Two months ago, Canada elected a new prime minister. Justin Trudeau is the son of former prime minister Pierre Trudeau, and all I can say is look at him – just look at him. I have developed a sudden interest in Canadian politics.
Trudeau and his wife, Sophie Grégoire-Trudeau, have been profiled in Vogue this month, complete with a superb moody black and white portrait. Wonderful. Until we get to this gem about their first date from Mrs G-T: “At the end of dinner he said, ‘I’m 31-years-old, and I’ve been waiting for you for 31 years.’”
Oh, Justin. A line. Even though I have just discovered that you exist, I expected so much more from you. I think that all chat-up lines, whether they come from a prime minister a colleague has dubbed “too Disney Prince” (and she means that in a good way), or some pissed stranger in the pub, they are universally awful.
I’m afraid that if Prince Justin, or indeed anyone, said anything as remotely cheesy to me I would have to stifle the urge to laugh in their face. But then, if it were JT (as I am now calling him) I would of course marry him anyway due to his good looks. Which, incidentally, don’t seem to have held him back much, despite recent research that indicates handsome men were more likely to be overlooked for competitive jobs.
Perhaps my distrust of lines stems from the fact that no one has ever used a good one on me. Or maybe I’m a just a horrible jaded cynic. After all, a site called Tinder Nightmares exists solely to document the terrible job most people do when trying to use them (sample quote: “Is your name Katniss Everdeen? Because there’s an uprising in my district.”
So I did a quick poll among some colleagues to see if they had heard any great – or terrible – lines. The news isn’t too good, I’m afraid. There are the classic (read: awful): “Get your coat, love, you’ve pulled” and “nice knockers”, and then there’s the simply baffling. One woman I know was assailed in a club in France by a guy who said: “You hear the saxophone? That’s my subconscious talking to you.” Perhaps the most startling thing is that many of them worked, including: “Guess what my shirt is made from. Here, feel it. It’s boyfriend material.” The recipient of that gem went out with the guy for a year.
Because this is the Guardian and I am of course a feminist, I feel obliged to say that it’s not just men who reel out lines. Another female colleague chatted up a long-term partner by sauntering up to her, grabbing her drink, finishing it, and suggesting that she – the startled recipient – pop to the bar to buy them another round. “To this day, I’m amazed that it worked,” she says.
Of course, JT’s line has an aura of sophistication and – though it pains me to say this – sincerity that’s perhaps not reflected in my highly scientific sample. But even so, it’s the scripted nature of lines that repels me somewhat. I mean, what’s wrong with hello, as an ice-beaker, nice to meet you? Lines smack of calculation to me – surely the very opposite of a romantic, stars-aligning fateful encounter.
When I met my paramour, no chat-up lines were deployed. I simply lingered near the buffet table and indicated that I was in need of a boyfriend in London (I had recently moved to Kent, a largely positive experience, but one that I felt would be enhanced by dinners a deux back in the city). It worked, of course it worked. It was my subtlety that won my beloved over. Eventually. Of course as we all know, JT’s line worked just fine on Mrs JT – they got married two years after that fateful dinner. But she notes in the Vogue interview that after he said it, “we both cried like babies”. Out of embarrassment, I’d wager.
