The magazine informed me that I was being sent speed-dating. After the fiasco that was the wine tasting, they decided I might fare better if I got to bring some friends, so the dating agency let me bring three of the girls along for free. I was more enthusiastic about this one, because I doubted that even my cataclysmically bad dating skills would be enough to completely repel a man in 4 minutes. Also, I felt a bit more secure in the knowledge that should I bump into the kind of men that were at the last event, the whole sorry ordeal would be over after our time was up.
The one thing about magazine journalism which is slowly attempting to coax me away from newspapers is the unbelievable amount of stuff which you're given for free. So far this has included wine, pizza, make-up, tan, cinema tickets etc etc etc. (Tomorrow night I'm being sent to review a 5 star hotel.) Not only do people give you stuff for free, they try particularly hard to woo you and make sure you have the best night ever, and end up writing a gleaming review of their fantastic dating services. Sadly, as nice as the organisers were and the amount of alcohol they tried to feed us just could not compete with the kind of men who go to this bloody speed dating events.
I could tell as soon as the first one sat down, that this was going to be the longest four minutes of my life.
“And what do you do, darling?”
“I'm a journalist.”
“Ah, that's pretty cool.... I'm spiderman.”
Of course you are, I thought. The only thing I seem to be gaining from this article so far is a worrying immunity to weirdos.
“No, you don't understand, I'm spiderman” he said, winking.
“Ok?”
“No, like, spider-man? Get it?! I'm spiderman!”
I was starting to panic now and wondering how a period of a few minutes was beginning to feel like they were stretching to an eternity. I started nervously looking around the table and wondering if this guy had planned some sort of disturbing display where he'd shoot a web from one of his appendages.
“Like spider-man? I'm Peter Parker, you know? The guy who goes out with the beautiful journalist...” Yet more nauseating winking.
“I think you mean Superman?”
“Either way, I can be your hero....”
And so it began. There were many “It's A Wonderful Life” moments when I anxiously waited for that blessed bell to ring and release me from the trauma of these mini-dates. One guy viciously grabbed my wrist when I was mid-sentence at leaned into my face at a proximity that I would usually only allow for dentists.
“Listen. We both know what's going on here. I'm here, looking for the girl of my dreams. You're here, looking for the guy of your dreams. We've found each other. Let's get out of here...”
I quickly blabbered that I had several more dates to go and simply couldn't leave my friends. After he'd moved on, I did remain mildly smug that clearly I was just so enthralling beautiful and charming that this man had assured himself that I was most certainly The One. That is, until afterwards when I compared notes with my friends and found that he had also proposed to the other girls and invited one to New York this weekend. And I thought I was special.
The night did improve, though. Thanks in no small part to a guy who worked for The Irish Independent and had also been roped into this horrific experience. His friend happened to be a guy who was attempting to do 50 dates in 50 days, to find the love of his life. I pounced on that because clearly, I needed something better to fill the article than the spider-man guy. They turned out to be pretty good craic so the night wasn't a complete shambles, as the wine tasting had been.
Just to assure you that I'm not spending all my time talking to weirdos in bars, I have been doing journalistic bits and bobs to justify staying here. I had an absolutely brilliant interview with a guy from the Irish Times called Peter Murtagh. He showed me around their newsroom and given the opportunity, I would have definitely chained myself to the desk if I could. I don't think I've ever wanted to work for a newspaper more in my life. He even introduced me to the news editor, and completely lied on my behalf, making me sound like some sort of journalistic prodigy. (I decided it was best not to mention my current project to him.) Anyway, we got on really well and he invited me for lunch. Not exactly a job offer, but it's been very important schmoozing.
While I'm here, I've been pushing the boundaries of harassment and common courtesy in trying to convince a newspaper to take me on. I eventually managed to break down The Evening Herald and they agreed to take me on for three weeks over Easter, so no more missing class, I promise.
Also, I've got a week with Broadsheet.ie here again over reading week.
Story wise, I've been doing some court reporting and hanging around the Dáil. Nothing spectacularly ground breaking but the political reporter from RTÉ gave me some tips and stuff. He's lovely!
I explained to Craig already that an Irish journalist has basically handed me a story which could be good, in Cardiff. It's to do with neo-nazis, and who doesn't love a good neo-nazi story? I've been researching bits and bobs for that, too.
I've been keeping up with everything, I promise. I'm seeing InDesign layouts in my sleep.
Next up for the feature, I've got two blind dates, an online dating “date”, and a terrifying experience when I have to actually go up to a real human boy and ask him on a date.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
How I'm getting on with my feature article, part one.
Before I tell you about everything I've been doing, I think we should all agree that the end justifies the means. I'm going to be published, ok? That's what I keep telling myself during those dark moments when I begin to think I've been wrapped into a cruel game of “will the intern do anything we ask her?”
The question of the feature is "how difficult is it to find a nice guy in Dublin?" and instead of just writing "very difficult" and be done with it, I must go through a series of blind dates, speed dating, and dating agencies on behalf of the women in Dublin, so that I can turn to them informed and experienced and reassure them that yeah, it is actually definitely very difficult.
On Friday night, we had event number one. It was a wine tasting event. I wanted to quietly sit there observing, but my editor (bless her) had the utmost of confidence that I was going to go out into the city and have men falling at my feet in infatuation. Despite my desperate attempts to convince her that this definitely was not going to happen, she insisted that I make it absolutely clear from the outset that I'm from the magazine for fear someone fall in love with me, discover it was all a cruel ruse and I was actually undercover, and then the whole thing would turn into some terrible Hugh Grant romantic comedy. This resulted in lots of people going "so! you're the girl from the magazine..." and squinting at me suspiciously and asking me, in all seriousness, "if I was wearing a wire."
Thankfully, as I said, it was a wine tasting event so people weren't exactly tightlipped for the whole evening. Unfortunately for me, I was also expected to par-take in the wine tasting.
Being only 21, this proved an issue. I absolutely detest wine and after three or so years of living like a student, the only time I'd drank wine was at great speed from the neck of the bottle to make sure it was never left in my mouth long enough for me to taste it. Looking around the expensive wine bar, my journalistic instincts told me this might be frowned upon. For example, lots of people were talking about “how well the wine went with the cheese.” I tried to imagine me and my housemates sitting in the living room using Dairylea slices to soak up our Tesco own-brand sparkling wine and decided I did not fit in here. Still, I figured I knew enough to bluff. There are only two kinds of wine: red, or white. And red is icky.
I was extremely nervous. As soon as I arrived, a small plastic card was thrust into my hand and I was informed that this was a little credit card which I could max out on wine. I stared at it ominously. I could see headlines flashing across my mind already: "STUDENT JOURNALIST DIES FROM ALCOHOL POISONING IN WINE AND NERVES FUELED BINGE." But being uber-professional, I managed to control myself.
Problem number two: Surprise surprise, many of the men there were wine connoisseurs. Their usual ice breakers were something pretentious and nonsensical like "Have you tried the New Zealand? Oh, it is simply divine." I guessed they weren't asking me about where I'd gone on my gap year. I don't know! Had I tried the New Zealand?! I stared at the liquid at my glass in panic. For all I knew, this was New Zealand. I sniffed it suspiciously, hoping for a whiff of rugby or sheep or some sort of clue.
"You know what," I resigned to my ignorance and guessed. "I haven't!" I said, hiding my glass just in case.
"Why don't we try it together?"
Many many many men ended up trying the New Zealand, and the South Africa, and the god-only-knows what else with me. On top of this, the organiser lady was very eager to make sure I had a great time. She must have experience with journalists because her method of doing this was try to poison me with alcohol. She'd often flounce over to men and ask them "if they've bought Ellen a drink yet? Get this girl a drink!"
There were a few worrying moments when the whole thing almost turned a bit Hunter S Thompson. I think my chances of finding a man were severed by the fact that a few of them must have thought I had some sort of crippling bladder disorder. I kept running to the bathroom to drink gallons of water to make sure I didn't end up hugging the organiser and telling her "she was my besht friend everrr."
My next issue was the men. Once again, I'm 21. I find it difficult to commit to a mobile price plan. Yet suddenly, I felt under enormous pressure to find my fianceé just to make sure I'd have something interesting to write. To be fair, I had expected a room full of desperados and serial killers, so I am very pleased to report that the event was filled by many wholesome and completely normal people. (This too, was an alien experience to me considering most of my romantic endeavours involve the male students of Cardiff, who are not exactly world-famous for their charm, chivalry and wit.)
However, there was one fantastic exception. We'll call him Dave, as that was his name. Before we'd all even put on our embarrassing name badges I clocked this guy and knew immediately that for the sake of the article, I had to talk to him. He looked almost exactly like the character Alan from The Hangover. His tiny creepy eyes were glinting menacingly above his equally unsettling beard as he turned to look at every woman in the room in turn with a kind of “yes, we shall sleep together, and you will like it” look which made my blood run cold.
I was experiencing an inner conflict between my girly side, who was screaming and running for the door, and my inner journalist who stating that I must go talk to him, when he saved me the bother and cornered me. I could tell from the way he'd swaggered over to me that he clearly thought all my Christmas' had come at once.
“So.” he boomed, “Article, eh?” He looked at me in what he probably thought was a really reassuring “you're welcome” kind of way.
“Yep, I'm writing an article on dating.”
“Well, uh, Ellen?” he said, staring at the name badge on my chest for much, much too long
“can I call you Ellen?” I opened my mouth to answer but he carried on, regardless.
“Ellen it is. Ellen, we can stop this ridiculous man hunt now. You've clearly found the man of your dreams.” He winked at me in what I'm sure he hoped was an arousing fashion but it fell more in the bracket of “blood-curdling.”
I won't write out the entire 30 minute conversation between us, firstly because you'd believe it to be a work of fiction, and secondly because it's not something I'd like to re-live. If I had to sum it up, I would describe it as an egotistical monologue so ridiculously obnoxious that my right hand was itching to throw my glass of New Zealand/South Africa in his face, while my left hand was fighting the urge to grab my dictaphone and record every unbelievable word, for fear I wake up in the morning and thought I'd imagined the entire episode. It was when he asked me if I was going to mother his children that I finally decided that I had to make it clear this was no longer a flirtatious chat but a very serious and platonic interview. It was then that I made the mistake of asking him about dating.
“Well I mean, on paper I'm everything every woman is looking for. Even you, Ellen.” I had never doubted a statement more in my life, but I pushed him to continue.
“Well, I'm a cancer doctor by day...” Now, I'm no GP, but I'm willing to bet that anyone who describes the profession as “cancer-doctor” definitely does not have any medical qualifications. The phrase “by day” also rang alarm bells, as though he occupied some sort of superhero role nocturnally which was more important than his boring day job, fighting the most heinous disease on earth. Turns out he ran an art-house cinema by night, just in case you needed any more evidence to support the theory that this man was a complete arse.
“...but somehow I just don't attract women.” How odd. “I mean, I'm not exactly a heartbreaker, but then again....” he looked into the distance “maybe I'm kidding myself. But enough about me, what about you, Ellen?” I managed to wipe the incredulous look off my face just a second too late.
“Uh, well..” I spluttered. Once again, responses for me were deemed unnecessary in this so called “conversation” and he carried on anyway.
“I mean, you're not horrifically disfigured.”(charmer) “so, why are you single, what is it about you that just repels men?”
I chose not to answer, and just began grinding my teeth together and reverted to the mantra "you are going to be published, just remember Ellen, you are going to be published..."
“I mean, on a scale of one to ten, ten being Sellafield? How high maintenance are you?”
Even this idiot could see I was seething.
“Whoa, whoa, chill blondie. I just mean you've been in Dublin for how long and you still don't have a boyfriend?” He stared at me in an infuriatingly “knowing” way.
“Actually.” I spat, desperately failing to maintain any semblance of the charming sweet girl from the magazine “I've only been in Dublin for three weeks.”
“Oh I see, where are you originally from?”
“Dungarvan.”
“Ah! I did kind of get that itinerant vibe from you...”
I should explain that in Ireland, 'itinerant' does not refer to the harmless term for a person with no fixed abode. It is a derogatory term which equals something along the lines of 'inbred hillbilly.' He mistook my disgusted silence for deep introspective thought and nodded smugly.
“I know girls like you, Ellen. You're all ooh, there is a man out there for me. And you have all these ridiculous high standards like oh, I want a gentleman! I want someone to treat me right! Then you refuse to settle and before you know it, you're buying a cat. When all along if you just settled, you could have me!” He threw his arms out for effect. I was alarmed, to say the least. I was just assessing whether or not I sod the whole magazine thing and take this to a newspaper. (Surely it's in the public interest to know that this maniac is at large?) when I was dragged away by the terrified organisers, who were still keen to ensure I write a glowing article about their fabulous dating services.
I had just thought the night was over, when I was informed that they were taking us to, surprise surprise, another bar......
Part two to follow.
The question of the feature is "how difficult is it to find a nice guy in Dublin?" and instead of just writing "very difficult" and be done with it, I must go through a series of blind dates, speed dating, and dating agencies on behalf of the women in Dublin, so that I can turn to them informed and experienced and reassure them that yeah, it is actually definitely very difficult.
On Friday night, we had event number one. It was a wine tasting event. I wanted to quietly sit there observing, but my editor (bless her) had the utmost of confidence that I was going to go out into the city and have men falling at my feet in infatuation. Despite my desperate attempts to convince her that this definitely was not going to happen, she insisted that I make it absolutely clear from the outset that I'm from the magazine for fear someone fall in love with me, discover it was all a cruel ruse and I was actually undercover, and then the whole thing would turn into some terrible Hugh Grant romantic comedy. This resulted in lots of people going "so! you're the girl from the magazine..." and squinting at me suspiciously and asking me, in all seriousness, "if I was wearing a wire."
Thankfully, as I said, it was a wine tasting event so people weren't exactly tightlipped for the whole evening. Unfortunately for me, I was also expected to par-take in the wine tasting.
Being only 21, this proved an issue. I absolutely detest wine and after three or so years of living like a student, the only time I'd drank wine was at great speed from the neck of the bottle to make sure it was never left in my mouth long enough for me to taste it. Looking around the expensive wine bar, my journalistic instincts told me this might be frowned upon. For example, lots of people were talking about “how well the wine went with the cheese.” I tried to imagine me and my housemates sitting in the living room using Dairylea slices to soak up our Tesco own-brand sparkling wine and decided I did not fit in here. Still, I figured I knew enough to bluff. There are only two kinds of wine: red, or white. And red is icky.
I was extremely nervous. As soon as I arrived, a small plastic card was thrust into my hand and I was informed that this was a little credit card which I could max out on wine. I stared at it ominously. I could see headlines flashing across my mind already: "STUDENT JOURNALIST DIES FROM ALCOHOL POISONING IN WINE AND NERVES FUELED BINGE." But being uber-professional, I managed to control myself.
Problem number two: Surprise surprise, many of the men there were wine connoisseurs. Their usual ice breakers were something pretentious and nonsensical like "Have you tried the New Zealand? Oh, it is simply divine." I guessed they weren't asking me about where I'd gone on my gap year. I don't know! Had I tried the New Zealand?! I stared at the liquid at my glass in panic. For all I knew, this was New Zealand. I sniffed it suspiciously, hoping for a whiff of rugby or sheep or some sort of clue.
"You know what," I resigned to my ignorance and guessed. "I haven't!" I said, hiding my glass just in case.
"Why don't we try it together?"
Many many many men ended up trying the New Zealand, and the South Africa, and the god-only-knows what else with me. On top of this, the organiser lady was very eager to make sure I had a great time. She must have experience with journalists because her method of doing this was try to poison me with alcohol. She'd often flounce over to men and ask them "if they've bought Ellen a drink yet? Get this girl a drink!"
There were a few worrying moments when the whole thing almost turned a bit Hunter S Thompson. I think my chances of finding a man were severed by the fact that a few of them must have thought I had some sort of crippling bladder disorder. I kept running to the bathroom to drink gallons of water to make sure I didn't end up hugging the organiser and telling her "she was my besht friend everrr."
My next issue was the men. Once again, I'm 21. I find it difficult to commit to a mobile price plan. Yet suddenly, I felt under enormous pressure to find my fianceé just to make sure I'd have something interesting to write. To be fair, I had expected a room full of desperados and serial killers, so I am very pleased to report that the event was filled by many wholesome and completely normal people. (This too, was an alien experience to me considering most of my romantic endeavours involve the male students of Cardiff, who are not exactly world-famous for their charm, chivalry and wit.)
However, there was one fantastic exception. We'll call him Dave, as that was his name. Before we'd all even put on our embarrassing name badges I clocked this guy and knew immediately that for the sake of the article, I had to talk to him. He looked almost exactly like the character Alan from The Hangover. His tiny creepy eyes were glinting menacingly above his equally unsettling beard as he turned to look at every woman in the room in turn with a kind of “yes, we shall sleep together, and you will like it” look which made my blood run cold.
I was experiencing an inner conflict between my girly side, who was screaming and running for the door, and my inner journalist who stating that I must go talk to him, when he saved me the bother and cornered me. I could tell from the way he'd swaggered over to me that he clearly thought all my Christmas' had come at once.
“So.” he boomed, “Article, eh?” He looked at me in what he probably thought was a really reassuring “you're welcome” kind of way.
“Yep, I'm writing an article on dating.”
“Well, uh, Ellen?” he said, staring at the name badge on my chest for much, much too long
“can I call you Ellen?” I opened my mouth to answer but he carried on, regardless.
“Ellen it is. Ellen, we can stop this ridiculous man hunt now. You've clearly found the man of your dreams.” He winked at me in what I'm sure he hoped was an arousing fashion but it fell more in the bracket of “blood-curdling.”
I won't write out the entire 30 minute conversation between us, firstly because you'd believe it to be a work of fiction, and secondly because it's not something I'd like to re-live. If I had to sum it up, I would describe it as an egotistical monologue so ridiculously obnoxious that my right hand was itching to throw my glass of New Zealand/South Africa in his face, while my left hand was fighting the urge to grab my dictaphone and record every unbelievable word, for fear I wake up in the morning and thought I'd imagined the entire episode. It was when he asked me if I was going to mother his children that I finally decided that I had to make it clear this was no longer a flirtatious chat but a very serious and platonic interview. It was then that I made the mistake of asking him about dating.
“Well I mean, on paper I'm everything every woman is looking for. Even you, Ellen.” I had never doubted a statement more in my life, but I pushed him to continue.
“Well, I'm a cancer doctor by day...” Now, I'm no GP, but I'm willing to bet that anyone who describes the profession as “cancer-doctor” definitely does not have any medical qualifications. The phrase “by day” also rang alarm bells, as though he occupied some sort of superhero role nocturnally which was more important than his boring day job, fighting the most heinous disease on earth. Turns out he ran an art-house cinema by night, just in case you needed any more evidence to support the theory that this man was a complete arse.
“...but somehow I just don't attract women.” How odd. “I mean, I'm not exactly a heartbreaker, but then again....” he looked into the distance “maybe I'm kidding myself. But enough about me, what about you, Ellen?” I managed to wipe the incredulous look off my face just a second too late.
“Uh, well..” I spluttered. Once again, responses for me were deemed unnecessary in this so called “conversation” and he carried on anyway.
“I mean, you're not horrifically disfigured.”(charmer) “so, why are you single, what is it about you that just repels men?”
I chose not to answer, and just began grinding my teeth together and reverted to the mantra "you are going to be published, just remember Ellen, you are going to be published..."
“I mean, on a scale of one to ten, ten being Sellafield? How high maintenance are you?”
Even this idiot could see I was seething.
“Whoa, whoa, chill blondie. I just mean you've been in Dublin for how long and you still don't have a boyfriend?” He stared at me in an infuriatingly “knowing” way.
“Actually.” I spat, desperately failing to maintain any semblance of the charming sweet girl from the magazine “I've only been in Dublin for three weeks.”
“Oh I see, where are you originally from?”
“Dungarvan.”
“Ah! I did kind of get that itinerant vibe from you...”
I should explain that in Ireland, 'itinerant' does not refer to the harmless term for a person with no fixed abode. It is a derogatory term which equals something along the lines of 'inbred hillbilly.' He mistook my disgusted silence for deep introspective thought and nodded smugly.
“I know girls like you, Ellen. You're all ooh, there is a man out there for me. And you have all these ridiculous high standards like oh, I want a gentleman! I want someone to treat me right! Then you refuse to settle and before you know it, you're buying a cat. When all along if you just settled, you could have me!” He threw his arms out for effect. I was alarmed, to say the least. I was just assessing whether or not I sod the whole magazine thing and take this to a newspaper. (Surely it's in the public interest to know that this maniac is at large?) when I was dragged away by the terrified organisers, who were still keen to ensure I write a glowing article about their fabulous dating services.
I had just thought the night was over, when I was informed that they were taking us to, surprise surprise, another bar......
Part two to follow.
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