Firstly, let me just explain this random entry of mine.

In my Creative Writing Class, we were required to create a character and use this character to write a monologue... in reply to another person's character's 'Lonely Hearts' Advertisement - set after they had a date with each other.

So, being totally crack and obsessive, I decided to cheat and use Arthur Kirkland. The following ensued.

Brief mentions of America, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, France... some random woman I decided to name 'Jessica'... also a sort of hint towards India and England's supposed past relationship with her.

- One thing I need to note; the other person's character was a 'lonely heart' because her Irish boyfriend broke up with her xD.

This was seriously fun to write...

Anyway, without further ado... here's some random crack.

I would like to immediately state that this whole thing was not my bloody idea. I've got brothers, you see. Three of them – and each and every one of them is a downright twat. I don't know which one it was, but I am very certain that I am going to hit them very hard over the head with a frying pan. Or maybe the wrong end of a hammer. That would be nice; give them all a little bit of brain damage. Then again – I don't think any of the bloody idiots would act any different. They're all either drunk off their rockers or just insane. What do you expect? One lives in Scotland, and another lives in Ireland – they're always drunk. They all need to be shoved in a padded cell. Maybe then they would stop bothering me and leave me to get on with my oh-so wonderful life. Ha, I wish.

So when I got a call from some woman down the phone talking to me about some un-bloody-dignified Lonely hearts advert, and how they would like to meet me… I was, obviously, pretty bloody unimpressed. First off – who the hell posts an advertisement stating that you're a lonely twat without a life, and you need some help to get yourself a companion – because, let's face it, no one bloody cares about you or your freaking life? What kind of idiot does this sort of thing?

And then when I complain to her about how she must have been mistaken and gotten the wrong number (I get a lot of these, mainly from the chavs down the road… seems that everyone likes to accidentally press number five. Idiots; do they all have fat fingers or something? Probably bloody Americans. I wouldn't be surprised. Silly Americans, thinking they're better than the Brits.... and yes, I do have a problem with them. Idiots, the lot of them)… and then guess what she said! Go on, guess!

'This is Arthur Kirkland, isn't it?' – More or less an exact quote, except sounding more Indian or something. Something accented.

Well I'll be damned. I think I had a heart attack.

After shouting at my brothers, I determined that one of the twats had posted a Lonely Hearts advert for me, and replied to one of the entries in the local tabloid. Oh joy. My heart leaps with absolute happiness. Really.

So Seamus had the bloody nerve to say "Well 'Artsy' (pathetic nickname. I know. Don't worry, I glare at him every time the git says it)… you've been pining like an upset puppy over Jessica for years. It's about time you moved on, you know?"

…I hate him. I want to beat him over the head with a hammer. The rest get the frying pan. Yes, that'll do. Instead, however (considering that I lost the key to my tool shed. The poor git was saved for now by the inconvenience of my magical ability to misplace everything), I just sat there. Glaring. Because I was called 'Artsy' again. Drinking my bloody tea. Mmm. Yes. Tea. I love tea. She's my only bloody love. The only one local enough to me. Apart from the time that the teabag split and spilled all over the floor. I don't think I managed to grab all of the grains… nothing goes right for me, does it? Oh cruel bloody fate. How I loathe you.

Who's Jessica?

Jessica would be the reason why I don't like bloody Americans. Because my lovely Jessica, girlfriend for four years, decided that Oh! That American git down the road has more money and thicker abs than her dear beloved boyfriend Arthur. Ran off back to the U.S of f*cking A together.

Excuse my French. I hate them too. It's a British thing.

'It's not you, it's me.' – Well yes. You were the one who decided I wasn't good enough. What, is it my accent? I thought women were supposed to swoon over Londoners accents? Pff. Not that the American had a nice accent either. It was all 'Ya'll' and 'yanno' and whatever.

Wanker.

Once again, excuse my French. Slip of the tongue.

So anyway…

Heaven knows what the hell possessed me to go along with it. I think… maybe… Seamus was right. Please don't dare tell him. I don't want to give the moron the satisfaction. Fine. I was lonely. I'm a lonely bloody heart. The advert was right. I am a, quote, 'lonely twat without a life'. So I took her up on the offer.

…You know…

I-It wasn't actually that bad. I was a little self-conscious, I'll admit. It's been so long since I went out of the house for something that wasn't:

#1. Work

#2. Collecting Seamus and Frankie from the Pub after they've been sick for the eighth time that night.

#3. Collecting Seamus and Frankie from the Police Station.

Or #4. Going to the pub with Seamus and Frankie.

So anyway; of course, I broke out the suit. That was a pathetic decision, wasn't it? I probably seemed desperate. Then again, aren't all of us lonely morons? It probably set out the correct message, to be frank. And hell; it wasn't as if I was concentrating on this going well. I was just going to stop Seamus from being right – because I can't stand that. I really don't like it when my brothers are right. It's just wrong. …Like having no marmite on your morning toast. Wrong, I say!

It was a Ralph Lauren one. Grey and ever so slightly pinstriped if you looked closely – although not that I'd let someone get close enough to see said pinstripe. I'm a very private person with need for lots of personal space. Ah. That's probably another reason why Jessica left me for this boisterous twat. He was only nineteen… probably still doing 'cool' things like surfing or skydiving or whatever. She probably wanted someone who didn't enjoy the solitude of comfortable silence, nor the absolute wonder that is tea.

I hope they enjoy their silly surfing trips together. And I hope they like their little skydiving tours.

I hope the parachutes break.

Splat.

...I'm not sadistic. No. I just love the delicious thrills of karma. If only karma would bloody listen. Oh well.

Anyway!

The dinner was at a little restaurant at the corner of town. I deliberately didn't pick a place too near to my home… just in case she ended up as one of those creepy stalkers who follow you home screaming for you to give them your babies. Seriously, they exist. Frankie told me once.

So there I was, trying to look like I was minding my own business with an innocent pint of Guinness in my hand and fingers nervously rapping the bar desk (and not being a freak waiting for some woman I don't know to turn up. Not that I expected her to turn up. I half thought she would look at me from the doorway and straight away run off a few hundred miles. Not that I'm not good looking or anything… I'm pretty reasonable, if I don't say so myself. Thin-ish, blond… though I do have kind of thick eyebrows. …I'd trim, but that's really unmanly – isn't it? It's already proven impossible for me to gain muscles, no matter how hard I try. Another reason why Mr. Big Shot American was better than me. This was why I was drinking Guinness at five o'clock at night)… and then she appeared. Tapped me on the shoulder and gave me a light smile.

Because I was so against the subject; I hadn't checked out her own lonely hearts advert. All I knew was that I had a date with a woman called 'Anisha Solanki'. What was that name supposed to be anyway? Spanish? Italian maybe? Heck. I didn't have a clue. I haven't exactly travelled the world. I think the furthest I've ever been from my London home is the bottom of Ireland. Oh no… France. And that's where I developed a hatred for the French too. I'm such an adventurer, me. Really.

Actually, to be honest, I'd love to travel the world. The whole wide world. Every where apart from America. Because knowing my luck; the bloody American git would have magically become President and my Jessica became a superhero like Batman in Gotham City. Joy.

But regardless. I was pretty shocked when I saw that she was Indian.

…This is kind of embarrassing… but I really like Indian women…

I-It's just something I like, okay? Don't judge me.

So what happened then? It was pretty much a blur, really. It seemed to go really fast. I remember having a conversation about my brothers, and how much I think they were pathetic twats. Not that I said 'pathetic twats'… I was trying rather desperately to mind my manners. All pleases, thanks, pushing the chair underneath her when she sat, offering her the first taste of the wine (I would have preferred to keep my Guinness, but like a genius, I left it over by the bar when we went to eat). I swear a lot, practically screaming bloody murder… but I'm still a gentleman. Does that even make any sense?

She seemed to get pretty interested when I said that Seamus lived in Dublin. …I think she might have a thing for Irish guys. Which is just bloody lovely – because it means that my dear ol'Brother would probably get along with her absolutely brilliantly while I hang around on the sidelines. Again. I'm always second best.

The meal was lovely. She was lovely. Everything was all jolly lovely. Everything went well. Lies. I was panicking the whole time. I'm a nervous person, I have to admit. I was minding my manners, wearing a bloody uncomfortable suit that cost far more than it was worth, and smiling like a stupid idiot to try show I was interested in everything she was saying. I wanted to get along with her – okay? Is that such a crime?

I don't want to be second best. You know?

Of course, that thought was probably what made me get so nervous. Nothing ever decides to go right for me. But I digress.

At the end of the night… she said something to me. Something pretty curious, and here it is: 'You remind me of someone'. What is that supposed to mean? Is it good, or bad? How so? What – does she think I remind her of a boring history teacher at school in her youth, or a handsome British Gentleman that you end up getting in Jane Austen novels, like Mr. Darcy? Er. I don't read Jane Austen…! N-No! I just know the character! Yes, that's it.

…Jessica, wherever you are, you're right. I am bloody unmanly, aren't I? I read sappy novels that only women should enjoy, and have no muscles whatsoever. …I also like embroidery. Oh bloody hell. No wonder she left me and I'm a desperate forlorn git at the age of 23.

You'd think that women might like this sort of thing? I'm sensitive. Yes, that's it. I'm a sensitive man, who likes Guinness and has morons for Brothers, works as a Financial di-bloody-rector for a freaking shoe company (…what a lovely fun job I have…), swears a lot, and still claims to be Christian. Somehow.

Regardless…

Here I am. Waiting for the call back.

Will there be a call back?

No. What am I thinking? Of course not. I'm Arthur Freaking-Kirkland, for Christ's sake! I'm always bloody second best.

…I wish…

Oh feck it…

I wish that I had a chance…

…Just ring… please…?