Rocking Horse Shit. A £12 note. Decent politicians. Religious extremists who are quite content to do their own thing whilst letting everyone else get on with theirs. Jim Davidson being funny.
And me going on a second date.
One date was miracle enough in itself yet, in the two months since I'd last seen Janice*, we eventually hooked up to rekindle the passion.
The largely indifferent passion.
Twinged with frissons of 'What was the point of this again?'
(* Obviously, Janice isn't her real name. I mean, Janice. How many people do you know called Janice? I don't know any. Please don't write in to say that you know at least two because try as I might, I really don't care.
Oh, and no 'Friends' references, please.)
Now don't get me wrong. We had a nice time. At least I did. It was fun. After our meals, we stayed put for coffee. We even lingered for a fair while until the staff asked us to leave so they could prepare the table for the people waiting by the door.
So that's a good sign, isn't it?
But that good old chemistry, it just wasn't there. And I get really narked when that chemistry ain't there, because I'm pretty sure I would've got on well with Hitler.
And then shot him.
Janice was quite chatty all evening, and my initial nerves from Date 1 weren't there tonight, so I began contemplating if I would like to have sex with her.
She is very pretty and seemed quite keen, provided you overlook her occasional lapses staring into the middle distance, seeming vaguely bored now and again. She was also a face-puller, grimacing frequently during emotive moments in her storytelling, leaving an indelible image of her pulsating neckveins scolded into my retinas a good half an hour after she'd stopped gurning.
Yet pushing that image into the furthest recesses of my Ignorevault, I noted her delicate, fine hair, her glistening lips, her smooth porcelain skin and, moreover, her tiny, tiny hands. I had never before been so excited by a lady's hands before, mainly because at that diminutive scale, my cock would look positively gargantuan if she were ever to - in her abject desperation - grasp it. In fact, I'm fairly certain that she could hold Fweng Jr with both hands and his little hat would still be visible.
Being with Janice also made me realise to my shame that I have lost my roots. Not religiously, of course; I had a ham sandwich for lunch. (Plus I don't believe in God.) I am merely referring to the fact that I am as far removed from the Jewish stereotype as can possibly be envisaged.
I am red-headed.
The clipped accent of my public school youth has been obliterated by the Cor-blimey ravages of those teenage years spent in a comprehensive shithole in Barnet. Unless you count my parents and my wider family, I know no other Jews. I am the token Heeb among my circle of friends. I don't even own a car any more. I have the spending power of a mosquito. I have no gold jewellery. I don't meet co-religionists and automatically know their cousin's friend's hairdresser. I live in West London. I am muted into silence if I am thrown back into that world, like a stunned deer that has been slammed into a tree by a Honda Civic.
I am not living 'comfortably', I am in my Thirties without a pot, or my own house in Hendon, to piss in, and I probably shouldn't have said all of the above to Janice tonight as advanced personal resentment tends to alienate the opposite sex.
To nobody's surprise, this date was not meant to be. I don't think we 'got' each other. At one point, I could even swear she was trying to ruffle my feathers by being contrary, discussing controversial subjects and taking an unshakably Genghis Khan stance to my liberal, devil-may-care attitude, to such an extent that I had to ask her if she was deliberately trying to wind me up.
'Yes', she replied without explanation.
'Fine by me', was my retort, comfortable in the knowledge that that would probably wind her up.
Janice drove me to the tube. I kissed her on the cheek and found myself saying, 'I'll call you', or 'I'll be in touch', before realising that I probably wouldn't. But in saying that, her unenthusiastic response told me all I needed to know. I shut the door and, after a suitable pause, she took off in her car at speed.
If sexual rejection has a sound, it is frantically screeching tyres.