MY Maxim ‘Little Black Book’ Adventure

“Well, what the fuck, it’s worth a laugh” I thought, as I browsed through looking for one that took my fancy. Who was I kidding? I wouldn’t have kicked any of them out of bed for farting. After a quick 10 minutes, I decided on the blonde, leggy lovely ‘Kate W’ from Newcastle. Mainly because I was working there at the time, therefore wouldn’t have to make much effort to turn up. So, off went my picture via e-mail with a bit of a blurb (bending the truth wherever possible), assuming that would be the last I’d hear of that.

So…four months on, and arriving back from my lunch to check out what crap was in my inbox, I was astonished to find an e-mail from Maxim stating that Miss Kate had actually chosen me to be her date! If there was ever a pant-jizzing moment then this was it, and after telling everyone on my phone that could possibly be jealous, I actually read the e-mail. In order for me to meet this specimen of perfection, I had to go down to London for the inaugural Little Black Book bash at ‘superclub’ Pacha. It actually got better as the official invite promised ‘free bar’, ‘models’ and ‘celebs galore’!

The day soon approached and once I had fussed over what I was actually going to wear, I was soon shitting the proverbial brick, and by lunchtime was already in the pub just so my chat ‘could be more lubricated’ (lame, I know). Now, I wouldn’t say I’m not confident with the ladies, but when I’m not in my own backyard and I’m with a girl who I’ve never set eyes on and would probably be classed as out of my league, it’s a totally different ball game.

A few vodka and Red Bulls later, I found myself outside the club and feeling ridiculously sober. It’s funny how, had I drunk the same amount on a typical Saturday night, I would be buzzing around and even finding my mates’ worst jokes funny.

The fun and games began after I received a sticker with my name on it, by this point I was truly starting to feel like a contestant on some naff quiz show, being led into the unknown. There was no turning back now, as I’d been sent to find myself a drink, and my date. I expected to find a cosy little booth or private table where I could work my magic, but instead I’m hoisted straight into the meat market to hunt my prey and hopefully go for the kill, (or at least get back to her hotel room). It was here I encountered my first problem: my shocking eyesight. All of a sudden I had no clue what my date looked like anymore and they all looked so different with their clothes on. So, I ambled round, trying to read girls’ names off their chests whilst being shot looks that insinuated ‘pervert’. Finally I was rescued from my bewilderment by one of the Maxim hosts, who informed me that she was in fact here standing over by the bar. To be fair, my excuse for not recognising her was more than reasonable, as the daft cow had died her hair brown.

It was now or never… I indulged in the pleasantries, gave her a peck on the cheek and commented on how great she looked. In fact she did look fantastic, but nothing like those come to bed pictures that had adorned my mind for the past week. The next 20 minutes or so was a bit of a blur, as my usual repertoire of chit-chat, cracking jokes and looking for some common ground were met with minimal and closed responses. I definitely wasn’t doing anything wrong (I don’t think!), but she seemed thoroughly disinterested, so it was entirely appropriate that one of the final things I asked her was, “Why did you choose me?” I couldn’t resist asking if I was the only one that had chosen her, such was my feeling of amusement at that moment in time. The response slammed the final nail in my coffin, when she informed me that I “sounded nice, and that a lot of the other ones were weird.” Story of my life really, discovering I’m the best of a bad bunch, and proves the point that nice guys don’t really win. Game over.

At this point we simultaneously looked for the friend we’d arrived with, I said I’d be back in ten, but there was no chance. I was seriously miffed at her lack of effort to make a conversation, so my mate and I decided to introduce ourselves to the best thing at the event, the free bar. A few cheeky drinks later, we thought it would be rude not to check out the talent, and if ever the phrase ‘like a kid in a sweet shop’ was ever applicable to my life then this was it. A wall-to-wall utopia of blondes, brunettes and red heads…long hair, short hair… or big chested and more often than not both J

The next task was to get acquainted with these honeys, and with the option of buying them a drink out of the window we had to adopt plan B. Having been given a key to wear around our necks that matched one of the ladies present, we set off to find those wearing a padlock around their bling adorned necks. It was all a bit club 18-30s, but the opportunity for some free champagne and the chance to get acquainted with the sort of ladies that you won’t see down your local knocking shop, was always going to be too hard to resist. Padlock after padlock after padlock and no joy; the women weren’t much cop either and it was becoming apparent the night was just one massive publicity stunt. If I wanted to pull, all I needed was a big camera and a t-shirt with ‘Maxim’ on it, because at the sight of this the girls seemed do anything, and usually with each other…Boring.

So enough of the mock lesbians, we thought we’d find something a bit classier in the VIP area where we were told Abi Titmuss and Jordan would be making appearances, but the only problem was getting past the meatheads on the door. Without the advantage of long hair or breasts, the doormen were having none of it. Having found a quieter entrance to the lounge I discovered that being polite and nice went in my favour for once. After I bitched that I’d never met anyone famous ‘cause I’m from Carlisle’ we were quickly ushered in.

After a quick scout around I came to two conclusions, either: a) I’m shit at recognising famous people or b) There aren’t any famous people here. A check with my mate confirms the latter and all my sweet-talking appears to have been a waste of time, until I stumble across a nice looking lady who I somehow recognise as an actress from Sky One’s ‘Dream Team’. At this point the excited little kid in me comes out and she gets possibly the biggest cuddle she has ever had in her life. After talking to her for a couple of minutes, her fears are confirmed: I am a drunken Northern weirdo and, despite her promise that she’d come back, I never saw her again. She must have had to go home or something…

Unbelievably, at that point it was only half eleven, so for a laugh we thought if we couldn’t beat ‘em, we had to join ‘em. So, say hello to Michael - talent spotter and record producer for Virgin Records. Not overly original but hey, it had its success and we definitely got a lot more craic out of these increasingly fickle and shallow beings. If only I’d had the heart to have taken the story all the way, then I might have been waking up next to a tanned goddess, as opposed to the smell of my own vomit at 5:00am.

My last, and probably the most fruitful encounter, was with a young lady called Emma. She had nothing to do with Maxim, worked in TV production and was just here with her friend. How I managed to talk to her for half an hour I’ve no idea, as I’m still convinced the only words I was able to mutter by this time were ‘vodka’, ‘Red Bull’ and at a push possibly ‘slag.’ At the end of the night (it’s all getting hazy now) she gave me her business card, and we said our farewells before I firmly pushed the auto-pilot button and headed for the train home.

It wasn’t until late the next morning that I recalled taking that business card, and the grin that appeared on my face at the sight of it must have been a picture. My friend Emma is Head of Production for a satellite porn channel, so hopefully (to be continued)…

Words: Michael Hall