Budge

Hey, it's just dawned on me that some people may still be visiting my Blogspot even though I've moved. In case you didn't know you can continue my adventures - those of "a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male" over at www.sansharma.com.

15 minutes

Since the Stephen King/Rob Reiner chillfest, Misery (1990), having a "number one fan" is an altogether terrifying prospect. (A number two or three is fine.)

In the film, a novelist, played by James Caan, is rescued from a car accident in a blizzard, by a particularly fat Kathy Bates. Wait, it gets scarier...

It turns out she's his "number one fan" and has no intention of letting him go. She also lops off his feet with a hammer (don't click this link if you're squimish!).

It's no wonder then that I had cold feet (or any feet at all) when I agreed to meet one of my fans last week. ('One of' suggests there are more; 'one and only' may be closer to the truth.) She'd read my blog, saw that I'd moved to London and wanted to meet up.

Why the hell not? I thought.

Well, there was one prettyyy big reason why not:

• Kathy Bates.

But anyway, I chose to look beyond the Bates and found instead a very charming, not at all psychotic, PhD student.

And it got me thinking, perhaps prematurely, about the notion of fame (and the fifteen minutes of it promised us by Andy Warhol). I realise that it hasn't yet touched me in the same way that it did, say, Princess Diana, but it has sort of tickled me on the nose.

The PhD student knew only a persona, pixelated and preserved on this blog; a "true story of a single, metrosexual, twentysomething, British Indian male."

And while one fan does not a fan club make, I imagine it's just a matter of time before I'm shaving my head and checking into rehab, dangling a baby over a balcony ledge, or dying in a high speed car chase in Paris.

That's a lot to cram into my fifteen minutes.

Harry Krishna

My mate, Peter Woods, kindly pointed out that the Harry Potter pictured on the cover of the new book bears a striking resemblance to a certain...me!

It's uncanny! To the point that he actually looks Asian. Check it out.

• Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows [Amazon.co.uk]

Things not to do on a date.

In all the time I've been single (which totals around 18 years), I've learned three things about dating:

1. Don't get hideously drunk.


2. Don't order lobster.


3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace (I'll explain, even though it sounds inexplicable).

Interestingly enough, I learned all of these lessons in one sitting, on a date in Exmouth Market just last week.

1. Don't get hideously drunk.
"Hideous" may be too strong a word, but I was certainly "buzzed." I know this because I started banging on about a half-baked revolution in which we all "just love one another (why can't we just love one another?)." So, as a general rule, try and keep as drunk if not less drunk than your date.

2. Don't order lobster.
"Compliment her on her shoes," Beth advised, before the date. "It's more specific than 'you look nice,' and less cheesy than 'you've got amazing eyes'..."

So, as it turned out, my date did have pretty amazing eyes, but I couldn't get a good look at her shoes from where I was sitting. That was until the waitress came over and offered up the very same compliment to my date. Not wanting her to muscle in on my game (which is pretty sad, when a waitress can do that), I saw my opportunity and chimed in with a perhaps overly enthusiastic, "Yes! Your shoes are amazing!"

I was too late, of course, and my compliment, now really an afterthought, had no real positive impact. It only served to distract me from the real reason the waitress was standing there, complimenting the hell out of my date.

And so, for some reason, I ordered lobster. And then proceeded to wrestle with the animal, break the thing apart and eat its insides across the table from my date.
My advice? Order anything but lobster.

3. Don't arrange a second date in Cyberspace.
So, sozzled and strewn with lobster meat and exoskeleton, I was in no fit state to conclude the date in any way that was appropriate. Instead of suggesting we meet again, that I call, or even that we move to a position more conducive to kissing, I turned away from my date, ever so slightly, pointed over my shoulder and said, "well, the tube's this way," and, "you should, er, Facebook me sometime."

It sounded like something from the Chandler Bing school of shitty dating, updated for the 21st century (dating 2.0, if you will). And as soon as I said it I turned, looked down at my shoes, seasoned ever so slightly with lobster and white wine, and thought, did I actually just say that?

SuperPoke!

When I was younger - maybe 13 - some kind, possibly sympathetic soul told me that when girls were into guys they just ignored them.

Imagine how I got on, all lanky limbs and awful hair, thinking that every girl I passed, eyes glued to the pavement, was secretly admiring me: tall and thin, ugly and assured.

God knows how else I would have made it through my teens.

But 10 years on and I'm beginning to seriously question that small piece of advice. It may have got me through my teens, but it sure as hell won't get me through my 20s.

If it were true then London loves me. In fact, by that logic, I got a whole lot of love at the pub last night. Indeed, it's a wonder I didn't get raped on the Tube home.

Now, of course, you're spoiled for choice when it comes to indicating your interest. Glances on the Tube are generally ill-advised, especially at night. But, ladies, when you get home, why not log on to Craigslist and post about your "missed connection", in the hope that Mr Right-Across-the-Carriage will reply.

Here's one from a few of weeks ago:

Victoria Line, Monday Evening, discussed Harry Potter

Going North on the Victoria Line, sitting across from you, talking to my friend about how we still haven't gone to King's Cross to have our pictures taken between Platforms 9 and 10. You said you bet we'd meet on the train again a week from now, and I still wouldn't have had my picture taken. I said I'd get it done the next day on my way to see the Tower of London.

I only realised later that I should have given you my number.

And you were right, I didn't go to King's Cross - I'm hoping to go with you!

Craigslist is just one way in which you can flirt online. There are, of course, countless other, more explicit ways - and I've already covered match.com's virtual winking feature - but we won't dwell on those sites that charge to do it. Because, frankly, it's pretty sad. I can say that because I've done it.

A more popular, kid-friendly way (though I wouldn't try it with kids) is Facebook's built-in poking device. With it, you can let your 'lover' know that they've been poked when they next log in.

Here's what I saw when I logged into Facebook tonight:

Pokes

You were poked by Meghan Vaughn.

poke back | remove poke

And when I clicked "poke back"?

Poke Meghan?

You are about to poke Meghan. She will be informed of this the next time she logs in.

Poke | Cancel

It's about as far removed from actual poking as you can get. If you've ever been poked by or even poked the person next to you on the Tube (and again, I'd advise against this), there is no option to "remove poke" nor is it wise to "poke back".

And now that Facebook's opened up to third-party applications there are even more ways to poke people. You can use Poke Pro! Super Poke! Party Poke! Pokey Poke! Edgar Allan Poke! The list is endless...

But despite all these options, the third-party application support, the AJAX controls, the JavaScript widgetry, even logging in to see that I've been poked in every conceivable way, I feel no closer to an actual physical connection than I did those years I spent being ignored by girls.

At least when one looked up it meant something. And if they ever poked back, I knew I was in.