You Had Me At "Tooheys" #11, or This Week's Pickup Line

Most of the time, my instincts are pretty good. I’m great at judging whether or not dairy products are still okay to consume, I can usually tell if I’ve got a visible panty line before I even turn around in front of the mirror, and I always kind of sensed that Britney Spears was a trashbag.



WOW, I suck at flirting, though. Well, I’m good at it up to a point, but then I take it to a place it shouldn’t go. I am the Hey Hey It’s Saturday of romance.

Last night, I went to watch some stand-up comedy at The Basement. It is important to note that beer and wine are served at The Basement. To me, mainly.

In between comedians, a trio of musicians played at the side of the stage. They sat on stage during all of the comedy acts, too, so they were basically plonked directly in front of me for about three hours. Which allowed me to single out the scruffy one and make sweet love to him with my eyes the whole time. My eyes are whores. Hooray for eye-whores.

One of my companions knew a couple of the comedians, so we hung around after the show, chatting and drinking, throwing our heads back with laughter the way people who are awesome do. Eventually I was introduced to the scruffy musician, and we settled into conversation. I assume I was being charming and flirtatious, because lord knows that’s what usually happens when I’m completely moose-arsed after eighteen thousand glasses of wine.

My other companion thought she’d nudge things along, so she came over to where we were chatting and said “Hey! You’re a musician, and Jo’s a musician! Aren’t you, Jo? Show him!”.





So I took my kazoo out of my handbag and played Smoke On The Water on it.






He didn’t technically sprint away, but it’s probably enough to say that kazoos are not his thing.


When I told my mate Lorin about it, she said she was surprised that he didn’t propose on the spot, and that clearly kazoo-playing “weeds out the keepers from the dregs”.


I'm pretty much spastically in love with the concept of Kazoo As Dude Sorter.

Will report back.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #10 or This Week's Pick-Up Line

Wow. Haven’t done one of these in a while, which goes a fair way towards revealing what a slow year it’s been.

For the uninitiated, I’ll bring you up to speed – when I get approached by men with pick-up lines, it’s usually not how it happens on television or in my dreams. In fact, if you were going to place a bet on either the sun coming up tomorrow or me being targeted by a loser or a clinically insane raving freak, your money would be safer on the eternal darkness/Armageddon side of the fence.

To make matters worse, I have a pathological aversion to being impolite.* This means that I use gentle clues, body language and short, closed responses to indicate to the applicant that I’d rather eat bleach than touch their pasty person, when most people would just invite the gentleman to observe their middle finger and die, or similar.

Still, I reckon most normal blokes can tell the difference between:
a) a good time, place, and context to approach women and;
b) the queue at Gate 18 at Perth airport at one o’clock in the morning.

Hint: I don’t want to talk to anybody in the queue at Gate 18 at Perth airport at one o’clock in the morning, in fact I’m trying to figure out a way to turn the noise of my brain down. I’m tired. I’m cranky. My hair has looked better after skydiving. So basically, if you do even one, much less all of the below list of things, I will want to choke you with my complimentary head set and push you out the door of the plane. There is no safety demonstration telling you what to do in the event of being an irritating dickwad.

List Of Things Not To Do Or Say To Cranky Ladies At Gate 18 At Perth Airport At One O’Clock In The Morning:

1. Walk around me in a circle TWICE before starting up a conversation.

2. Have a shiny face. Might not be your fault, but really, really doesn’t help.

3. Tell me you partied last night until six in the morning, woke up at nine, and started again. I already know you’re a dick. Knowing that you’re a dick who only had three hours sleep makes no difference whatsoever.

4. Use the phrase “The good times don’t even start until 2am”. I get it. You stay up late. So does the dude who collects cigarette butts from the garbage bins in my neighbourhood.

5. Tell me you work for the Treasury like it’s a big deal. You can only use your job as part of your pick-up spiel if you’re an astronaut, a surgeon, a premium beer brewer or Roger Federer. Everybody knows that.

6. When a voice on the PA instructs anyone with an infant to board first, ask with a smirk “Do you think I qualify as an infant?”. I’m guessing your penis does.

7. Randomly and without prompting regurgitate quotes like “If violence is not the answer, then I don’t understand the question”. You. Are. An. Arsehole.

I don’t suppose the irony of the fact that I was flying Virgin is lost on anyone?



*In real life, I mean. Here in my own cyber-corner, I can be as rude as I like, and say whatever I want. Example: TIT FLAPS. See?

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You Had Me At "Tooheys" #9, or This Week's Pick-up Line

I adore being able to pinpoint the exact moment at which a guy realises his pick-up line is utter pants.

Case in point: my friend Kate and I were having a quiet drink at one of our locals (which is, for the point of the story, across the road from a hospital), when a young gent tried to get Kate's attention.

"Excuse me," he said. "Are you a nurse?"

A mediocre start, which could really go either way. He didn't look like he had a zinger in the wings, though.

"A nurse?" replied Kate. "No. I'm not a nurse. Why do you ask?".

The guy shuffles a bit, but soldiers on.

"Because… your shoes… look… really… um… comfortable?".

See that italic type there? That represents the exact moment that the poor guy's testicles shrank up into his chest. Right before he finished his sentence, he knew he was toast.

Gentlemen, a tip: There are thousands, nay, tens of thousands of ways to start a conversation with a girl you wouldn't mind rubbing naked against. All of them are better than telling her that her shoes look comfortable.

You want me to tell you your penis is 'cute'?
No.
No, you don't.

You Had Me At 'Tooheys' #8 UPDATE

Simon is very tall.
Simon is very charming.
Simon is easy on the eye.
Simon is excellent, intelligent company, and not shy when it comes to keeping a girl in gin & tonics.

Simon is twenty-one years old.

Simon, who was in kindergarten when I was starting university, will never, ever see my underpants.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #8, or This Week's Pick-Up Line

I've always thought it's wonderful that, while I sleep, thousands of people are scurrying around busily, ensuring that when I wake up the streets are sparkling, my garbage has been magically whisked away, and there's fresh bread waiting for me at the corner shop.

Similarly, I'm pleased to know that now, while I sleep, I also have people out there busily picking up blokes for me.

On Sunday night, I'd just settled into bed with a book (rock n' roll types need their literature too, y'know), when my 'phone rang. It was my mate Kylie, and from the sound of her voice and the ambient clamour, I could tell that
a) she was out at a bar; and
b) her bloodstream was at least 13% champagne.

Kylie knows a lot about me, including my weakness for obscenely, freakishly tall men. I'll often excuse shortcomings like arrogance, sub-standard grammar or bumpy noses in men if they have to duck their heads to get into my house. Kylie is also a very pro-active, industrious person who would rather stick a fork in her eye than waste time. The phonecall (primarily one-sided) went something like:

Kylie: Hi, Josie-May. I'm just out for a drink, and there's this great guy here – he's really, really tall, his name is Simon, and he's Irish. He's lovely, and he's gorgeous. Well, I think he's gorgeous. Anyway, I was telling him about you, and I think you should go out on a date. Anyway, here he is…

And I heard her shout "Simon! Simon! It's my friend Jo!" and all of a sudden I'm in my pyjamas chatting to a six-foot-seven-and-a-half Irish guy about how hilarious it is that I effectively have a pimp and that he's really, really tall.

Anyway, we're probably going for a drink next week. Am I insane?

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #7, or This Week's Pick-up Line

A pick-up line isn't always intentional.
Every now and then, when meeting a gentleman, he will inadvertently say something in the course of conversation that, unbeknownst to him, is the most romantic, heart-stopping phrase a girl has ever heard.

Case in point: on Saturday night, in a cosy alehouse in Surry Hills, I was engaged in getting-to-know you conversation with a tall, handsome gentleman. I asked him what he did for a living, and he said, oblivious to the effect on my heart and loins:

"I make beer".

Sigh.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #6, or This Week's Pick-up Line

I had my car serviced on the weekend.
As you may remember, I don't use my car much, so rather than drive it six whole blocks to the mechanic, I had the mechanic visit my house.
He was a pleasant enough bloke. Well, aside from the whole overweight and grubby thing. And the whole leaving-globs-of-freshly-hoiked-phlegm-all-over-the-pavement thing. And I would never mention the revolting haircut, bad diction and constant use of the word "fuck", because that would be distinctly impolite.
Still, I feigned some interest in what he was doing, not wanting to look like I knew nothing about cars, didn't want to know anything about cars, didn't like making conversation with grimy people I don't know, or just wished that pixies could come in the dead of night and fix my car for free. I'm nice like that.
Conversation turned, inevitably, to the weather, and then, even more inevitably because it's all I've talked about for the last month, to the fact that I ran in the City To Surf just the previous weekend.

Damn.

He looked me up and down, and then said "So… you're pretty fit then, eh?".

"Oh… er… I… guess" I replied, taking a step back to give the impression that this conversation would soon be over, and I'd be racing back inside the house to find the Dettol, a wire brush, and a picture of Clive Owen.

"Did you run it with your boyfriend?" he asked, putting careful and creepy emphasis on the word "boyfriend".

"Pffft!" I said quickly, rolling my eyes. "He doesn't run!", and off I scampered.

So basically, if anyone knows of any rich, handsome, intelligent, funny, limber gentlemen who live in Sydney and don't run, let me know.
We can't have me looking like a liar, can we?

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #5, or This Week's Pick-Up Line

Subtitle: What's A Scrawny Raving Freak Like You Doing In A Nice Place Like This?

Whilst waiting for My Mate Milly last night en route to an artsy magazine launch (because we're proud, proud media wankers), I grabbed a beer and a crossword and perched at a table at the Three Weeds in Paddington.
I was halfway through entering the word "tarragon" as the answer to 3-down, when a young gent, skateboard under arm, sat down and didn't introduce himself.
Sipping his water, he started quite well, saying that I looked like a strong, secure, beautiful girl – words which any young woman enjoys hearing at any time.

Unfortunately it all went a bit pear from there.
He started rambling. It all really came at me in a speedily-expressed, unpunctuated rush, but I'll try to capture the key points:

· He believes in the power of positivity. Any time I disagreed with him, I was apparently "embracing negativity".

· On the way out tonight, he gave a girl on the train a box, and promised her bananas and pineapples.

· One of his parents was in the military, and the other was in the ministry. He thinks Jesus might be okay. He's very spiritual.

· He asked me to define 'love'. I said "That's like trying to define 'funny'". He said "Love is power. Love is dolphins. Love is rainbows". I argued that he was just describing love, not defining it. He said I was embracing negativity.

· He used to drink and take drugs and be bad, but he's trying to be good now. Because his mum came to stay, so he doesn't hate her anymore.

· He thinks he'd make an excellent television star.

· He's a musician, and when he's famous, I'll see that I was wrong about him. Would I like to hear one of his songs? No. How about just some of the lyrics, then? More dolphins.

· He wasn't forthcoming with his age, but apparently I look great for mine. But I shouldn't call myself an "old bitch". That's embracing negativity, see.

· He's still in love with a girl after nine years, so he's clinging onto that dream. I should cling onto mine.

When Milly finally arrived, he got up to leave, stopping to ask a final question. "Milly," he said, "Why do the stars shine?".

"Because they're on fire", said Milly.

I would normally shoo away a raving nutter who invites themself to my table mid-crossword, but he was harmless enough, so I indulged him. Every now and again, you have to stop and smell the dolphins.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #4, or This Week's Pick-up Line

My local is one of those pubs in which, if you don't get chatted up at least once in every three visits, you're clinically dead. It's almost nice that way, and the lovely, sociable atmosphere in the place almost makes up for the fact that the carpet smells like a piece of cheese in a sock.

It's also one of those pubs where people get really, really drunk. Sometimes that people is me.

Last night, my mate Kylie and I popped into my local after a long lunch, and were soon conversing merrily with two gentlemen originally from the Northern Hemisphere.

Or: Kylie and I got pissed and had loud, sometimes-hilarious-sometimes-belligerent conversations with a couple of blokes from the UK.

After engaging in a Flashdance recreation competition, unzipping my boots and pouring beer all over me, one of the aforementioned gents was given my phone number. By, like, me. Unfortunately I completely forgot the middle two digits halfway through writing it out, inadvertently making it look like I was perhaps pausing to make up a false number.
So he called me right away, at the pub, no doubt to test the number's authenticity.

Because he was (evinced by the fact that I was enjoying his company) a gigantic smartarse, I didn't answer, so he left a message.

The message was "I… like… your… corduroy… ARSE".

Who can say no to that?

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #3, or This Week's Pick-up Line

It's not that all the good men are either married or gay. Some of them are just… out of their freakin' gourds.

Without a moment's hesitation, I pass the Bizzaro Bachelor award to: Friday Night Guy.

Me (walking from the toiletary facilities back to join my companion in the courtyard): "Tra la la la…."

Friday Night Guy (grabbing my hand and squeezing each of my fingers in turn): "Hey! Guess what?"

Me (with one raised eyebrow, which happens whether I want it to or not): "What?"

FNG (still squeezing): "I'm a dragon!"

Me: "You're a drag queen?"

FNG: "I'm a DRAGON! Look at me breathing fire! CCCCCHHHHHHHAAAAAA!"

A dragon. This is the guy that talks to me in a bar. A dragon.

You Had Me At "Tooheys" #2, or: This Week's Pick-Up Line

Okay, first – the above heading is misleading, and possibly a little optimistic.
I don't hear a pick-up line every week, and the lines I do hear aren't always pick-up lines in the classic sense.
When guys approach me, they are often a) drunk, and b) recently rejected by the blonde with big tits on the other side of the room.
Suffice to say, I hear some corkers.
On Saturday night, whilst standing near the bar holding two drinks, waiting for my friend Simon to come back from the ATM, I was the bemused recipient of this one:

Drunk guy, conspirationally in my ear: "Excuse me – are you a security guard?"

Me: "Er… no. Why do you ask?"

Drunk guy: "You look really tough".

Right. Thanks. I think.

You Had Me At "Tooheys"

I love pick-up lines. Not the hackneyed, vomitous old chestnuts like "If I told you you had a great body, would you hold it against me?", or the more contemporary pearlers like "I like what you're wearing. That'd look really good on my floor".
No. I like stupid ones. Opening lines that aren't really meant to be lines, but that hang there in the air like a levitating vacuum cleaner, just sucking.

Years ago, I worked at a club in Darlinghurst. My shift routinely finished an hour before the club closed, so I'd grab a magazine and a drink and sit quietly, waiting for the doors to close so I could commence slaughtering my workmates on the pool table on the ground floor during staff drinks. At this time of night, the male/female patron ratio was about eight to one. Unfortunately, to drunk guys at 2am who were rapidly running out of desperate take-home partner options, I was a sitting freakin' duck. I could have had missing teeth and open, weeping sores on my face, and I still would have been able to go home with the ugly pissed idiot of my choice – it was just mathematics.
Reading quietly one night, I noticed the silhouette of a mildly stumbling gentleman approaching in my peripheral vision. Whilst I kept my head down, staring fixedly at the page and taking a sip from my beer, he came and stood right next to me, nodding the diagonal nod of a person about to start a potentially disastrous conversation.
"So….." he started, causing me to eventually look up, eyebrow raised and body tensed, waiting for whatever came next.
"….. you drink Tooheys Dry, eh?" he continued, nodding towards my beer.
I stared at him blankly for a second, and, realising he had nothing more to say, hesitated a moment more before answering "Yep".
Then – something that almost made me completely change my mind about the guy – he looked down at his feet, shook his head, and said "Yeah. Sorry. That was shockin'", and turned and walked out of the club.
Bless 'im. It was the stupidest line in the history of time, but at least he knew it.

Maybe the crap, ill-conceived pick-up line is the way to go after all.

A couple of weeks ago, I was having a drink at my local with friends, and admiring a tall, handsome gentleman at the other end of the room. I managed to catch his eye a couple of times, but it was getting late, and I'm a complete gutless coward when it comes to doing any actual spadework myself, so when he disappeared, I decided it was probably time for me to go home.
I stopped in at a convenience store on the way home to get some bread, and lo and behold – the tall, handsome gentleman was in the line before me! Should I say something? I'd kick myself if I didn't. But what to say? I was completely out of practice at this sort of thing, and time was running out as his purchase was winding up.
Without enough time to think of anything good, I turned to him, cleared my throat, and said "You were at the pub".
Crap. Awkward moment of silence crap. Considering dropping the bread and bolting crap.
Then he said "Yes, I was. I'm about to go back there, too. Would you like to join me for a drink?"

Viva la dumb-arsed, borderline-illiterate pick-up line.

There must be more of these. Please leave a comment if you've been either a victim or a perpetrator of the sucky pick-up line.
Please especially leave a comment if it was me that said it.