Speed dating disaster

Not long ago I went speed dating with a couple of my friends. As expected my family were there ever-supportive selves. NOT. They hated the idea so much so that at one point I thought I would turn up to find that my dad, brother, and nephews had scared away all my potential suiters. Well, I ignored their jibes and put up with the banter, and on Friday night made my way to Oceana (should have known then that it was a bad idea).

Firs of all I don’t think the organisers could have picked a seedier looking room. It looked like something out of Secret Diary of a Call Girl. Velvet drapes were hung all over the walls and it was so dark Buggs Bunny wouldn’t have been able to make head Bor tails of what was going on. Secondly, the age range was 21-35. I don’t know who was checking I.D that night but whoever it was needed their eyes tested. The men were more like 45, a couple of them had hair (even then it was either grey or thinning), and I know it was dark but that’s no excuse for wearing a YOLO t-shirt.

My friends persuaded me not to turn around and run out the door, so instead I headed for the bar. Before the speed dating started there was a fifteen minute ‘mingling’ session, I can safely say that I spent about 14 minutes of those buying drinks and getting them down my neck as quick as possible. By the time I sat down with my name and number on a badge I was beginning to see the funny side of the whole thing.

After the first guy finished telling me why he had been single for seven ears I had to mark my sheet with my thoughts on him. Ticking the ‘never met again’ box I looked up to find him still standing there. AWKWARDDDD. I don’t know where he had been for the last three minutes because it clearly wasn’t on the same date as me. He was so shocked that I didn’t want to meet him again that I had to try and get out of it by putting it down to a drunken slip of the hand, and I really meant to tick the ‘date’ box. Avoiding anymore awkward-turtle moments I made sure that I ticked the ‘date’ box for the next nine suiters. Ohhhh Jessie what a stupid girl you are.

The next day an email popped up in my inbox giving me a list of all of my ‘perfect matches’. I don’t know if you’ve ever been speed dating before, but if you get a perfect match you get given your match’s number. So I spent the rest of my (extremely hungover) day thinking up lies that I could use to get myself out of going on any more cringeworthy dates. After telling them that I had met someone else the night before – apparently I move on quicker than Jordan – I thought that that would be that.

Yeahhh it definitely wasn’t the end of that. Every Monday since I politely declined any other dates I’m still receiving texts messages from one of the blokes asking for a date. This, you might think is nice, but as I mentioned earlier, I went with my friends. Friends talk to each other. Every Monday we all receive the same text, at the same time, asking the same question.

So my words of dating wisdom would be: don’t get drunk and feel the need to tick the ‘date’ box for EVERY guy. It will come back to bite you in the ass. Believe me.

PUB DILEMMA : Would you rather have mittens as hands or ice skates as feet?

This is a really difficult one. My initial reaction would be to have the mittens as hands, BUT, how would I do my makeup? How would I zip up my trousers? But most importantly, how would I play temple run? While this is all a bit of a nightmare, I would save a fortune on false eyelashes; I’d have an excuse to live in leggings; and would stop wasting my time playing a game that I will never be any good at.

If I were to go for the ice-skate feet I’d have real trouble walking. I struggle enough staying upright in a pair of trainers so I’d spend the majority of my time on my ass. On the other hand, if there was a sudden ice age I’d be alright wouldn’t I.


  • No 10 minute rush to find a pair of mittens when your cakes are burning
  • No ball of fire scolding your hand when you cut open a pitta bread
  • Toastie hands in the winter
  • They could double as a mop/flannel/fake-tan mitt


  • No use of computer
  • No use of phone
  • No use of
  • No nail art


  • Defined legs
  • No queue for ice skates at the ice rink
  • Could double as a knife/saw
  • Flesh coloured skates would make your legs look longer


  • I would find swimming 1000000x harder than I already do
  • AAAH I wouldn’t be able to wear my new zara heels.

That’s it, my minds made up. No ice-skate feet for me, I love my shoesies too much!

Messy Jessie

I was, and always have been known as Messy Jessie. It’s pretty self explanatory. I’m messy. My name is Jessie. So there you go the nickname fits me perfectly. As I’ve got older new names have cropped up, some have fallen by the waste side, and some have (unfortunately) stuck faster than it takes a bottle of super glue to fuse your fingers together. I’ll give you an example. My brother and sister call me skid the kid. Over time this has been shortened so now I’m just called skid. Skid. Yep that’s right I share the same name as a nasty surprise an old man might find in his undercrackers.

You may think these are bad but trust me, I got off lightly the day bad nicknames were handed out. In my family there’s a few dodgy ones:

  • Cutthroat – Don’t worry I’m not related to an actual throat cutter, it’s after the pirate cutthroat Jake. But as you can imagine, when that’s hollered down the road it turns a few heads.
  • Flea boy – Again, nothing to worry about. No actual boy with fleas. It’s a modern take on the old ants in your pants saying. Something that my 15-year-old nephew really loves being called.
  • Raralala123 – I have nothing to say about this one. Nothing. I don’t know where it has come from, who started it, or what the hell it has to do with my sister.

Not only have the Beagley-clan been graced with a number of delightful second names, mum and dad have nicknamed our whole street. Three sixes lives opposite us – a girl that could give David Platt a run for his money in the evil stakes. Then next to her is Golden Bollocks – I really have no idea about this one and I’m not sure if I want to ask my mum and dad where it’s come from. Round the corner are the Jehovahs; next to them are the Durs, and opposite them are the soapdodgers.

Oh it’s an eclectic street we live on.

So this is what it feels like to be a blogger!

Every new year I make the same resolutions:

  • Lose weight
  • Stop biting my nails
  • Grow my hair
  • Start a diary

I keep these up for all of two days and then resort back to my pizza-eating, nail-biting, non-diary-keeping ways. As a result I have 10 years worth of January 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and in some cases – where my will power has stretched to an extreme that will.I.am would be proud of – January 4th diary entries.

Anyways, diaries are so 1999, so I’ve decided to write a blog instead. Because of the inability I appear to have when it comes to commitment (diets, boys and gym memberships have all fallen victim to my commitmentphobe ways) I’m not promising that my entries will be that frequent, but I’m gunna try. I promise. Pinky promise.