torso of beefcake man

But can you spell?

Dating laws of attraction are a tricky conundrum to fathom. For some people potential mates are ten a penny, falling into their lap/phone book/intimate orifices every time they venture out for a casual Friday evening beverage. I envy these people. Not the myriad of exotic diseases a succession of casual bonking partners can result in, but the sheer volume of potentially exciting dates that exist for them. As someone who feels lucky to find one butterfly inducing specimen in a three year time frame, my dating hand out cards should  read ‘I’m probably not that into you’.

If I ever wish to avoid the vortex of socially awkward ‘all my friends are married with babies and think I’m a leper’ dinner parties, I should probably try to expand my options.

So what ingredients does one require for a relationship?


I like to think I’m not a hopelessly shallow human. But let’s face it, if a guy looks like he’s consumed Dumbo’s mum for Sunday lunch, the sexual attraction will be limited. (As will his ability to chuck me around a pair of Indian cotton bed sheets with grace and ease. Wheezing, excessive sweating and shouting ‘Christ! I think I’m having an aneurism” kills all bonakabilty vibes.)

The looks ‘type’, which so many people ardently stick to, has always struck me as a fairly pointless exercise. I do enjoy a nice pair of arms and the kind of eyes that reduce you to something resembling that sad little pile of leftover cabbage your mum insists on keeping in the fridge, but other than that I’m negotiable. Bald men can be somewhat alluring, a slightly doughy paunch can be cute and I’m pretty au fait with any variations on natural body hair. Though a Chewbacca-esque appearance may take a little getting used to, it’s infinitely preferable to a man who shaves his chest like a genitalia bereft Ken doll. (Although I do draw a line at excessively hairy backs. If I have to take hot wax to my foo on a monthly basis, you can sort that shiz out.)


Previously I have expressed my desire for a funny man. As humour’s such a subjective quality I’d like to throw ‘silly’ into the mix. Of late I’ve met an awful lot of men who take their little selves just a bit too seriously. *puts on gruff sensible man voice* “No Lizzie. It’s not normal for a 28 year old woman to go into the back of every wardrobe looking for Narnia. Or dress up as a ghost when you change the sheets. Or own a fluffy cow puppet called Barnibus”. A man punching out some politically and culturally astute witticisms is fabulous. But if you can’t embrace the ridiculous with some elephant dancing once in a while, what hope is there for humanity?

Kind and patient

Nobody wants to date a man as tight as Courtney Stodden’s dress collection. If you’re the kind of guy that takes half a bottle of wine home from a party and never offers to buy a beggar a cup of tea ‘because it’s probably his own doing anyway’ (said in very best super snotty Tory toff voice), you’re unlikely to make my list of ‘super sexy men that I really want to go out dancing with all night’.   Given my penchant for kitchen disasters, mildly neurotic demeanor and spectacular ability to accidentally drive to a neighboring country on the way to the shops, patience is less of a requirement and more of a necessity. Oh, and future boyfriends will also be required to find pictures of cute kittens on the internet to show me when I’m sad.


Call me an academic snob but a man who can use an apostrophe will do more for my pulse rate than any of the honed and toned athletes at this year’s Olympics. (Except maybe the dudes on the pommel horse.) A spark of ambition and the ability to hold a stimulating conversation are pretty high on the list of ‘future Mr Baggage Girl’ credentials.


I hate sport of all descriptions. My high school PE report read “Elizabeth’s progression in this subject is hindered by her unwillingness to move.” But despite my feelings towards intentional exertion and ball games, there’s something ruggedly sexy about a man shouting angry stuff about referees and offside rules. Plus my dad might never forgive me if I didn’t bring home a boyfriend he could dissect the football results with.


The trickiest of all to find, chemistry is non-negotiable. Rare as a well-balanced and intelligently thought out comment on the Daily Mail website, I’ve only found that spark with a handful of men in the last decade.


Failing all of the above, he should be a non-weirdo who does not spend Saturday mornings compiling inane lists of qualities their ideal future partner should have.  Oh, and a driving license in a bonus.