TOXIC BACHELOR

STUART HOOD EXPLAINS WHY HONESTY IS NEVER THE BEST POLICY WHEN IT COMES TO ENDING A RELATIONSHIP

OK, here goes…

"I'm not over my ex…" Nah, I can't lie.

"I fancy someone else…" Bad idea. She really doesn't need to know that.

Got it! "I've been thinking and…"

Jess and I had run our course. The only problem was the eternal one. How to break the news? I've dumped, and been dumped, many times. Yet through every tear and tantrum, the only thing I've learnt is that you can't recycle rejection.

Each time you engage in the act of the elbow, you have to find an individually applicable (but not character-assassinating) way to say: "Dig out your mismatched/holey (delete to make gender applicable) underwear, no need to wax/work out for a while…"

"Be honest," advised my flatmate Fiona.

Good counsel. On paper. But in the heat of ‘bye-bye', never the best policy. People don't want to hear the truth. No one wants to know they're dull, embarrassing or terrible in bed. Hence the blow needs to be softened, if delivered at all.

And no, I'm not advocating chickening out. I'm just suggesting you don't make an unnecessary drama out of a non-existent crisis. If you're merely seeing someone, don't hurt for the sake of hurting. Let it fizzle out – missed calls, non-committal texts, etc…

But if you even half-think you're in a relationship, you have to dump. And you have to do it face to face (text equals pond life; phone, barely a skip up the food chain).

You don't, however, have to drag it out. Say what you need to say, then leave. Give them space. Head home and wait for the reaction. And by reaction, I mean: option A – drunken 3am street sob; option B – abusive text; option C – face-saving misinterpretation.

Jess picked C. "I'm glad you agree," she revealed, twisting the conversation ever so slightly (say, 360°). "I do deserve better."

I know. Pretty calm, all-in-all. So what on earth did I say?

"It's not you, it's me," of course. When dumping, nothing beats a self-blaming cliché.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

My ex and I finished two months ago, but he keeps texting me. He says he still loves me and we're meant to be together, but that his head is in a mess at the moment. What should I do?

Two words – move on. Men often buy time/sympathy by playing the ‘head jumbled' trick, and gullible women fall for it. You take what we say at face value and wait forever. Don't fall into this trap. Go out, have a good time and find yourself another man (or several).

Give him something to think about. Believe me, his thinking will suddenly become crystal clear.

TOXIC BACHELOR

STUART HOOD PULLS INTO THE LAST SERVICE STATION BEFORE BOYFRIENDVILLE…

Thursday. 12.47am. Hannah was drunk. And horny, if her text message was anything to go by: "Wha?T uP 2! Missed yu soo much. Fancxy meetIn UP? x". Less than 12 hours later, she's hungover and ashamed. "Sorry. Just looked at sent messages. Really embarrassed."

Before I go on, I'd like to admit, in this case, I'm not holier than thou. I've sent incomprehensible emails at ridiculous hours (damn you, Blackberry), and texted exes when intoxicated. I've drunk-dialled. You've drunk-dialled. We all have. It's an almost inevitable occurrence when drunkenness, desperation and technology collide.

But it isn't right. Or excusable.

No bones about it, drunk-dialling is weak, stupid and immature and eventually it's going to cost you, if it hasn't already, so you must control it. Sadly, the solution involves a semblance of self-control. Want in? Read on.

Married? Lucky you. For you, anything goes – as long as it's your partner you're calling, of course. Ditto if you're coupled up.

However, if you're single, drunk-dialling is never acceptable, but you're the biggest offenders and you're not going to listen. So before you next commit textual suicide, do yourself a favour: ask yourself what you're realistically hoping to achieve. Will you regret sending it in the morning? How would you feel if you were the sober recipient?

You came up with three words, didn't you? Sex, yes and power. You're texting because you want sex, and yes, you will regret it, because you're giving the recipient power.

Hence we come to the one and only solution. Delete, erase, lose, destroy. Remove every single one of your exes' numbers from your phone. With them go memories, but at least you'll be rid of temptation.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I'm seeing a guy and it's not serious, but I'd like it to be. Whenever I bring up the subject, he looks like he could run for the hills, but when he thinks he's going to lose me, he's all over me like a rash. What's going on?

Duh! Like most men he just wants to have it all. Someone who's always around to look after him and provide regular sex, and the freedom to play the field. That's the only explanation for his schizophrenic exterior. Want things to change? Put your foot down and force him to commit either way.

TOXIC BACHELOR

STUART HOOD PULLS INTO THE LAST SERVICE STATION BEFORE BOYFRIENDVILLE…

Leanne was shouting. Given that she hails from a family of south London market traders, this was bad news for everyone in her postcode and cataclysmic for my eardrum. It was all my fault. For no obvious reason, I'd become weird, aloof. I'd gone cold on her.

"Is it something I've said?" she screamed.

"No."

"Something I've done?"

"No."

"Aaaarrrrggghhh! Just tell me what you want me to do."

"Nothing," I replied. And I didn't. Because she couldn't – I'd been struck down by Three Month Syndrome (TMS), and there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

TMS is an untreatable malaise that affects commitment-phobic men after a courting period of roughly 13 weeks. The point where "Danger – serious risk of relationship!" signs force us off the dating motorway and into the last service station before Boyfriendville. A place where we sit for up to two weeks, procrastinating over our next move.

Do we take the single carriageway (or low road) – dumping you before things get serious? Or the dual carriageway (high road) in the hope you might be The One?

For us, it's a time of contemplation and consideration. For you, it's a time of incomprehensible irritation. But – and here's the very important part – no matter how insular we become, no matter how much we deserve it (and we do deserve it), do not, repeat do not, bust our balls. There's only one cure for TMS and it's space. Not jip, not extra attention, not even oral sex (although feel free to try) – just space.

We need space to persuade our bad angel the grass isn't greener on the single side and, for once, the easy option isn't the best route. Allow us this and there's more than a 50 per cent chance we'll pick you up on the high road. Get in our face and we're locking the passenger door, screeching back down the low road, and you won't see us for dust.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

There's a guy at work I really like, but when I try to talk to him, he mutters at me and won't make eye contact. Is he shy or not interested?

Look at how he behaves with everyone else. If he's the life and soul with Donna from Accounts but blanks you, he hasn't noticed you. If he's able to converse with all and sundry bar you, he's both shy and interested. If he's shy with everyone, a few "team" drinks are the solution. Get him to a bar, force some bravery juice into him, and you'll have your answer.

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.

The greatest trick man ever pulled was convincing women he didn't like how Sex and the City had changed them.

Blissfully recalling the show's impact on their lives, my female friends spout expressions such as "liberation", "empowerment" and "awakening", celebrating the sassy quartet's pivotal role in female emancipation.

Pivotal? More like prohibitive.

Let's look at the characters.

Carrie proved that no matter how successful a woman is, finding and pleasing a man is still the biggest thing in her life (and if she thinks he's The One, he can treat her as badly as he likes and she'll still go back for more).

Charlotte showed that even the demurest female will play dirty to secure a man's affection. By marrying Steve, Miranda informed geeks they could punch above their weight when women get desperate.

And Samantha?

Well, she created a bedroom monster. A generation of ‘trysexual' (try anything once) females who lived solely to express their desire for it. F*** buddies became justified; orgasms celebrated; adult toys explored; new positions tried. Sex wasn't just about love – it was a means to a screaming end. It was just the way men like it.

And that wasn't the only change for the better.

My girlfriend 'rebelliously' shopped 'til she dropped – great, she dressed and looked better. She 'defiantly' guzzled cocktails with the girls – great, she stopped insisting we do everything together. She 'boldly' booked the sofa on Wednesday evenings to watch her favourite show – great, I met the lads down the local. She got mad, I got her a SATC box set. She got really mad, and one pair of Manolo Blahniks solved all my problems.

I became an understanding boyfriend with a good-looking, less clingy, more sexually open girlfriend. I was in (and in control of) the best relationship of my life. And it was all due to a TV series I claimed to abhor. So, trust me, we men can't wait for the film. Not for the content, obviously. For the side effects. For men, they're going to be… fabulous.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I fancy one of my friends. His mates say he's liked me for ages and they're urging me to make the first move, but I'm scared of being rejected and losing our friendship. What should I do?

When it comes to friends and love, mates never mess around. So be brave and ask him out. If you're really struggling, create a situation where you're alone and tipsy (note: tipsy, not hammered), increase body contact by several per cent and wait for the lip lock. Discuss details in the morning.

TOXIC BACHELOR

WANT TO KNOW WHAT MEN REALLY THINK ABOUT LOVE, DATING AND SEX? STEP FORWARD STUART HOOD...

I have a recurring nightmare.

It involves me waking up with a fit-to-burst bladder. So far, so ordinary, until you discover I'm naked and it isn't my bed, or even my house.

I get up gingerly and creep into the hall where there are three doors. I choose the one straight ahead. It must be the toilet. Surely? It isn't. It's the kitchen, where a family are tucking into brunch. Startled, they turn, look me up and down, then point and laugh, long and hard.

At this point I really wake up – sweating, but not naked. God, no. I can't sleep nude. What if there's a fire? Or a burglar? Or…

Women can't monopolise body neurosis. You can try (and boy, do you), but men suffer too. You have saggy breasts; we have man boobs. You fixate over flat stomachs; we ask Santa for a six-pack. You curse chubby ankles; we chastise undefined calves. You epilate armpits; we shave chests (bad idea, too itchy). You cuss childbearing hips; we wonder if anyone, anywhere, will ever find a penis attractive.

We, like you, stand in front of the mirror – pouting, posing, preening, breathing in – desperately trying to convince ourselves that, when the special moment with the special person comes, we can shed our clothes without invoking horror. And we, like you, do it because it's a big deal.

When you get naked in front of someone (and I'm talking naked-naked, not fleeting, unmemorable, sneak-out-at-7am-naked) you're displaying what really lies beneath – offering up every bump, bruise, bingo wing and birthmark to be judged by someone you like and who you hope likes you.

That's nerve-wracking, awkward and daunting. But take solace, it's worse for us. Not only do we not notice your "slightly dimply thighs", we've vetted your vital statistics long before we got started. You, however, have no idea about the big (or little) secret we still have to reveal. Lights on or off? I think we both know the answer.

Dear Toxic Bachelor

I'm internet dating, but keep going on first dates then never hearing from the men again. It's upsetting — how can I stop it happening?

Does your dating profile really reflect who you are? Clue — it doesn't. Your photos hide your flaws and your words oversell your personality. All girls do this, and we gullible men buy into it. The problem is, the real you differs from our internet expectations. We feel cheated and don't get in touch again. Be honest. You won't get as much attention, but you'll get a second date.