Ireland seems to be developing an annoying pattern of producing inferior products but charging superior prices. Broadband is the most obvious example – assuming you can even get it.

Those of you unfortunate enough to be Internet dating will know exactly what I mean. The main site is a travesty of technology and users. It is slower than the M50 at rush hour and most of the functionality doesn’t work. As a result I get to enjoy the following experiences:

Doing a search on guys living in Dublin aged between 30yr and 40yr I will get a selection of 19yr from Kerry.

Similarly if you try to do a “computer match�? you get linked with guys whose last public outing was a day release programme.

When I try and barr the very attentive guy called “bigdick�? it only seems to increase the number of mails I receive from him. I don’t think a girl has ever been so unhappy to be bombarded by a Bigdick.

Assuming you are not a fully paid up member any references to numbers in your mail will cause you to be immediately barred in case you might be passing on your mobile number. (Back slap of respect to my friend who uses the following Nancy Drew code to pass on her number on emails – Apple India Hotel)

Now of course there is a significant issue of user error as well.

When I CLEARLY state that I am looking for blokes over 30 in my profile this is not an invitation for 22yr to mail and enquire if I would be interested in some casual sex. I can assure you boys if I wanted to shag a 22yr I would not need a web site to help me. Alcohol maybe, but not the Internet.

Any bloke selecting the user names Bigdick, Hotforyou, Frombehind or similar can not expect to get many reply emails.

Basic literacy is a huge advantage, not that I can write, but mails such as “ure rely nic, tal me abot yursel�? are not doing anyone any favors.

My wish list is pretty simple for the building the better man trap:

An ability to search by a range of very shallow, but necessary, criteria e.g. education, employment etc. Ideally you should be able to enter all your criteria and then it matches you. A bit like looking for a house on “Daft�?. Granted the first few searches may meet with “No Matches�? aka Brad Pitt is married and Jude is still shagging the nanny. But eventually after a bit of compromise you should get a decent selection

A lie detector / background check to confirm their height, hair, weight, location and single status. I reference the bizarre experience of Girl Dates London who tried to meet a guy she was mailing only to discovered that he lived in the south of Paris and not south London as he had stated in his profile.

A site that doesn’t take an hour to open every page. Time to change those arthritic hamsters on wheels who are powering the servers.

Now I know most of you, particularly the SM, will be horrified by my stance and think that I am even more shallow and obnoxious than you realised and it is no wonder that I am single. But until you have spent hours every week fending off the cast from Michael Jackson’s Thriller video you really can not begin to throw body parts.

One of the features of dating and growing-up is that you tend to work your way through a few break-ups on the way; some of them are relief inducingly happy while others are life alteringly bad. On reflection, I have noticed a distinct decade related break-up pattern.

Teenage - hide and seek

The romance appears to be progressing well. You have cross referenced your names and established that on the LOVES scale you rate 87% (provided you spell your name with an O). You have also perfected your signature using his surname and a variation of double barrel options. Can a heart on a chain be far away? Suddenly without warning you notice that he has not replied to your last text.

Logically you assume that something has gone wrong with the entire mobile network. You follow up with a call to his house. His mother informs you in shifty terms that he is not at home. Considering he is 14 and it is past 11pm on a school night it seems pretty unlikely. All forms of subsequent contact result in no reply. Now the most rational explanation is that he simply doesn’t want to talk to you. BUT as a woman there is no rationality in such situations. The most logical alternatives are as follows;

He has lost the power of speech
He was in a serious farming accident and has amnesia
He is dead

It is the inverse of the Sherlock Holmes theory, you exhaust all the unlikely explanations until you are left with the only remaining logical one – you have been dumped!

Twenties - provocation

I think when guys turn 21 they lose the ability to say, “I think we should break up�?. Potentially they are worried about the ramifications of these words. It might reflect badly on them or worse still cause a scene! So to circumnavigate the issue, and potentially avoid circumcision by an irate dumpee, they start to act like a complete plonker.

The guy goes out with his mates, forgets to call, is distant in your company or creates rows for no reason. After weeks of this behavior you will of course enquire if anything is wrong. He will equally respond that everything is fine. You keep asking. He starts telling you to stop nagging. You begin to worry that you are turning into your mother.

After a few more weeks things become untenable, generally when you find a condom wrapper in his pocket and a G-string under his bed: neither of which belong to you. Finally, you are forced to utter the magic words he has been waiting to hear, “I think we should break up�?.

You may get an initial lame refusal but once you repeat the offer he appears to reluctantly agree. He then hops and skips into the distance, a happy, free and single man. The added bonus is that he can still get the maximum sympathy vote because you broke up with him. A win / win solution for the boys.

Thirties - garden path

Life appears to be progressing blissfully. The career is sorted. You have your own place, which you share 3 nights a week with the love of your life. When down at the hairdressers you have been sneaking looks at wedding magazines and at work you look up baby names on the internet. You gaze pitifully on your STILL single friends, if only they could discover true happiness like you - little do you know the impending revelation.

A few nights later during some relatively mundane domestic activity, which you have probably created a rota for, you are discussing what to serve for desert at your upcoming dinner party. During the apple crumble and cheese board debate he announces that you should break up.

He proclaims that he “loves you�? but isn’t “in love�? with you any more. You carry on discussing desert options, assuming that he has lost track of the conversation or is referring to the soap opera that you force him to watch twice a week. I mean there is no way he can be breaking-up with you. Only last week he was proclaiming his undying love.

When you arrive home the next night you discover his key posted through the letter box and his spare clothes have been removed. The penny finally drops. The only soap opera he was referring to is your life.

Now this type of break up is completely incomprehensible. You can ask the “why�? question as much as you like but you will never get the answer you want. He simply doesn’t love you anymore, a switch has turned in his head, the game is over, you might get some extra time but the final score will be the same.

There maybe 50 ways to leave your lover but pretty much all of them suck.

PS - This blog has been nominated as “Post of the Week”. I am not sure what this means but it sounds good and I will take any praise I can get so thanks!!

In the words of the madness song, it must be love – love - love. After all he tells you often enough. Now and again, generally while drunk, you tell him too. Sometimes you think you almost mean it.

Girls tear themselves and sometimes the relationship apart wondering if he is really “the one�?. Guys of course never seem to have this issue; they were not raised on a steady diet of Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella and the “Big Day�? plans. Instead the boys spent their childhood much more productively, ripping the wings off flies and blowing up frogs.

As a result the guys tend to approach matters of the heart with a more pragmatic view; I like you and I like to be with you, when I stop liking you, I will stop being with you. No long agonising phone calls to their friends debating if she is the one, can she keep you in the lifestyle you want, what does the future hold, do your friends and family like her………

Guys are pretty simple, they either love you or they don’t. The male brain seems to consist of one giant on / off switch, a binary code of decisions, maybe that is why they are so good at computer programming.

A guy will rarely think he might be in love. When he knows it is not love he avoids the L word. The method for dealing with this is known as the “Han Solo�?. During Star Wars as Han goes off to meet almost certain death, Princess Lea calls out,
“I love you Han�?.

Does a macho man like Han respond “I love you too�? - of course not. Oozing testosterone Han shouts back – “I know you do�?. Princess Lea and the rest of the audience love him even more. ( Dan copied this with Becs )

Back on our planet the girls are still tipsy with almost love for the guys who do manage to say the L word. Constantly being told how great, wonderful and loved you are becomes both intoxicating and addictive. You convince yourself that it is only a question of time before you feel the same. The strength of your conviction is proportional to your age, desperation and belief that this is the last chance saloon.

The real truth is that perhaps, just maybe, loving being loved is just not the same as being in love.

My relationships with cars are probably as successful as my ones with the opposite sex. The one notable exception to the car rule was my Lotus Elise, which short of attaching my godchildren to the front and rear bumpers, I could not have driven with more love, care and attention.

My current car, on loan from my mother, is a blue Punto. Sadly it is not getting the same levels of love as the Elise. I now understand why people give their cars a name. Some vehicles do seem to have a personality. The Punto’s personality is filled with hatred – for me. I won’t tell you the name I have given the car, let’s just say it rhymes.

My first problem with the car occurred when I got done for speeding – in a Punto! I don’t think most people could achieve this if they tried. The car appeared to deliberately accelerate as it went over the white speed lines, it seemed more determined to get snapped than Jodie Marsh at an opening event.

The next problem was when driving to a ball. The car suddenly became engulfed in plumes of white smoke. I switched off the engine and went to step out. Unfortunately, I was not appropriately dressed for public view.

I had thrown on the nearest items of clothing for driving. I was wearing some suspect dungarees and hiking boots. In contrast my hair was perfectly bouffant and my make-up on the far side of dramatic. As I stepped out of he car I was like a member of Dexys Midnight Runners, emerging onto a Top of the Pops stage filled with dry ice. I thankfully resisted the urge to sing “come on you Punto, oh i swear you Punto, I’ll give you everything.� After some external assistance, for the car, not my singing, I managed to get moving again.

The third event happened when driving back from home yesterday. Shortly after passing the N4 toll, on the busy dual carriage way, I started to hear a clunking noise from the back. I pulled over and got out. I looked around the car. I kicked the tires, as this was the extent of my car expertise. Everything appeared ok, so I drove on.

The noise started with even more intensity. I pulled over once more. During this circuit of the car I noticed a cylindrical object, hanging from the under carriage like metallic afterbirth. I suspected this was not good. So, which of the following do you think I had?

Fully paid-up AA coverage.
A charged and functioning mobile phone.
An attack of tourettes that would make the must severe sufferer seem mute in comparison.

I inserted the phone battery between my ample thighs in the hope that my body heat would spark some additional life - my own portable Ard na Crusha. When I had sufficient battery power, I contacted my sister and “borrowed� her AA coverage.

An hour passed and the AA man had still not arrived. I was starting to regret my significant water consumption, which almost sent me over the hedge and into a nearby field. Finally, 2 very long, leg crossing hours later, the AA man arrived – I was saved.

The AA man emerged from his van, walked to my car, reached under and pulled out the metallic afterbirth aka the exhaust. He opened the boot of my car and placed the exhaust inside. The whole process took less than 60 seconds. Next, he turned to leave saying,

“right, you can drive home now�
“but what about my car, isn’t it broken?�
“your exhaust fell clean off, it will drive perfectly, just a bit noisy. Go to a garage and get a new exhaust fitted when you can�
“I just waited 2 hours for that!�
“I just drove from Portarlington for that, guess neither of us is having a good day.�

I got back in the Punto, spluttering with rage and humiliation, and drove back to Dublin. Despite having the radio at full blast, to drown out the sound of the exhaust, I could swear I heard the car laughing.