The Great Fucking…

…Gatsby.

Back in the proverbial day, someone got in touch with me online. Dating sites again, innit. Fffsss. Don’t worry, I’ve learnt from it. Anyway, part of his charm offensive involved bleating repeatedly about F. Scott Fitzgerald, and listing every band he liked, alphabetically. He included Limp Bizkit and Nickelback, thus you may begin to see why I was not impressed.

He was also a persistent, braying little fuck, frequently demanding that we meet. Frankly, I didn’t see the point. I thought little of it until I received a message via my dormant profile on a social networking site. To this day I have no idea how he found me there, since I used a spectacularly retarded public pseudonym and black and white photo from about seven years ago, but find me he did. Please find below selected highlights from his myspace missive.

How you doing?
I kind of feel like I’ve broken into your house with the sole purpose of getting caught. Fun eh?!
So ho hum – Who am I? How did I get here?

I recognised you from your picture – it’s true, you’re actually quite pretty when you smile. I’m fatally curious and just couldn’t resist – I have to say, it’s a shame this wasn’t your dating profile, we’d have probably ‘clicked’ earlier. I’d apologise for this minor incursion, but I wouldn’t want you to think I was wet faced. Clearly you just don’t know what it’s like, being male, middle class and white. Although obviously it’s getting hard to be a woman too. I’ve got the number for The Samaritans, if you need.

It’s time we met – The National Portrait Gallery is open until 9pm on Wednesdays. You’ll find me sitting by the fountain opposite the steps at 6.30pm.  If you’re lucky, I might even let you buy me a drink, I’m a big fan of expensive cocktails. Short of that, I understand you make a good cup of tea – rimming is totally optional.

Don’t be a stranger now.
Gatz x

So. So so so. Yes, I’ve mentioned the ‘cocktails and rimming’ part before. WHATTACUNT. Damning by faint praise? Check. Offering me the phone number for the Samaritans? Check. Being a prick of monstrous proportions? CHECK. Poor white, middle class man. Poor, poor thing.

We didn’t click. I wanted to reply, screaming WE HAVE NOT CLICKED and we will NEVER CLICK. Why would I want to meet someone who likens his internet stalking to house breaking? It’s  not the most encouraging thing I’ve ever read. Also, why would I want to meet someone who made his offensive incursion under the moniker of a character from a book? Way to hide behind a façade of fuckery. Way to go.

Yes. My dating profile did not reveal my name. That’s how the online World revolves, for safety’s sake. No, my social networking did not state my name. That’s because the only people who knew about it were friends, and they all know what I’m called. In addition, I did not use said profile to hunt down strangers and anonymously insult them. So really, you’re wrong if you think he and I were in any way alike. WRONG. And if you think what I’m doing here is shit beyond belief, well, at least I’m not too scared to put a face to my name, and vice versa. If I’m going to write these things I may as well admit to having written them.

Anyway.  I didn’t entirely understand his fixation on that book and with that character. I read it the other day, to see what the fuss was about. I can see no particular reason for fuss. [That's an opinion, mind. Perhaps you love it, you dullard. You're welcome to.] Maybe it was a case of claiming something as your favourite in order to try and appear erudite. Maybe I’ll start writing anonymous hate-missives and signing them ‘Nabokov’. Or maybe that’d make me even more of a cunt.