Man Fail.

Last week was a bit mental wasn’t it? Between realising I had £2,000 of debt to pay, a meeting with the ex boyfriend and well, quite frankly the pissing rain that has blighted every inch of the UK this week, I was pretty much done for. Head all over the place, mind whirring at lightspeed over career options, a re-broken heart and general life worries, I was in need of a boozy weekend with friends, and perhaps a sprinkling of male interest. You know, just to keep the cogs ticking over.

Unfortunately, the friends I went out with on Friday night had other ideas. Don’t get me wrong, we had men. We had men coming out of our ears (not literally); the blighters were everywhere. Gorgeous, strapping boys every which way you looked…but that’s because we were in Soho, Old Compton Street to be precise. Great, I thought, as my friends grabbed a flyer off the gay Scouser from this year’s Shipwrecked (who said that TV wasn’t a springboard for bigger and better things) and weighed up G.A.Y or a bar that appeared to have half naked men wiggling in the windows. In the event, we went to neither. No, no, because there was another brainwave. Instead, nine of us skipped down the stairs of a scary, dark underground bar called Garlic and Shots. Can you see where I’m going next? That’s right kids, they took me to Gay Town and fed me garlic. Brilliant. I woke up in an unfamiliar bed with a sour taste in my mouth, thanks to nothing more than rancid shot and an aversion to expensive taxis. Wah.

Now Saturday, Saturday was a bit more like it. To Camden we went, where after seeing a few bands we trotted to the pub next door. I was on route to the toilet when a hand tapped me on the shoulder, at which I turned round to see an incredibly good looking bloke smiling at me, saying those words every girl wants to hear. “Sorry, this is going to sound really random…but I saw you earlier next door and I really recognise you from somewhere, and I don’t know where”. Oh dear god, this man is hot. “Where did you go to uni?” I told him, and the penny dropped. “Me too! I went there, I left in 2006! You must have been in my year”. At this point my friend, playing Wing Woman, discreetly nipped off leaving me with HRH Hotty. Who had been in one of the bands earlier. Who was a drummer with arms of steel and, most importantly, beautiful teeth.

As we grinned manically at each other, chatting away and saying how weird it all was, he got his phone out saying we should keep in touch and took my number and told me to look him up on facebook to see if we knew the same people. A kiss on the cheek later and I caught up with my friend. “He was HOT." she conceded. "That simply doesn’t happen. Ever”. Our night continued at a friend’s flat, where verdict was passed on the CD he'd given me and text messages were swapped with my new hot drummer friend until the very early hours. I went to bed a bottle of vodka later, dreaming about our future life together, imagining wonderful scenes of drumming and marital bliss. Ahhh. Young love.

Sunday I added him on Facebook. “Ello – you found me then ;)” came the response.

Then I checked the photos. Ahh, even better than I remembered. What a beautiful man he is.

Back to the profile. The left hand side. Information. Date of birth. And…oh. Relationship status.

Well, at least he's not gay.

His girlfriend is a lucky, lucky girl.