Up My Arse
November 7, 2011 § 27 Comments
A couple of years ago I was feeling so desperately plankton-y one day that I rang a poncy dating agency called Shouting at Mars or Up My Arse or Give Me A Fucking Break or something along those lines but possibly with more of an element of euphemism about it. A friend had said it might be worth a try. She warned me it cost about a million pounds to join but its clients were all like-minded professionals. The thought of it – the repellent expense and the frankly nauseating premise – made me want to perform hara kiri, but I was faintly hysterical so decided to put in a quick call just to sound them out and as I did so wondered, if they did manage to overturn my prejudices, how the fuck I was going to raise the GDP of Estonia to pay for it.
I needn’t have worried. They started by asking me a lot of soothing questions about myself and as they did so, I thought what the fuck am I doing? Has it really come to this? But I ploughed on with my peevish answers because I knew that it had. We went through my age, qualifications, professional credentials – the scores of which, in order, were: old; a clutch of O’levels and piss poor A’levels; none. Put those in your poncy pipe and smoke ’em, Madam, I thought; some of us do have a brain but don’t happen to fit any conventional criteria which mean you can tick your graph paper box-sized boxes, I am afraid. And, while we’re at it, I have a question for you.
For my million pounds, which I don’t have, what is the proportion of women to men on your books, eh?
“Well, Madam, of course, we do have a few more ladies than gentlemen but that is just the way of the world, Madam. However, we do have a tremendous success with our ladies and many of them have been very satisfied and…”
“It stands at about 60/40 ladies to gentlemen at the moment. Madam.”
Liar. I bet it is more 90/10, and the men don’t even have to pay the extortionate fee, oh no, only the women. Because it’s a buyers’ market, see, and they’re pulling the men off the City’s streets, anyone in a pin stripe will do, with whatever inducements they can muster – a free blow-job with a prostitute, just like a pack of baby-wipes might come free with a certain bottle of shampoo, before these unsuspecting dupes are forced to take another one of Up My Arse’s desperate middle-aged plankton off their books so as to ensure its elevated place on the dating agency equivalent of league tables.
Perhaps you won’t be surprised to learn I passed. Maybe serves me right and that’s why I am still a plankton, but I don’t think so somehow. Had I joined Up My Arse, I think I would still be one, only less the million pounds I didn’t have in the first place.