British people are rubbish. We rock charm and sophistication like a fat bloke rocks a flouncy dress. Our men are all emotionally-stunted football hooligans. Our women fall over, saddlebags akimbo, in the street. Yeah, British people are universally appalling. I don’t why I’ve been on dates with so many of them.
The guys I’ve met online have, it is true, been diverse in many ways:
but their nationalities have been disappointingly homogeneous:
Consequently, I’m starting to wonder whether I’ve been missing out. Particularly since that stuff about rock stars and office drones was only partially true.
I’d like to know whether Italian men really are so passionate. Whether Spaniards sizzle, and Greeks smoulder, and the French are meltingly sexy as their accents and insouciance suggest. I’d like to see how I’d fare with a sharp-talking New Yorker, or a buff Australian beach bum, or any other national stereotype likely to feature in the Mills and Boon style-guide. (Germans I’ve left off the list because their national stereotype comes from films in which a moustachioed bloke pops round to fix the fridge.)
Perhaps the time has come to expand my horizons. Since the British approach mostly just consists of drinking and wincing, I could probably stand to learn a trick or two.
My worry is that my British brain might struggle to process unBritishness in a mate. I’m English, Scottish, Irish and Welsh, for frig’s sake. I’m a walking one-woman ‘three men walk into a pub’ joke. Were I to hook up with the proverbial Italian stallion, I would probably just laugh nervously at his love poetry and prick my finger on the rose he gave me, before – well, falling over in the street.
Visitors to London who message me, wanting to be shown round? Sorry, I’d make a terrible tour guide. Plus, the day my boudoir is interchangeable with the London Dungeons is the day I know I need to tidy it.