This story is several months old – occurring very soon after I became single again and narrowly avoided incarceration for sending glitter through the Royal Mail. As a result, it contains an out-of-date North Korea reference. For all of which, I make no apology.

I blame Donald Trump for a lot. He’s done many, many, bad, bad things. Never mind North Korea and collusion with Russia, he’s responsible for one of my strangest dating experiences in recent years. Thanks to him, I spent several evenings coming as close to I could stomach to the far-right in the UK. I was like Danny Dyer in my own episode of World’s Most Dangerous Dates.

I had signed up to, and was contacted by a Bristolian, whose write-up wittily tore apart the entitlement and virtue-signalling you see on many online dating profiles.

My first mistake was assuming this rant was a parody, rather than evidence of a deep-seated distrust of women.

It quickly became apparent that he was right-wing. He claimed to be a Tory but only because UKIP had gone out of fashion by then. However, I was determined to prove all those Trumpeteers wrong. I am not an intolerant liberal, who shuts out alternative opinions and seeks out only the echo chamber of all that is left and lovely.

During the General Election, I had enjoyed a long chat on a campaign call with the husband of a Labour party member, who was himself an ardent Tory voter. Naturally, I assumed their long marriage was a sign that people who hold vastly different views can be happy together.

I love a debate. It was fun to argue over the week’s news. He didn’t get offended by my disgust at his support for Jacob Rees-Mogg. He seemed to find my polar opposite opinions interesting and attractive.

I was aware that he kept referring to “these people”. Sometimes “these people” were lefties, sometimes gay people, sometimes women, sometimes trans people. The worst of “these people” were (you guessed it) Muslims. I called him out on it. I tried to explain my perspective, while trying to understand his. I pointed out that saying “these people” ignores the individuals, and he was grouping people that I love into his derogatory statements.

I couldn’t fancy him – even if his views hadn’t been enough to destroy any possible attraction I might feel – his sexual banter was crass and possessive. We hadn’t met in person, all our contact was via phone and message, yet he immediately assumed some deep intimacy. He was convinced that, not only would we be having lot of sex, but it would be amazing. There is a sound that the cat makes when she is trying to expel a hairball, a stomach-churning, uncomfortable retching sound, which make the evacuated slimy blob appealing by comparison. That sound is the perfect metaphor for my physical reaction to “this person”.

I decided there was no way I could meet him and have any respect for myself. He was keen as mustard to meet up – assuring me that my ample bosom would be compensation for my retarded political ideas.

He sent me a photo of his feet. It’s almost less appealing than a cock shot. He asked whether his foot looked swollen. I pointed out that I was not a doctor or his mother. As he lived with his mother, I didn’t understand why he didn’t go into the next room and ask her.

The next day, I started my farewell chat with a friendly “How’s your foot?”

He replied: “How’s your c**t? Lickable?”

Every part of me widened in horror! Even if Jeremy Corbyn were reincarnated as Chris Pratt, I don’t think he could seduce me with that line.

“No thanks,” I replied, and sent him on the short journey to Blocksville. I was saved from a  lengthy debate about his unpalatable political position, by his enquiry about, well, the palatability of my c**t.

I have seen the far-right and, for all my attempts to be tolerant, “this person” was all kinds of wrong.


Red flags: Has clearly been dumped in past and is still bitter about it. Lives too far away. Lives with his Mum. Is about a hair away from Nigel Farage. Sent me photo of his feet.

What I learnt: There is no point trying to make something out of nothing. I shouldn’t wait for a good enough reason to end things if I’m not interested. I need someone who doesn’t need to constantly explain why their views are not technically racist, homophoboic, sexist or Islamophobic.

Epilogue: A few weeks later, Mr HYC contacted me to say he missed talking to me. The feeling was not mutual. Over further weeks, he tried to engage me, sending me strange adoring notes and Republican-nutjob videos about why all socialists are completely stupid. I would get messages demanding that I discuss Venezuela with him, as proof that my values are idiotic. Eventually he got drunk and spent an evening telling me I was a  really horrible person. Blocked on all platforms. FML.

Issue that ended it: There is no right answer to “How’s Your C**t?”