As first date conversations go, I think I can safely say I never expected to be sipping my Sauvignon Blanc to tales of a well-built Kenyan man (not the man sitting opposite me) ejaculating all over my date’s hand when he pressed on his hernia  to ‘push it back in’.

His ‘cock’ was ‘huge’, apparently, and his aim ‘impressive’, so much so that Doctor Dick, as I had now silently christened my freelance GP date, had to rinse his entire arm before seeing to his next patient – the lady with scabies – in her mouth….

“I mean, why would you suck someone off who had scabies?”

I swallowed (my Sauvignon Blanc). “Er, I don’t know, why would you…”

Fresh on the dating market again at 40 after a four year marriage and, let’s say, several experiences before that, I thought nothing could surprise me. How wrong I was.

“Everyone thinks I’m really conservative but I’m not, it’s just my job – I have to be”, he said, for the second time that evening, while glancing nervously at my (only second) glass of white wine.

Well, first of all, I would hardly refer to his conversation as ‘conservative’ – the ‘cock’ count alone saw to that, although there was more, in the form of lurid tales of gay men who wore their love on their sleeves – literally, when visiting Dr Dick in his London days after a night of love on the common.

And secondly, yes, I was ‘sure’ I’d be okay with a second glass – I wasn’t driving.

“What do you mean, they think you’re conservative?” I ventured.

“Well, that I don’t get drunk and stuff”, he said, looking pointedly at my glass again.

FFS! He’d had a gin and tonic himself and he WAS driving!

ACH! I didn’t fancy him at all anyway – he was too short for me and that mustard sweater made his Irish complexion look wan.

I also had the distinct impression throughout our date that he suspected me of having a dirty fanny…

“Oh, I used to do gynaecology”, he said.

“You’d see some women, honestly….., dressed all nice like you but down below, ugh!”

Davide, a cancer (either into star signs or unflinchingly honest) from Liverpool was ‘a creative, manly man ‘ looking for a ‘very feminine’ woman, according to his ‘About Me’.

“I prefer a loving, creative, feminine, tactile woman. I’m very manly and loving. Let us get together!”

Hmm, otherwise read as ‘Highly toxic foreign bachelor seeks shag from woman who won’t call the police when he gets ‘creative’ between the sheets/down an alleyway’.

I think not….

Meathead – not his moniker but should be, from a meathead kind of place, would like to meat me…- ‘can be loving, but don’t take no shit from no-one’.

Lovely. Next!

Ah! A plastic surgeon has just messaged me, prompting visions of myself naked, covered in red marker pen – noooo!

Ah well, there was always Pete – “As long as I’ve got a hole in my arse I won’t reply to weird messages from lunatics!”

Maybe I’m weird, but I don’t really want to think about his arsehole before we’ve even met!

But little did I know I would hit 40 and things would get even more medical…..

I scrutinized his photo- no hair but nice right bicep (or was that ominous?) and it looked like there was a chance words instead of dribble might come out when he opened his mouth.

Ach, this was like shopping when you needed a killer dress for a party and buying one you’ve looked at, tried on and rejected before, because it’s better than going home empty-handed, right?

But no, I separated finger from keyboard – my friend was right- I should be raising my standards when internet dating, not lowering them.

Vikram from Devon was looking for a ‘leady’ – Kim Jong-Un in stilettos anyone?

And I’d lost count of the number of men looking for a nice ‘women’.

‘What makes me unique is my style’, wrote Ben, from London, in his four-line profile.

Yes, and what doesn’t is your depressing as hell inability to say anything remotely interesting!

Steve was a ‘directer’ – well, he could be a dyslexic director, one that also posed in front of his own top of the range black Jaguar car, with a car showroom lurking in the background.

He obviously hadn’t, or couldn’t, read the dealbreaker I’d recently added to my profile: ‘I like men who make some attempt to spell basic words correctly and to punctuate their sentences. If you don’t know the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’, ‘to’ and ‘too’, ‘ your’ and ‘you’re’ and don’t use full stops, please direct your stream of consciousness at someone else!

Harsh? Maybe, but what’s the point of hiding what I can’t stand?

I’m sick of these inane conversations that go on forever with not even a mention of a meeting, not that I’d want to meet the vast majority of them.

How is it that in the UK we think we’re so equal, so emancipated, as women, when we persist in giving all these losers-for-life a chance?

In Saudi Arabia, which is, safe to say, an unemancipated country, if a man starts to flirt with you and doesn’t propose within three months, he’s toast!

And women there don’t have to sleep with men on the second date to keep their attention either (although the very real fear of having your head lopped off could be a more likely reason that doesn’t go on).

But seriously, whose strategy is better here?

Talk to men at the gym (or was that the GUM – the clinic?)! That’s what all the advice said. Hands up everyone who met their man there? Thought not.

Another source of frustration for the more sophisticated (ie, older) daters among us is the proliferation of twenty something bloggers bemoaning the fact that only three dates out of four were any good as date number four only took them to their second favourite wine bar…

Dating in your thirties is the decade dating doomed!

It’s OK in your forties as people are getting divorced then.

In your thirties everyone has young kids, which makes even the unhappiest of couples stick it out, at least for a while.

And then there’s you, in your make-up like a hussy while your coupled-up friends deal with real problems, like nappy rash and  locating muslin squares for babies to puke on.

Time to check my box, where I find a guy with a leer rubbing his chin: “Pleased to watch your profile, you are simply nice!”

He then goes on to say he’s ‘worse than millions but better than billions’….

Is that really what it’s come to? I think not. Viva Bridget Jones!

That’s what a good friend calls me – the ambassador.

Why? Because of my love of a foreign man, a man with a theme.

Yes, dear reader, Mr Nigeria was not my first foray into far-flung continents. There was Mr Turkey (well, more than one of those actually), Mr Pakistan, Mr Tunisia ( went and married that one) and an assortment of others.

My love of a man with a theme has caused me many problems but they’re irresistible, each one like a new My Little Pony, which I collected somewhat obsessively as a young gal, each man with a different colour skin and hair texture, each with a brand new project for me to take on – their country, and its language, its food, its customs, its attitudes to life.

“Kanye West has been quarantined”, Mr Nigeria tells me, as he removes his stockings.

No, he’s not a cross-dresser – this is what he calls socks.

“My dad used to walk down the street in his school uniform and his white stockings, he thought he was so cool” has quite  different connotations in the UK but who was I to spoil the fun?

“Do you mean Kanye’s been sectioned?” I ask?

Oh I will miss this language fun with the English guys, but English, or at least, men with a very similar culture to me, are the only way forward. The others are too macho, too limited in their interests, too much of a pain in the assholes generally!

But where are they – these attractive, kind and decent Eengleesh men? Not on the dating site I’m on that’s for sure.

Dating sites, I have decided, are in fact not for me so I have decided to ‘join things’ instead and attend the things, in person.

So last week I went to a salsa class but alas, dear reader, the vast majority of mens there were, yes, ‘ from foreign’ and there were one or two who enjoyed grabbing my arm and holding it behind my back a little too much. I’d never realised how ‘rapey’ the dance was.

“I don’t think you’re used to being led by a man”, said a vertically challenged Portuguese man, before standing on my foot.

OK mens, first things first, let’s get this kiss diarrhoea sorted- 4 kisses when you first make contact does not a genuine impression give.

One kiss is allowed but the more I see those little Xs on your messages start to grow, the less I trust you, because you’re only after a shag, aren’t you?

2. It’s amazing how much a comforting little  word like ‘cuddle’ now makes my heart sink. Basically, it means you’re only after a shag, aren’t you? Messaging a ‘cuddler’ one morning, he asked if I was still in bed – first alarm bell, then began telling me how good his cuddles were. Dick pic next, I thought, and logged off….

3. And no, even if you mean the word cuddle innocently, don’t use it when messaging people you’ve never met FFS!

4.Don’t say: “Bet you’d love to suck on my big fat c**k” as your opening gambit….

5. You don’t have to be the world’s best speller but please, ‘your’ is possessive and “you’re” means “you are”. I don’t know why but this is a major turnoff for me…

6. Lol off!  Not everything, in fact, not many things, merit a ‘lol’, apart from your pulling technique that is: “Just having my dinner, lol”, “Just on my way out, lol.”

Aarghh!!!

7. You can just say ‘hi’ to begin with but not “You okay babe?” when we’ve never had any contact, virtual or real, before.

8. Don’t tell me it’s rude not to say “You OK babe?” back, if I’m not interested – this isn’t a job and you’re not my boss. If someone doesn’t message you back, they’re just not that into you- simples!

9. Don’t message me if you can’t be arsed to read the first line of my profile – I’m looking for a relationship and not ‘looking to date but nothing serious’ (read: ‘shag’).

10. I know you’re at least 15 years younger than you say on your profile. Yep, it’s not just the older ones pretending to be younger, is it? You 22-year-olds seem to like an older woman, and although you’re very pretty, you’re not what I’m using a dating site for.

To be continued!

Dear mens,

I’m not bring patronising but, well, you need help with these online dating profiles.

First, let’s talk photos.

1. You need some-more than one – I had a ‘Hi’ from a salesman this morning, accompanied by a single photo of him, on a hill, in the distance, wearing sunglasses…..

2. Sunglasses in photos – don’t.

We want to see your eyes – the windows to the soul? I mean, if it’s the fifth pic, OK, but not if it’s your only one, or two.

3. Keep your tops (and bottoms-yes, this needs saying) on.

Look, I love a good perv at a nicely muscled chest etc as much as, if not more than, the next woman, but seeing you posing bare-chested and, in some cases, pouting, has all the allure of a cheap nightclub reeking of matches – and extinguishes straightaway any flames of desire a pic of you with your clothes on may have ignited – no exceptions lads.

4. Hobbies- while I’m certain, if we met, your hobby of carving patterns into chicken egg shells (yes you Mr Chile) would keep me hanging on your every word, in picture form it’s, well, a bit dull.

And the same goes for motorbike fans- particularly guilty. While your powerful machines are, I’m sure, indicative of your above average manliness,  seven photos of them and one of you, wearing sunglasses, on a hill in the distance, does not make me want to meet you.

5.And neither do photos of groups of men, out of whom I’ve no idea which one is you, do the trick, or oddly disparate (and desperate, but that’s another story) photos of men of varying looks and ages, sometimes generations apart,  bearing the same name and biographical details – this isn’t a quiz website.

6. “I don’t really like having my photo taken”, you say. Fair enough, and it’s quite attractive for a man not to be overly concerned with how gorgeous he is, but do yourself a favour, don’t let your only profile pic be a selfie next to your toilet (yes really, and it’s often the most physically challenged ones to begin with that do it). You won’t get a ‘hi’ back – selfies get swiped.

Harsh? Maybe, but it’s jungle out there and you need to make at least a basic attempt to sell yourself.

7. Don’t pull stupid faces – we all have photos of ourselves pulling them, but we don’t all select them for our dating profiles.

Sticking your tongue out doesn’t make you look like you have a GSOH or like you’re refreshingly un-vain, it makes you look like an irritating, thick, immature tool – which is a real shame if you’re not, but you are, aren’t you?

8. Don’t pull stupid faces. There’s only one situation in which I need to see your tongue out and now isn’t it…

So what kind of photos should I use? I hear you say.

Natural is best (not naturist though – see point 3).

Smile! Your photo shouldn’t resemble a police mugshot, nor should it be pouty, mean and moody or taken by yourself, from above, in the toilet, in a messy bathroom….

Choose a photo of you where you look happy and relaxed (perhaps one taken after, but not during) you’ve carved your latest chicken egg shell or ridden your latest Harley Davidson).

It makes you look normal – and that, not perfection, is what most women are looking for.

Next up: What not to say on a dating site.

My sex life currently consists of tramming and bussing it to da ghetto, watching a 36-year-old man sleeping under a worn, brown blanket and then having my treat- 2 sexes – no more, no less, the first sexing preceded by him announcing: “Let’s get down to business”, removing his boxers as he speaks (no mystery darling). There is something that feels very wrong about this one multi-purpose phrase- it reminds me of a pervy, old paedo trying to get it on with his granddaughter or something….

Next it’s more sleep for Monsieur Brown Blanket and then a rude awakening around 6.30am for a morning quickie, which should be the dictionary illustration for ‘perfunctory’.

As if this isn’t challenging enough, I then am forced to deal with his surprising choice in nightwear.

“A once-a-week Nigerian sounds great”, my friend laughs – yes, but preferably not in his leopard-print onesie that I thought was his eight-year-old daughter’s and simply bought in a larger size ‘to last’.

“This is what Africans wear!”, he tells me, tongue in cheek (I hope) at which one has to laugh, in spite of the sad state of one’s ‘affairs’.

There is a plus side though (not to the leopard print onesie- there can never be a plus side to that):

For the first time in my life I am enjoying purely carnal relations on a regular basis (once a week prompt), no questions asked and no feelings felt.

He is totally unsuitable and right now that totally suits me- while I’m waiting for a good’un anyway.

And now, permit me to go all Jane Austen for a lady minute: his skin is as smooth as velvet – Black Velvet- if you please.

His short dreads are positively rudeboy, he has nice, lightly muscled arms and a tight, pert bottom.

He also has a big, wide mouth with shapely lips – I have a strange penchant for men with big, wide mouths – I think it’s the wolfishness of them, and a very naughty smile.

So there we were, the African wolfish leopard and I, enjoying a spot of cunnilingus – well I was, when he informed me he did not like administering oral treats before sleeping.

“Whyfore do you not simply clean your teeth afterwards?” I beseeched him.

He then informed me he had a marked distaste for ‘that paste’.

Er, so what on earth does he use to clean his teeth?! The man IS a leopard!

Scene: Mr Nigeria’s ‘crib’

After watching football with my lover and his friend (they watched it while I sulked in silence), I was invited to get under his brown blanket with him on the sofa, whereupon my 36-year-old lover (6 years younger than me) proceeded to do his thang and fall asleep while a film with Liam Neeson in it and some drugged, naked girls being sold to a dirty, fat sheikh played in the background.

Some time later he  awoke (partly), had sex and some oral (him to me) then slept some more then, next morning, it was a helping of the usual: he woke me up and, yes reader, he mounted me, no questions asked.

On the one hand I quite like him ‘taking

‘ me, on the other, it’s somewhat perfunctory, especially with his never fully hard dick (the weed…).

Him: “Is it good?”

Me: (non-sensationally): “Yes”.

Him, nodding his head in an official manner, as if he were the president concluding an interview: “I’m pleased to give it to you.”

Dear oh dear!

The parking near the bar was £4.50 for 90 minutes – he rang me to tell me this as I was waiting for him at the arranged bar.

The ‘expensive’ parking was relatively normal for the town centre I thought.

Eli (‘e probably did :-D), originally from Ghana, was actually very nice and knew his meat- a subject on which we talked at length.

Then: “How did the babysitting go last night?”he asked,

Er- that wasn’t me….awkward!

We drank a few drinks and I tried to fancy him, but even the cocktail spectacles didn’t help and I ended the evening longing for my Nigerian (who is much prettier).

PS, the grimacing has now stopped when he is using his tongue on my nether regions – success!

Back to Mr Ghanaian: “I really like you but more as friends”, I What’s Apped him.

He replied: “Likewise here too, friends is what I want too.”

Me: “OK, cool, but I mean friends without ‘those’ benefits (hell, look, I had no interest in ever seeing him again!).”

Him: “Lol (oh no….), you up for another drink – as friends without benefits lol (aaaargh!)?  That chuckled me lol (again, not kidding).”

Me: “I think it’s best we leave it for now.”

Like he wanted to be just mates!

“But you must meet loads of people singing in your Arabic band.” Rob, 35, managing director from Wilmslow wasn’t fanciable at all but at least he was tall.

Well, yes, I did meet men when singing and if my type was enormous Saudi Arabian truck drivers who ripped the heads of elegant bouquets, followed me round all night booming: ‘Just ONE kiss, and cornered me informing me: “I’ve got my eyes on you!”, I was sorted.

Then: “I used to be a HEROIN ADDICT!” Rob announced. WTF??!!

“Yes, my best friend’s a PROSTITUTE and she’s a really nice PERSON!” he screeched. Note to self: my local is not the best place to meet internet dates….

“Er, would you like another drink?” I offered, needing a breather.

“Yeah, arrrghh!Round of applause, round of applause!”The pint glass, along with my reputation, had shattered into a thousand pieces.

“Haha, excellent! Daaaave!” He beckoned to the nervous looking barman. “Pint of MILK please!”

Milk??? He’d be asking me for cuddles next and telling me he had ‘a poorly tummy’.

“Yeah, my friends all warned me about dating a singer!”he laughed.

Er, on what planet was ‘singer’ worse than prostitute or heroin addict?! Oh yes, Planet Section Me!

I began singing and he continued to roar as though at a lap dancing bar throughout my entire performance.

“I’m a prospective suitor of Danielle!” he roared, just as the music stopped.

Great- another bar I could no longer visit!

And he’d seemed so normal in his messages, and on the phone too. Had there ever been a greater madman magnet than me?!

Back to square one!

Oh, Paul from Barnsley had pubic hair – that was a relief, and Borat’s brother reassured me: “I really do like rite something good for lady. I interested and like it.”

I scrolled down a further 500 photos of lobotomised men – note, taking a selfie does not result in a high IQ face

“Hi, listen, I’m really sorry, I won’t be able to make it tomorrow, I told Matt, from Stockport. “I’ll be washing my hair in cow’s urine, Goodnight! “