the easy, frivolous frippery of Wickham? I know that I would, and suspect that Lizzie, with her sharp tongue, even sharper intelligence, and lovely eyes, would agree.

Yes, yes, I can hear you all cry, Fitzwilliam turned out to be a lovely, gentlemanly, knight on the white horse type, he saved the Bennets, socially and financially, and he had Pemberley (ohhhh, Pemberley). But George, well, George had something a little bit special, that spark, that ease in social situations, in short, a sense of fun.

The truth is, Lizzie was really a woman ahead of her time. She would fit seamlessly into today's world (when she got over all the morality issues etc), and so would Wickham. Wickham is the type who could take you to the pub for a few pints, the type you would have great craic with, and the one who would try to weasel his way into your bed at the end of the night (I've got to say, I find him pretty charming so he'd probably make it into mine). He's not necessarily the type that would open the door for you, pay for your meal or drinks (actually, make sure you have a full wallet for any outing with Mr. Wickham), or even necessarily call or text you ever again after he got what he wanted, but it would be fun for however long it lasted. 

Even back in P&P land Lizzie and George would have had a ball had they gone down the matrimonial path together, sharing witty observations on the company, throwing fabulous dinner parties and balls (all on borrowed money of course), and generally being the most attractive and charming couple in the countryside. Sure, they would have had no money, would probably live in one room with ten kids (because one would imagine that Wickham is pretty virile and I wouldn't be saying no), and after a while bitching about everyone else with your partner can become a bit boring (oh, who am I kidding, no it doesn't, it is always pretty entertaining) and you might start to question what they say about you behind closed doors. Ultimately, though, it might be better than sitting at one end of a massive table packed with tonnes of food that you could never possibly eat (and who would want to eat quail anyway, ugh?), whilst your stuffy little kids live in an entirely separate wing only to be seen when they have learnt something new on pianoforte or have learnt to ride their twentieth pony, and stare at your (admittedly gorgeous) husband who is probably sick of your habit of gently poking fun at everything about him, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't insult or offend his genteel manners.

In the book George was really wasted on Lydia, he needed someone who could match him in sparkle and wit, not someone who appealed to his frivolous, flighty side.Lizzie would have been the perfect companion for him, they complement each other.

I liked the Lost In Austen reworking of P&P, and I especially liked what they did with Wickham. He suddenly became a likeable (if deliciously naughty) character who had been unfairly judged by Darcy, who had sacrificed his own reputation to protect that of another, something that Darcy would find very hard to do, I would imagine.

Why all the P&P talk you ask? Well, I happened to meet a very attractive young man the other evening, and we had a bit of a chat about P&P, after he noticed that my name was the same as one of Austen's many heroines. He is most definitely a Wickham, and I know that this will more than likely end in a blind rage on my part, followed by confusion (mostly out of wounded pride, I am far too proud for my own good, I need to take a lesson from the book). But I am interested to see where this could go, for however short a period of time, and I hope that we get to the first date at least so that he can talk Wickham to me one more time.

Yours in Austen,

B. J. Barnes

Some Brief Passing Observations of European Men (and, more specifically, Irish men)

Australian men could learn some things from their Irish brothers:

• Irish men open doors for women, doors to pubs, doors to homes, doors to cars. This is a nice thing to do. It is gentlemanly and sweet, some might say charming. 
• Irish men hold your hand or the small of your back when you walk up or down stairs to ensure that you don't fall over. Once again, a nice thing to do, gentlemanly, sweet, charming.
• When Irish men ask for your number, it is usually because they intend to contact you, it is not just in case they don't meet someone better in the meantime.
• Irish men have the gift of the gab and tell fabulous, ridiculous, hilarious stories. They can blabber on about nothing and make it sound interesting (perhaps this is a trait that only I find attractive, as it is something that I do myself on a pretty regular basis).
• Irish men tell you what they want, say what they think, and they don't expect you to read their minds, or get pissed off when you don't know exactly what they're thinking at any given moment.
• Irish men are, for the most part, very masculine. They'll push you up against a wall when they're kissing you, but not in a rough, horrid way, in a very sexy, masculine, passionate way, which leads me to my next point:
• Irish men are more passionate than most Australian men I've met. They care about things, deeply, and aren't indecisive or apathetic. 
• Finally, and most importantly of all, Irish men can take a joke, and aren't sensitive little girls who tear up at the slightest trace of sarcasm or possible insult. They know that it's all in jest, and they give it back in spades. 

Note to Australian men (or at least the ones that I have had the displeasure of dating): man the fuck up. That is all. 

B. J. Barnes

Sex, Drugs and Sausage Roll

I ventured over the sea to jolly old England, Derby, to be more precise, and was delighted to see a charming man wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the above slogan. I would have asked him to marry me on the spot, but suspect that he would be happier with a woman as committed to pastry-encased meat products as he clearly is.

I was in England for the Download Festival in Donington, and, more specifically for the absolute gods of rock, AC/DC. I was staying in Derby (weird place, more later), and in order to get to the festival I had to catch a shuttle bus. I was sitting on the shuttle bus, waiting for the last rockers (mainly older, I'll point out) to board, and through the window noticed a rather tall, rather handsome, rather well-dressed man in the line. I put all my energy into mentally deterring all of the people in front of him from taking the seat next to me, and then focused on him, and to my delight, it worked, he sat down next to me. Then it was just a matter of thinking of something to say that did not sound completely weird. I eventually settled for asking how long it took to get to the festival. We then embarked on a great conversation and I fell a tiny, incy bit in love with, let's call him Ted, from Manchester. We parted upon reaching the festival as I had to pick up my ticket and he had to meet his friends, much to my disappointment.

AC/DC absolutely rocked their way right into the number one spot of desert-island, all-time best concerts ever. I spent the concert with some random Scots (fitting, I thought, Australia and Scotland coming together for AC/DC), and had an absolutely brilliant night. I lost my voice and ended up with a cold, but it was all worth it, because I've never seen such a spectacle, never been so entertained, never been in an atmosphere quite so electric. 

The night didn't end with the fireworks which heralded the conclusion of the concert. Getting a little bit lost, I ended up in the wrong part of the arena and had to backtrack to find the carpark where the shuttle bus departed to return me to Derby. I lined up for what felt like hours and eventually boarded the bus. I made my way up the stairs (weird for me, as I don't usually go to the top floor of the double deckers) and as I reached the top who should be there but Ted from Manchester! Fate? I think so. We went on to quite possibly the weirdest pub I have ever been to (and I'm from Australia, so that's saying something!). Ted, his friends, Taz and Cooper, and I spent a lot of time open-mouthed in astonishment at this establishment. We were lured in by the disco ball, the Meatloaf song playing, and the complete lack of patrons. Once safely seated with our drinks, served by a couple of young men who I suspect might have been, well, I hate to say it but it is unavoidable, inbred, we were shocked to see three women dancing in the middle of the abysmally empty bar. They danced for about five minutes and then disappeared. We later saw one of them behind the bar with the deep-south brothers, and formed the opinion that they worked at the bar and were used as bait to lure unsuspecting men inside. It worked (sort of), in that a number of stragglers from the concert made their way into the bar (this may also have been because it was the only place open that was close to the shuttle bus drop off point). The night was one of the most bizarre I have ever experienced, and the bar resembled a weird scene out of the Mighty Boosh, we even decided that the Crack Fox wouldn't have been out of place there (as an aside I found out that one of Taz's ex-girlfriends had slept with Noel Fielding and got incredibly excited). 

After Ted, Taz and Cooper walked me to a cab, Cooper got my details so that they could add me on that most brilliant of stalking-networking tools, facebook, and Ted drunkenly slurred (several times) that I should come to Manchester to visit, I wasn't really expecting to hear from them again. I thought that it was a weird, fated, tangled night, and that no ongoing contact would result. Imagine my delight when Taz (a rather tall, rather handsome, rather well-dressed man himself) added me. And then Cooper, and then Ted. Brilliant. 

Slightly in love with some Manchester lads,

B. J. Barnes

Slight Problem...

This is going to be a really quick one. I had an inkling that it was coming to this, and now my suspicions are confirmed. I have a minor crush on one of my housemates, let's call him Donut. Donut has a lovely lilting accent, and is funny, friendly, and loves food on the same level that I love food. We have entire conversations purely about food. It is brilliant. And he also loves books, and told me he has rooms full of them back at his parents' house. And, even though he is not traditionally what I would class as my type, he has dreamy blue eyes and a pretty smile (and the accent, come on!). He is also arrogant, in a really endearing way. Problem- apart from the obvious issue of him being my housemate and therefore off limits- he has a girlfriend. A pretty Canadian one with a cool hippy-sounding name. Bah. Anyway, this is probably just a case of situational lust, and wanting what you can't have. I'm going to put it down to that. 

As for my other flatmate, Smartie, he is definitely not my type, and luckily I am not his (he likes blondes, I am about as far from blonde as it is possible to get). Smartie embodies most things that I dislike- obsession with money, labels, and just a complete lack of imagination (something that Donut has in spades, in fact, we share a quirky outlook on life, sigh). Having said all of this, Smartie and I get along quite well, but he can be a bit cranky, and I'm not sure how to take him just yet. But Donut sort of makes everything calm between everyone (another reason I am crushing)

Anyway, I'm off to bask in unrequited like until such time as I find a cute boy to kiss. 

Yours in quirkiness, cuisine, and inappropriate crushes,

B. J. Barnes