The Pick Up Artist - and other demons

I just had to share my views re this show - and the PUA community in general. Including the book The Game by Neil Strauss, which I initially thought had to be some sort of elaborate joke.
More about it here
www.themysterymethod.com

Good grief.

I mean, all this work and effort, and for what???? This much thought, dedication and obsessive perseverance could conceivably see its owner invent a cure for cancer, and where's it going? Slaving its little socks off trying to get a bunch of thick stoned nightclub slappers into bed. Seriously, guys - it is not that hard to get a bunch of thick stoned nightclub slappers into bed. Just chuck a fifty pound note in there. Or claim to be a close personal friend of Calum Best.

Talk about a bloody sledgehammer to crack a bloody nut.

But no. It's the subject of feverish speculation and specialist teminology, expert workshops and God only knows what. With a buttload of technical jargon to go. AMOGGing. Stylemogging. Two-sets. Bitch shields. All of which jargon-heavy lingo screams 'nerd' even louder than those kids on the school bus used to scream it at the fourteen year old yours truly.

Hey I'm over it now. Really.

I'm specifically, if morbidly, intrigued by the 'neg' or 'negative hit.' It's an apparently innocent comment designed to lower your subject's self-esteem and make her more receptive to an annoying little prick in a dodgy hat trying to stare down her dress. You're supposed to slag off her clothes or makeup or something. Or imply her friend/other girls in the club are better looking than she is. Works like a bloody charm, according to the PUA Masters (bit like Dungeon Masters, only without the twenty sided dice).

God this neg thing made me laugh. These poor little fuckers are SO getting the wrong advice here. It's like they're being thrown in with the sharks, with the earnest advice 'if you see one, cut yourself and waft the blood around the water. That'll shift the buggers.'

I know what I'm talking about. When I look back, there were 2 clear occasions when I was 'negged' myself, by aspiring PUAs way way way ahead of their time.

Okay. The first time, at uni. A guy I'd seen before in the union approached me after a lecture and started talking. Clearly a chat up. I forget the exact context but he mentioned jokingly that I was still wearing 'that red lipstick that doesn't quite suit you.'

Did I think 'God he's cocky and funny, and he doesn't kiss my ass like the other guys! I must shag him at the first possible opportunity'?

No. As a matter of fact, I thought 'God he's a cock'.

'Rude, unpleasant cock who I quite liked before, but now would not go out with if he was the last man on earth. And who has, furthermore, ruined my whole fucking day.'

Never spoke to him again.

And then, there was the time when me and a friend went clubbing and got chatted up by these guys who were trying to sweet talk us back to their place. I was 21, she was 25 and we were, to be honest, getting quite a lot of attention - both size 8, dark hair, little black dresses, 32C ish. I actually did look pretty good once, for about 3 years. Two guys in a club had a fight over me once. For real.

Admittedly, they were both pissed - and if it hadn't been over me, it would probably have been over something else like a spilt pint or a funny look. But it was a proper fight anyway. One broken arm, one broken nose.

Quality.

Anyway, back to the two master PUAs in this London club. They were trying to get me and my mate back to theirs, and trying to reassure us that they had no ulterior motives (yeah right). Again, I can't remember the exact phrasing. But it was something along the lines of 'well we're not just looking for sex. I mean, you're not the most obviously sexy girls in here...'

The only possible response to this - 'well if you want a fucking tranny who resembles Leah off BB7, I'd advise you to go for the charming young lady with the four foot long white nylon hair extensions, the lop sided boob job and the chicken tikka coloured complexion. The one who just emerged from the ladies laughing like a hyena and rubbing her nose. Maybe she's 'obviously sexy' enough for you.'

'You sad taste-free chav prick.'

My friend and I didn't actually say this, but we looked at each other - and the exact wording of the above paragraph passed between us as clear as telepathy.

We walked off from them and all.

If memory serves, I ended up with a guy who approached me with a line like 'you look beautiful, can I buy you a drink?'

If you've read The Game, you'll know that this approach is PUA kryptonite. The acolytes of said Game sneer at the sad fools who are dumb enough to use such Game-free approaches.

But what can I say? It got one guy laid for damn sure, while the neg achieved sweet FA.

If you're versed in the mysteries of PUA psychology, you will doubtless say 'yeah well, you clearly weren't sufficiently hot for this expert's skilful neg to work on you. It only works on 8s and above, so there.'

However while I can't speak for myself, I can tell you that my companion was for damn sure an 8.5 at the absolute least. And she had an ego to match.

So - at least as far as she was concerned - the neg was definitely used on its target audience.

And it definitely failed dismally with her and all.

Learn, guys...

J x

If I Could Write A Letter To Me...

Well, it's been a long time...

This is all due to various random thingies happening in my life, none of which have been very interesting - but all of which have been very, very time consuming.

So I have a clear choice - I could do a recap as long as War And Peace (but less exciting). Or I could just wade in and talk about something that interests me right now, which seems like the better option.

I recently read this thing about writing a letter to your seventeen year old self, passing on your adult wisdom, maturity and perspective to the foolish young thing you once were. This is based on a song in the States by a guy called Brad Paisley
www.musicloversgroup.com/brad-paisley-letter-to-me-video-and-lyrics

So anyway, I thought I'd write my own...


Dear Juliette,

First I'd prove it's me by saying - I know that fantasy you've got about that scene in the movie Waxwork. You think it's sick that you think it's hot, and are kind of worried about this in case it means you're some sort of pervert. (Incidentally, chill. It's supposed to be hot. That's the reason why it's in the fucking movie. It's beyond gratituous. Moron.)

You will discover 'sick' and 'worried' later on. Trust me on this. Wait till you watch Schindler's List next year and you check out the Ralph Fiennes guy in that.

Hoo boy.

I have to warn you - you know how many issues you've got about the whole being-severely-bullied-for-five-solid-years-between-11-and-16 thing? At the risk of pissing on your parade, these issues are harder to kill than a snake with two hearts. When you're 21, you'll think you're well over them. When you're 31, you'll be remembering them forty times a day and seriously thinking about therapy.

DON'T WRITE THAT DRUNKEN LETTER TO ALASTAIR IN TWO YEARS' TIME. PLEASE GOD.

On a lighter note - you know that bitch who's got the bloke you fancy in your history class? She looks like a fucking elephant by the time she's 25. By the time she's 30, she could practically blag a free bus pass.

Thought that would cheer you up :-)

Don't worry about the uni thing, or beat yourself up for failing the Kings interview. Seriously, it's beyond irrelevant. It doesn't matter if you go to Reading, Kings, Sheffield or Outer Mongolia U.
Employers couldn't give a flying fairy.

By the way, in a year or so, you get a boyfriend way better than the ones who keep ignoring you for that cow you hang out with. He's got a Range Rover and his own flat and his own business, and he buys you flowers and everything.

He turns out to be a tosser in the end, but it's fun while it lasts.

For the love of God, don't live with those bitches in your second year of uni. It will seem like a good idea at the time, but they end up making your life a living hell and almost drive you into a nervous breakdown. In fact, I'd advise you to avoid all four of them like the fucking plague.

Especially that vile little stuck-up bint Rebecca.

I'd advocate killing Rebecca on sight - it would certainly make the world a nicer place - but I really don't want you to go to jail for her. You'd miss some fun, now I come to think of it. Alas, you don't get much in the way of actual money, but you do get to go to some bloody nice places.

At the risk of sounding like Harriet Harman, stop drinking so goddamn much. Alcohol doesn't serve as your personal phone box in which you can leave awkward nerdy-looking Clark Kent behind and transform into your superheroic alter ego. You're still awkward nerdy-looking Clark Kent. Just a louder and more embarrassing and more incoherent Clark Kent who keeps falling over.

You do sort out the stomach in the end, if you were wondering. You get lipo at 28. If you can possibly do this any earlier, please, please do. It's the best decision you'll ever make.

USE KERASTASE HAIRCARE PRODUCTS. For the love of God. Even if you have to rob a bank to buy the bloody things. They're the only things on the face of this planet that have the power to appease the savage god of your hair.

You need to wash it WITH KERASTASE PRODUCTS every three days, then spend half an hour each morning making it into ringlets with ultra hold gel and Frizz Eze. Trust me, when you do this, people will actually stop you on the street and tell you how lovely your hair is.

And they're not taking the piss any more.

I don't think.

Sort your eyebrows out. You look like Norman Lamont. Go to a salon.

Invest in a company named Google as soon as you can. Even if you've only got five hundred quid of student loan money at your disposal. Oh, and get yourself down to the patents office and trademark the names iPod, Bridget Jones and Harry Potter. No buts, just do it.

In 7 or 8 years time, you will meet a man named Richard and he will be a barrister. Your first date will be in the Gaucho Grill. For God's sake don't dump him after the third date because you simply can't contemplate sleeping with him. You'll look back and kick yourself.

He will be as dull as fuck and he looks like a young Richard Whiteley and you don't fancy him at all and whenever you're with him time drags like a seal's arse. But he's got a really good job and his own house in a really good area, and he is WAY into you. So if you play your cards right, you can be married to a reasonably successful man before your 30th birthday.

Okay, I know it's not Donald Trump, but it's better than you're going to get otherwise. You can always get divorced.

With very best wishes from the future

Juliette aged 31 xxx