Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

The W.I.

So. My Evil Best Friend Declan has finally discovered the joy of chatting to men on the hypercyberinterweb. Which, I feel, is a little like giving Sauron the keys to the Ratners jewellery counter.

For you non-Gentlemen Who Are Good With Colours, let me tell you of Gaydar. It's the number one site for ordering in a 12-inch meat filling in under 30 minutes - or your money back! - and is most commonly used when coming back from the local hostelry when pickled in Babycham, without any gentleman callers in tow. Most of us refer to it as the Women's Institute.

Oh, many moons ago, I used to be the blight of said site, and am severely enjoying Declan's maiden voyage into the WI's darker recesses. Such as the revelation that if you put a picture of yourself on there, more people will chat to you. Seasoned users are right to be suspicious of any gentleman who didn't post a photo on there; chances if there wasn't a shot up, it was for very good reason. Like they're not really 25 years old, unless you're counting in hexadecimal. Or 'body type: stocky' was literally taken to mean you are as wide and heavy as the wooden gallows that were once at Tyburn Tree in Marble Arch.

Yet, even with a picture, you can't be a hundred percent. One gentleman started chatting to me and claimed to be 30 years old. The images he posted afterwards were clearly taken on a box brownie.

And lets not forget that the ability to post mucky images of yourself - yes, romance is dead to many in this day and age. Everything goes, much to Declan's astonishment: "I've got chatting to this fellow in Venice who wants me to pop in and see him," he said, slightly perturbed.

"Oh, really?" I asked. "What's his name."

"He signs on as 'BottomForTourists."

"Ah. You can feel the love."

"The thing is, I clicked on the pictures. I didn't think the scenery in Venice looked like that!"

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