What’s a nice cliché like you doing in a pick-up line like this?
If you’re practising your ice-breakers for Valentine’s Day, sexperts suggest a quirky quip makes the best first impression. But it needs to be original, which rules out “You’re so sweet you’re giving me a toothache”, “If I said you had a good body would you hold it against me?” and “Don’t walk into that building because the sprinklers might go off”.
One of the most famous lines about love, if not advisable as a pick-up line, is “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”.
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Alison Urquhart won’t date a bad speller, full stop. At the first sign of a misplaced apostrophe or relative pronoun - she’s out of there.
And good on her - dating can be an exhausting and miserable process and bad spellers really get your goat. Trust me, I know that because I happen to be one. It’s also human nature to value certain behaviours in others – especially when the other ends up being someone we spend a great deal of time with.
But things are starting to get a bit out of hand. In this era of online dating, the notion of the ideal partner has reached a terrifying peak – and Urquhart’s parameters are small pickings.
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Lonely hearts and internet creeps rejoice! “Facebook stalking” just got a heck of a lot easier.
The new “graph search” function announced by Mark Zuckerberg today will turn Facebook into the world’s largest matchmaking site. Think of it as eHarmony’s loaded, arrogant cousin.
Facebook users will now be able to sift efficiently through the profiles of other members, finding people with common interests and, well, coveting them. Clever lovelorns could even narrow their searches to the pages of “friends of friends who are single”.
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Bridget Jones is coming back. After 15 years reveling in the glory that comes with selling approximately 15 million copies of her first book, Helen Fielding claims to have found her “Bridget” voice again.
Whatever you make of that alarmingly quick passage of time, this announcement comes as quite a surprise. Bridget Jones was one character we were pretty sure we’d seen the back of.
And to be frank, I’d much prefer it that way.
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“If he was ever an emo, that’s a deal breaker.”
“If she has ever had any vajazzling, that’s a deal breaker.”
“Bad fake tan, massive deal breaker.”
“Putting a jumper on a dog. Huge deal breaker.”
You know the biggest deal breaker for me? Anyone who says the phrase “deal breaker”. To imply that any relationship could suddenly be ended by one particular behaviour or action.
It makes dating feel like a transaction. Instead of two people hanging out and having fun, it’s like you’re buying a second hand car.
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British comedian John Cleese calls them “beer fairies”. It’s a euphemism for Australian men who drink beer, and that’s apparently the worst thing around when it comes to the dating world.
Sounds ridiculous. But that’s the big take home message from a NewsPoll survey which found Australian women prefer men who are adventurous with their choice of beverage. In other words, men who don’t drink beer are considered better potential partners than those that do.
Ouch. Forget about bad breath, an annoying laugh or narcissistic behaviour, it’s men that order beer who are the real scourge on the dating world? Well I don’t buy that for a second.
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Love is a bitch to find. If you believe Hollywood, it’s there for the taking – lurking in Central Park, where his dog sniffs at your dog and you chat and go for coffee… blah, blah, blah.
Or it’s in a bookshop – one of those cosy, little word-worthy places, where you reach for Eckhart Tolle and he reaches for Paul Theroux and so ensues a darling discussion, and you go back to his place and fall into bed and live happily ever after. Oh, please.
Don’t get me started on nightclubs, those palaces of fleeting promises. They’re a travesty to romance, great for a boogie or a one-nighter, but no friend of mine, gay or straight, has ever found enduring love on a grubby dance floor. Congrats if you have, here’s a wet wipe.
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A friend of The Punch went on a first date a few days ago. The chemistry had been heating up between the pair at work for a good month and she thought if she splashed some white wine and tossed some fine food into the equation things just might bubble over into sexytime.
So they sat down at a flash restaurant one weekday evening. Things were going well, she thought. He’d laughed at all her jokes and kept touching her hand. So after dessert had been vacuumed up, she leaned in and asked: “Wanna come back to my place?”
He freaked out. He’d never sat through worse company before. The whole time he’d been batting away her hands and pretending to laugh at her jokes. And even if he was interested, this was just way, way too soon.
This brings us to this week’s dilemma. When is it too soon to proposition someone? Aren’t we past the antiquated notion of having to go on 20 dates with someone before managing to pry a kiss out of them? Or is delayed gratification just more satisfying than its instant cousin?
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Something’s in the air and it’s not just a truckload of pollen. National stockpiles of Zyrtec, Tuscan Tan and ostrich feathers are all being hammered relentlessly.
The Spring Racing Carnival is upon us. Originally a celebration of the finest in equine flesh, the event has diversified into an exposition of both equine and female flesh.
Like musk sticks or anchovies, etymology either does it for you or it doesn’t. I would be happy to see the recipe for musk sticks go up in flames, but I do dig a bit of etymology.
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They call it Heartbreak Hill. The City to Surf’s telling point. A 1.4km stretch of sheer running pain with spectacular views over Sydney harbour which you’re far too buggered to appreciate.
Yet on race day, you could be forgiven for thinking it was named “RSVP Hill” with the amount of advertising material for said dating website. The site, owned by Fairfax Media, assaulted the masses who tackled the hill with cheesy running puns like “hot” and “heartbroken” stapled to telegraph poles.
Indeed, it seems that among the empty plastic cups, the whole race was littered with some message or another.
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There’s a man drought in the city. Single girls outnumber single guys two to one, maybe even three to one. This is true because I’ve read the proclamations in countless articles, seen the stories on A Current Affair and watched in horror as hapless farmers take their pick of a hundred potential wives.
The odds are probably closer to five to one.
Being newly single and on the fast-track to 30 I know things are stacked in my favour. I can get dressed on my own, cook a balanced meal and my addiction to video games is mild… I can stop playing whenever I want. Really.
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Pity me, your average single Aussie male geek.
We live in a world where oil prices are increasing, while oil reserves are falling; where the population is getting older, and criminals are getting younger, where sea levels are rising and fresh water supplies are falling, and where Dr Phil is still allowed on day time television.
And what have we got to help combat this phantasmagoria of horrors? Well, internet dating of course!
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Valentine’s Day is upon us again, which means it’s time for Cupid to whip off his romper suit and start flapping about, making life for the cynical a living hell.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that a flying baby can stir up such a mighty butterfly effect, but every time Feb 14 rolls around, I find I’m once again shocked to be enveloped by this pink and red parallel universe.
As the ‘magical’ day approaches you can feel a change in the air. Subtle but rampant. There’s an undercurrent of urgency, of desperation. A culture begins to develop where the normally self-possessed among us, lose their collective minds.
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Ever hooked up at the supermarket?
Not me. I did see Poh Ling Yeow there once - but as I live in Adelaide I see each of our four celebrities at least on a weekly basis.
And beyond ``I like your paintings’’ (this was pre-Masterchef) there was nothing I could think of to blurt out in a supermarket aisle which wouldn’t have come across as lame (note to self, buy a copy of The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pick-up Artists).
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As the whiskers of tens of thousands of Aussie blokes wash down the drains of homes today, thousands of nubile young women are rejoicing.
It is the end of “Movember”, the month formerly known as November which raises money for prostate cancer research and initiatives to combat male depression.
While the charity is one of the most brilliant health campaigns ever enacted, women around Australia are ecstatic we no longer have to give Aussie men some lip about their top lip.
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My Facebook profile has been a source of confusion and anxiety for several of my loved ones over the years. To be precise, it’s where ‘single’ has been listed next to ‘relationship status’ for longer than I care to confirm.
Yup, I’m 22-years-old and single. Very, very single. Apparently the spinsterhood clock is ticking for me, and it’s ticking pretty loudly.
The reaction I receive to my single status has been a source of amusement to me in recent times. The head-tilt and lip pout, followed by the ‘oh really?’ comment has become incredibly predictable. The ‘all in good time’ speech that follows has also quickly become an expectation.
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For those of you – ok, us – who aren’t likely to be asked to pose for the cover of Sports Illustrated or GQ any time soon, here’s a piece of news that might be of interest.
A dating agency for unattractive people has been established in Britain which claims to be a website for the “aesthetically challenged”, has already had some success at matching those who have been hit one too many times with the ugly stick.
Tom Clifford, who says he has a face “that makes children cry” has found true love with a 31 year old shop assistant who still lives with her parents and they’re planning a wedding in the near future.
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As someone who has never been proposed to, but been married twice, I have never received or been given a St Valentine’s Day gift.
Clearly blokes have found other ways of communicating with me. Does it bother me? No. I dispensed with the pretence of caring a long time ago.
Valentine’s Day is for women who like pink, have a teddy collection on their bed, fluffy slippers, and speak, [read ‘whine’] with little girl voices well past puberty.
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Last week at a lunch to console a newly-divorced friend, I decided to lighten her terror at being “the only single woman left on the planet” and relate an interesting new statistic.
“A recent study in the UK found that in 20 years, one in five women currently in their twenties will never have married and will live alone. See, there’ll be millions like us!” I said cheerily.
Looking at my girlfriend’s face, it became apparent she was not quite as enthralled by this statistical tidbit as me. In fact, judging by her open-mouth stare, anyone would think I had just disembowelled a baby panda and was about to start on a litter of puppies.
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I finally got around to watching Twilight recently and, as a result, fear for a generation of impressionable, young and deluded women.
Wherever Robert Pattinson, who plays the enigmatic teen vampire Edward in the blockbuster book and movie franchise, goes these days he is swamped by hysterical young girls who appear headed down a rough old romantic road. And now I know why.
You see, Edward is the template of everything I, and so many women like me, tend to go for in a man which, despite the wisdom of age, several broken relationships and all good intentions, remains best described in one word: unattainable.
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The other day I couldn’t help but over hear a spirited conversation by a group of girls at an Italian restaurant.
Their discussion focused on the lack of nice blokes in night clubs and drinking spots. Not to be a grinch, I suppress the urge to inform them that nice guys will soon join the Dodo in extinction.
They will be the latest addition to the graveyard of male archetypes – such as chocks, snags and metrosexuals – that men unsuccessfully adopted when wooing the other sex.
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