Mr Newcastle 

London is a production unit of attractive, confident, twenty something year olds who are relatively smart. Because of the high supply, you become a option while dating. Of course, as part of dating you’re always an option, but I am talking about an option in an infinite pool. It’s akin to going to a Michelin-esque all-you-can-eat restaurant (it does exist, the Arabs have done it. I don’t agree with it but there is not an awful lot of things Arab that I do agree with). Everything is so bloody good and you want to eat it all. You want to stuff yourself. However, you ultimately end up trying tiny bits of exquisite food and you just can’t feel satisfied. You pick it all up and you spoil it with no regard for the art presented. Every so often, during the tasting you come across something truly wonderful. It’s so marvellous that you only want to eat that, but you wonder if there are other dishes out there. You try to remain faithful to your dish but you see your neighbour throwing their ravenous paws all over something that looks divine. The little voice starts asking all sorts of questions that could lead you astray. Can you get that too? Are you missing out? Can you let curiosity kill the bloody cat? Of course you can’t. After all, you don’t want to be a fucking cat murderer.
Mr Newcastle was polite and very British. He was attractive, but my calibration was off. I wasn’t sure if he stood out because he was atypically missing the tattoo sleeves, JD clothes and Orangutan fake tan you often find plastered all over in Newcastle. The only fault I had was that he used the word lush to describe me and this irritated me beyond words. I tried to politely put forward that it was an unusual adjective considering it was a noun (soap shop), but then it became ‘our thing’. He used lush more and more until I built an immunity to it. It was rather endearing in the end. 
I liked Mr Newcastle. There was something about him. I think it’s just that he was not very London. I liked that. He was very attractive, had a job and was a nice person. I guess you could say he was beautiful and he didn’t even know it. 
We talked for a couple of days and I tried hard to deviate from my London type. After 3 days of actively trying to talk to him I realised I have been sucked into the London bubble of dating. Who am I kidding? I am so London! I don’t think I can not do London. Mr Newcastle lacked the witty vitality I was used to. Compared to the London chaps, I felt like he was a Neanderthal. He had not yet evolved into a homo sapien. His mind was filled with simplicity: fire, food, air and woman. I am sure if I reached deep I could find more, but I wasn’t in the digging business. Making witty conversation was hard and with someone like that I would soon lose myself, become numb and get lost in a state of oblivion forever. I had no time for this: I had to cut him off before we even meet. Scissors out and job done! This time I didn’t feel good about the drop in the blocked blackhole. He wasn’t a bad guy: he just wanted to find someone. It was just like suffocating a puppy. I felt sick with myself. He was an unnecessary civilian in my quest to find whatever I wanted to find. Whatever that is, it really wasn’t him. What was it? It was something between Mr Iran and Mr Sweden. Eastern Europe?


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