okay, i'll go first. i'll leave determination of its fictitiousness to you.

i'd like to say he didn't let me see how cheesy and horrid he was, but the truth is probably that i stupidly ignored it. i was newly single after a relationship that could be safely termed "captivity" and i wasn't about to let his utterly disguting saccharine cuteness stand between me and what i wanted to be a hot one-time shag. unfortunately (one of many unfortunately's in this scenario, sadly), i allowed things to progress as though i'd accidentally stepped through the television screen into a bad MTV dating show. jacuzzi? sauna? bad fruity mixed drinks? this wasn't me, and in retrospect it's not surprising the sex was so bad, considering the rubbish that led up to it.

he slept with a friend of mine, too. she didn't talk about it for awhile because it made her think of the high-pitched squeal he emitted in the throes of passion, but eventually the truth was out and we'd compare our horror stories. once when i was out of town she had a conversation with him wherein he actually voiced the sentence "i like to fly like the wind". she emailed me immediately: "HE LIKES TO FLY LIKE THE WIND. WE SLEPT WITH HIM. HAHAHAHA."

All the psychos I've ever slept with: No. 3

Jane (not real name) was the acme of rebound relationships. I had just ended a year-long relationship and she had just ended with her boyfriend of some fifteen months. We met while I working in a pub and sort of liked the look of each other, though not enough to talk in complete sentences.

For about two or three weeks we slept at each other's houses without much conversation, without much in common, without much to do. We didn't consummate this clearly dysfunctional relationship. I needed someone to tell them what to do, and she needed someone to tell her what to do.

One pregnancy scare (which would have been filed in the 'immaculate conception' drawer) and several late night teary arguments later, I decided that this wasn't working out for either of us. I went over to her house and tried, gently, to break up with her.

Cue immense shouting/slanging at me, during which the accusation "You only went out with me for the sex" occurred. Immediately defensive, I went on the back foot with standard male denial tactics, until I realised I had the best, and truthful, riposte.

"But we haven't had sex."

This statement of incontrovertible fact further enraged her and so I immediately left and went back to my house in a state of anger. I was, ironically, calmed down and talked to by my ex, about how this girl had managed to ruin an entire month of my life. Psycho.

Can I have a Moscow mule, please?

oh - um - a great big vodka tonic, please.

One Night Thing - 'Rat Girl'.

Cute, short, and (apparently, I found out afterwards) drunk on cocktails by the time I arrived, RG was great. We chatted in a pub for a few hours, and she suggested we move onto a club. En route, we kissed, and after partaking with vigour she then pushed me away with a grin and slapped me - hard, across the face. Still smirking, she said, "Honestly! First date rules!"

We walked on a little further. Kiss. Smile. Slap. Ouch.

And again. I thought it would pass after a while, and it wasn't as though there was anything, even including the stingingly sharp tongue-in-cheek slapping, that indicated that she wasn't enjoying herself. By the time we reached the club, where the slapping stopped (thank god), my face was actually in pain.

Turns out I missed the last bus. Back to hers, then, where a sofa in her room folded out into a bed on the floor. First Date Rules. Sharing floor level, and taking up roughly half the floorspace in a large room, was a roughly constructed chicken wire cage...with a fat brown rat waddling around inside. I was left (rat in hands) to get acquainted. We cleared up the whole Black Death thing, letting bygones be bygones, but it was nocturnal...meaning I had a large rodent scurrying around near my head for most of the night.

In the morning I was exhausted and hungover, I looked like crap, and one side of my face was red and puffy.

I'll have a Papa Doble, please.

Beer please:

Really late for work so don't have time to go into it in detail but words "failed marriage" I feel neatly encapsulate it.

Now I need several more beers.

Mad American Girl. Met her at a club in LA. Spent the next day with her. Se dropped me at the airport. First smog was snogging me good bye.

Lots of emails and phone calls and stuff later she came to London to meet me. Friday to Monday. Had taken 4 days off work.

She turned into a loon. I got flu. She had a fit when I wouldn’t let her make me a cup of tea and 'help me'. Then spent an hour convincing me to stay home while toured London because I was sick. And then crapped me out that night for letting her go out by herself. Also proceeded at a dinner with all my friends that night to explain how I had let her go out buy herself and how nasty I was and how she had met all these nicer men in bars that day.

Next day I took her out around London. Had conversations such as

Me> What do you want for Lunch
Her> A traditional English pub lunch
Me> Spends ages trying to find a decent English pub in the west end /soho
Me> What do you feel like eating (now in the pub)
Her> Oh I'll just have fries
Me Thinking> So why did you want a traditional English pub lunch you could have got fries anywhere

Me> Any shops you want in particular to look at?
Her> I want to try get a [cashmere jersey / English toffee / etc ]
Me> Spends ages finding shop
Her> Walks into shop picks up item, looks a it for 2 seconds. Says that she has changed her mind.

Oh and the sex was appalling. She orgasmed every time I touched her. And screamed. A lot. Even I know I am not that good. I was bored the whole way through the sex. Did nothing for me. And listening to her orgasm continually got annoying. I pretended to be asleep after the second time. She would poke me gently with a finger to subtly wake me up. I was lying there wide awake concentrating on my breathing to sound like I was asleep.

On the Monday morning I got a work mate to phone me with an 'emergency' and had to go to work.

Oh and she was 9 years older than me. Not that that’s relevant. She was also psychotic.

I'll have an Jack D.

Final year at Uni, and I had this daft strategy of only dating people I had nothing in common with, just for a bit of fun like, because I wanted to get my degree and clear out of Nottingham as quickly as possible.

I met Slug in the local gay club. I didn't have contact lenses in those days - just these hideous over-sized plastic framed Trevor Horn specs, which I was far too vain to wear when I was out on the scene. From a distance, he looked a little bit like Lloyd Cole. I liked Lloyd Cole.

His first words to me, muttered in the sort of mopey, defeatist, Eeyore-esque tone of voice which should have sent me running for the door: "Oh, I thought you'd gone..."

He lived above The Cob Shop, on his own, in a dark, grubby one-bedroom flat. He had trained as a teacher, but had decided not to bother going into the profession. He didn't work, and had no interest in working; he liked daytime television too much for that.

I talked about what I wanted to do after I got my degree. "Oh, I used to be like that," he said, "you know, with ambitions and stuff. But it's a nice life on the dole. You'll soon get over that wanting-a-job phase."

He liked to meet up in the afternoons, but didn't like coming round to my flat, as I shared it with other people, and that made him nervous because then they'd know he was gay. So I'd go round to his, and he would put the afternoon telly on, and talk me through his favourite characters in all the imported soaps. ("That's Kelly, she's really nice...")

The sex was lousy. I wasn't allowed to stay overnight, because he couldn't sleep if there was anyone else in the bed with him.

None of his very small set of friends knew he was gay. We went to a different club one night with a girlfriend of his, and I had to pretend that we were just mates; I also wasn't allowed to let on that I was gay. I wasn't given these instructions until we were already on our way to meet her in the pub. It was a rotten night.

About eight weeks passed. The sex got worse, until not even the squinting to make him look like Lloyd Cole worked any more. We met for a drink. He had a habit of filling pauses in the conversation (of which there were many) by singing to himself. This particular night, he kept singing the chorus of Easy Lover. I told him that I didn't want to have sex with him any more. He didn't even look round. He just mumbled "Oh, that's alright", and started singing Easy Lover again. And that was that.

A fortnight later, Easy Lover had got to Number One, and I has started seeing K. Nearly 19 years later, we're still together, and I'm still living in Nottingham.

I ran into Slug every now and again on the scene. He went from bare-minimum monosyllabic grunting, to blanking me completely. I still see him around to this day, every couple of months or so. The mutual blanking has become second nature. I've even forgotten his name; I remember what letter it started with, but can get no further.

About 8 or 9 years ago, he waggled his willy at me in the darkened toilets of the local club. I actually think he had no idea who I was by then. I nearly said something, but I couldn't be bothered. W@nker.

Nashi pear and lychee martini, please.

Oh my, what a can of worms.

I can honestly say I've never had a terrible relationship. All of my girlfriends have been truly beautiful (in whatever sense you want to interpret that adjective).

Now, if I take off these sort-of-pinky-coloured glasses, can I please have a large Smug of vodka?

All the men I've never slept with

Amsterdam nightclub, eleven years previous. She was a he. Apparently.

Christ. Large bottle of Glenlivet, please.

I'm not sure any of the above truly qualify as anecdotes - they are more like short stories. But I'm determined to earn my vodka and tonic...

I met Karen in the pub. I was drunk. She was drunk. She was also blonde and very attractive. It was after time had been called, but because I knew the barman, I was able to get her a drink. We got to talking, seemed to get along well, and exchanged numbers.

I called a couple of days later, and arranged for her to come round for dinner at my place. We had a great evening of food and wine, but didn't do anything more outrageous than snog and arrange to meet again.

It turned out that she was separated from the son of the landlord at my parents' local. Which all seemed a bit close to home to me. And he had a habit of phoning her all the time. Which tended to put a dampener on any dating activity.

The "highlight" of our short relationship was our third date. It was her mum's birthday, and her mum's boyfriend wanted to cook dinner for her mum and Karen (I really should highlight that this is a *different* Karen to Karen Uborka!!). I offered to drive, and we stopped at an off licence to pick up a couple of bottles of vino. When we got there, both her mum and her mum's boyfriend (we'll call him Dave) were already plastered. But they seemed likeable enough, and we chatted away.

However, two things quickly became apparent. Firstly, Dave couldn't cook for toffee. He put some garlic bread in the oven, and only realised that it was "done" when the room filled with smoke. He staggered to the oven, thankfully remembering to pick up the oven mitt, and calmly carried the flaming pan out of the room and into the garden.

There was uncomfortable laughter, and another round of drinks. I was sent to the off licence for more wine - lots more wine - and a bottle of lemonade for the driver. Everyone proceeded to get even more drunk whilst I sat in bemused sobriety, which is when I noticed the second thing about Dave - he was more interested in Karen's breasts than any aspect of her mum's physique or personality. At one point, he even put his hand on her backside in more than a friendly way.

I pointed this out to Karen (who was also called Louise - long story), and she seemed completely unfazed by that. That was pretty much when I decided that it would be good to bail out of the relationship.

Later in the evening, after an hour of awful food (I almost offered to nip out to the takeaway, but thought better of leaving Karen in the room with drunk Dave), I had to pick up Karen and carry her from her seat to the car, carefully drive her home (fearing she would hurl at any moment), find her keys in her bag and carry her in to her house. She sat talking incoherently on her sofa until about 4am and then said "I'm going to bed, you should stay here". I was too exhausted by then to do anything other than doze off on the sofa, but at least I knew that she wasn't going to die of alcohol poisoning.

The next morning she came running downstairs going "ohmigod, ohmigod, there's a man in the house, what did I do? what did I do? oh, it was *you*! thank goodness!".

With this ringing endorsement of my credentials, I made my excuses and left. I saw her in the pub a few months later - it didn't look like much in her life had changed.

Top marks to Graybo. Give that man a drink.

Simple story of an ex-girlfriend who, upon meeting my mother for the first time, said "Hi Mum-in-law to be...."

Dumped the next week...

Guinness please!

girls, please. come on in, the ratio's nice in here.

He likes to fly like the wind, Kate.

my contribution: which makes me cringe to this day.

Had been seeing a chap who had no inhibition what so ever. Very adventurous and energetic. After some persuasion I agreed to a little photography session.

A few days later I met some of his friends for the first time and was greeted with the words:

"Ah, so you're Emma. You know, you look really different in the photos..."

I'll have a JD, large, please Karen.

Well, I'm certainly seeing people in a new, cucumbery green light today!

Oh, and Gordon - my family do the opposite every time...'she'd make a nice daughter/sister in law'...
Well, most of the time. My sister is quite picky.

Thankfully I tend to bail out before things get to the epic nightmare stage.

However, I think two seperate instances can probably qualify.

1) Having lived with girlfriend for about a year, we ended up also having her mother share the house for three months. Yes, three months. Not bad in a mansion - f*cking abysmal in a two-bedroom place. It ended soon after she got a house sorted.

2) Different partner, who'd get jealous when I wasn't paying attention to her. We're talking about examples like reading a book. Yes, she would be jealous of the book. Madder than a bathful of hippos.

As for drinks - a black russian would be good please Karen. In a pint mug, having recalled those two.

[here is an awful gay one to add to the mix]

Used to hang around with a bunch of guys one of which I really fancied. We got togther - sort of - at a party, and had an on-off thing for a while. We bumped into each other at a party and decided to have a shag for old times sake.

We were [ahem] adventurous. And noisey. The whole thing went on for quite some time.

When we were finally finished and starting to clean up, a pile of coats on the other side of the room moved and a person emerged and said, "can I get some sleep now".

oh, Gin martini pls.

Razor thats hysterical. Who knew coats could talk.

Lyle, re. your example 2) - I thought all birds did that...

Ditto to Iain on that.

I met my first boyfriend online in 97.

He still lived with his ex of four years. Her new boyfriend was there too. He paid for everything she did and whatever happened, she came first.

There was this other girl half his age who he said was 'stalking' him.

He was a lapsed Catholic, Pagan, full time Irish bleeding heart animal lover. You know, the whole watery eyes spiel.

("What is this, a Woody Allen-film?", a friend asked me, and "For godsake, don't get drawn into the pagan thing.")

We lived 500 miles apart, a country and two stretches of water in between. He never did get the astral dreams to work.

He made me watch horror films I really didn't want to see and no date was ever done without a visit to the pub, even if I said I was ill or tired or just didn't want to.

The last time I went over to be with him he left me in country house to go to the pub, while his wild dog was locked in the kitchen - with no way for me to get a drink or something to eat.

He came back drunk at 3 AM, went through photos, showing me his childhood sweetheart and insisting he'd never love like that again. He whined about her breaking up with him in a letter.

At the airport I knew it was over, yet I told myself I should try and make it work.

But he stopped calling and wouldn't answer my e-mail. He spoke to all my so called IRC friends and told them he needed time to think and sure, there was this other girl...

I didn't have a clue and nobody bothered to tell me. Cowardice is big on IRC.

After a month he broke up with me in a letter. He said he didn't love me and could we just be friends. I rang him to yell at him and he told me not to be unreasonable.

I realised we were never friends in the first place.

The 'stalker' half his age moved in with him soon after. She sent me anonymous trash for a while.

A few times he sent me drunken e-mails telling me about his wonderful new life and that I should be 'happy' for them.

It lasted 8 months and it took me three years to get over it.

W@nker

Lyle, Iain, & Adrian: Men do that too. My first boyfriend often interrupted my book to ask if I was sulking with him. No, just reading a book.

Caroline: Sounds like one of those ones that you really should know was a w@anker, but for some reason, you just don't.

Karen, I'm quite sure men do the "jealous of inanimate objects" thing too. In fairness I've only had one (well, one and a half) girlfriends who were of that mindset - so I wasn't aiming for any form of "all women do that". Blame the other two. *Grin*

Oh yes, I was blaming them, Lyle.

Blame away. I know I am not as much of an attention seeker as women. Fact!

Ducks much slapping.

I didn't have enough time to tell my tale, so I'll compress it into five words.

I had to call the Police.

Can I have a Tequila now please?

Oops. You'd think I was drunk already - just realised that was six words.

Erk.

Thank crunchie it's Friday.

"I'm leaving you!"
"Uh, what? why?"
"I'm marrying David!"
"Uh, what? who?"
"He's very nice. Canadian. He has a livejournal."

I'll just have a small orange juice, please.

i can't call it terrible. i mean, she was sweet and beautiful. and and when i would get home, she couldn't wait for me to get inside. she would hear the car door slam, and come tearing outside, and tackle me in the yard, giggling.
but. she come from money.
all that money, but she didn't understand it. i'd try to explain it to her, and she'd give me the same look as a dog gives to a doorknob.
i was doing alright before she came along. couple months with her, though, and i was broke as a haint. she could make money disappear. there was a couple thousand we never did figure out what happened to it. one minute it was there, the next.

but i come home one day, and she was beside herself with glee. she'd spent the same day thinking, hard. the impending debtors prison thing was getting me down, and it made her frown.
so she thought and thought. and it come to her. she was so proud. she knew "just what would make me feel better! a TRIP! someplace cheap, like south africa, or china."
honey. we don't have any money.
"ok, spain. or even BRAZIL. it doesn't matter as long as we are TOGETHER."
sigh.