Every woman, at some stage in her life, will take up with a Bad Man. A man who will cheat on you, lie to you, put you down, try to drive a wedge between you and your girlfriends and then tell you that it’s all your own fault for being so difficult. It’s like a female rite of passage.

Most of us fall for it for a while and then suddenly wake up one morning, realise the man in question is an absolute twat and move on with a huge sigh of relief.

I didn’t meet my Bad Man until I was in my early thirties and had already managed two children and a break up with their father (not at all a Bad Man, just the Wrong Man). Maybe because I left it so late it took a little longer than it should have to reach my ‘he’s a twat’ epiphany, but I got there in the end.

After a remarkably quick recovery my girlfriends (who had breathed an even bigger sigh of relief) took me out to celebrate the demise of twatman and explore the new world of being single and over 30.

It was a fairly large night – with an incredibly icky end (not the first time that’s happened). One or two quiet drinks somehow morphed into lots and lots of very loud drinks, and, having (finally) decided to embrace the delights of singledom I was there in the thick of it, ready willing and able to meet the tall handsome man of some of my dreams, should he choose to make his appearance.

Apparently, once again, he already had plans and couldn’t make it. He sent along a horde of drunk, ignorant, egotistical shitheads in his place though, because clearly there aren’t enough of them hanging around in bars, making arses of themselves and getting in the way of everyone else’s good time.

I tried, I really did. I listened to them talk about themselves, football, themselves, their cars, themselves, their jobs and themselves. I nailed a look of polite interest to my face and gave it my all, but the finale occurred when, in the middle of telling me about the manifold sexual delights I would miss out on if I didn’t immediately crawl home with him, some great sweaty Neanderthal politely excused himself and threw up all over my shoes.

So the girlfriends and I headed home (carrying my shoes on a stick) and as I was tenderly cleansing my beloved black strappy sandals they tried to tell me that I should give internet dating a go.

Internet dating? Were they kidding? They wanted me to be exchanging emails with a deaf, warty, one legged grandmother from the Netherlands? Or a big, hairy, sweaty bloke called Stan? Or a gigantic obese Jabba the hut who has grown into his chair and would have to be lifted out his widow on a crane for our first date? Did they really think I was that desperate?

Not at all, they assured me. It’s the meeting place of choice for all the new millennium beautiful people, they told me. Everyone is doing it ,they said. Only vomiting Neanderthals meet in bars, they said. And besides, pointed out my beloved redhead, just think of all the great stories you’ll have for us at Sunday brunch.

Eventually the girlfriends and champagne wore me down, and, after collecting another bottle from the fridge, we settled down to create a profile for me on RSVP.

The next night, as my hangover and I were sitting comfortably on the couch together, I got a very enthusiastic email from someone claiming that he had never read such an amusing and original profile (well, naturally) and said he had to meet me as soon as possible.

After an exchange of less than 3 emails (that would be 2…) he insisted that we meet the next night and that Donovan’s (yuuumm, but a minimum $500 night) was the only venue suitable to meet a woman of my calibre.

Uh-huh.

Now you would think that at this point the warning bells would be screaming, but no no, pathetic innocent that I am, I thought all this enthusiasm was rather charming….d’oh!

He had described himself as being 5’11, intelligent, witty and average build. Translation: 5’7, tubby, bald, glasses, wet palms, not enough blinking.

He spent the whole hour we were together telling me how much he just wanted to be loved, we all need love don’t we, I just want to be loved... can I hold your hand?… (umm, no, I might just finish my dinner first) …then finished by fixing me with a steely eyed glare and telling me that some women can’t handle REAL love… “Indeed, yes” I said, bolted down my meal and ran for the hills.

My next internet dating contact (email only) was from a depressed, dope-smoking yabby farmer from Mordialloc.

‘Nuff said really.

Next up was the 6’5” real estate agent who took me out for dinner and spent the whole night telling me about every woman who has ever done him wrong. At last count that would appear to be all of them. Women, he told me bitterly, are just out to steal everything they can from a man and then leave him for someone else who’s got even more shit to steal. “Indeed, yes” I said, bolted down my meal and ran for the hills.

At that point I was starting to have wistful thoughts about the vomiting Neanderthal.

I’d almost decided that all this dating weird men just to gather anecdotes for the girls at brunch was staring to wear a little thin, but they talked me into giving it one more go. 3rd time lucky and all that. After some grumbling, I finally agreed to one more date. So I spent a couple of hours scrolling through pages and pages of sad dweebs banging on about how much they love the Shawshank Redemption and how they really know how to treat a lady, until I finally spotted the very man for me. “Miserable drunk seeks woman for awkward dates and disappointing sex, with a view to a future intervention order”. Brilliant! Right up my alley, and if it went badly (what are the odds?) then at the very least I could finally get the girls off my back and start collecting cats.

I emailed him straight away and suggested a quick drink. He emailed back, suggesting a bar in Elwood (he’s a local?? Crap, that’s not good) and promised that should he be four sheets to the wind, wearing a Papua New Guinean Penis Gourd and a Melbourne City Council witch's hat he would defer our date to a more convenient time.

Hmmmm

Anyway, apparently there were no penis gourds to be had in Elwood that night, because I turned up to the bar and there he was. My very first thought on looking at him slouched at the bar was “Great, no way is that guy over 6 foot tall, it’s another one of those fucking delusional internet weirdos…”

Not to say that I was in any way wrong with my first impression, but two years later I married the delusional internet weirdo and started the Elwood Tribune.

I’m sure there is a moral somewhere in this story, but I’m damned if I know what it is. Maybe someone should write in and tell me.

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