Swiping The Slate Clean

Bollocks to dating, I’m packing it in.

After nearly ten months of being back on the dating scene I’m officially bored. I must have spent over a grand on it. I’ve wasted countless hours meeting people who after five minutes I never wanted to see again.

Dating fatigue has set in, the Tinder profile has gone, the app has been deleted. I’m going into a dating cocoon. I’m planning on emerging from my chrysalis later in the year, hopefully with bigger arms and less debt.

I’m out for my birthday on Saturday. It’s an excuse to wear my legendary silver trousers. I bought them in Camden in the late 1990s just before my first ever Bowie gig. They have been a cherished possession ever since.

I’ll be celebrating the big 2-6 at an indie club in Hackney. Maybe the trousers will give me an edge, maybe I’ll meet someone in person and not through an app, maybe we’ll snog on the dance floor as they play suede.

I can’t believe it has been a year since I last turned 26, it feels like longer.

Anyway,  See yaz




Candyfloss in a gold(finger) wrapper



I’m out of town for a bit. I’m recharging the batteries and letting the stress of an incredibly busy summer float away like a Chinese sky lantern.

This trip has been a bit of a blur so far, partly due to the amnesic effect of the ‘fake’ alcohol that some of the bars here serve. Still, with a skyline like this it’s easy to forgive that type of thing.


Oh, I promised I’d let you know what happened with the fitbag I mentioned in my previous post.

Well, a second and third viewing confirmed he was indeed the most handsome man I have ever laid eyes on. From head to toe, almost every bit of him was physically perfect. I won’t say which bit wasn’t.

We got off to a sizzling start, but by date three things had become a little bit frosty. A boozeless date in a freezing cold park only made things worse. Whose shit idea was that?….it was his actually.

I had filled in the blanks with this guy and he had done the same with me. His favourite film wasn’t Goldfinger as I had imagined, it was some shit romantic comedy. His second, third, fourth and fifth favourite films were also rom coms. It was unexpected and a bit disappointing but it wasn’t a deal breaker for me.

Something about me was a deal breaker for him though. He looked like he was about to be sick when I told him I didn’t own a bike. I tried to keep the conversation going but he couldn’t have been less interested in anything that came out of my mouth. Even with the charm full on, I got nothing……fuck that. When he suggested that date four would be a “friendly drink” I took the hint and exited stage right.

You win some you lose some

Right, I’m off out for cocktails. Mine’s a Long Island Iced Tea, it’s always the best bang for your buck.

Harrison out


The League of Gentlemen

I told you I’d have more juicy date stories this week…..and I have!

I’m usually quite calm and collected on dates. As you have probably gathered, I have a reasonably high opinion of myself and approach these evenings with a shot of confidence and a Harrison Chaser of swagger.

That was all blown to hell on Tuesday when the most unbelievable fit bag turned up at The Old Red Lion. I spent three hours nervously talking bollocks and thinking that this fella was totally out of my league. It was quite an eye opener.

Anyway……date two is in 15 minutes so I’m going to have to love you and leave you.

See ya losers….and don’t worry, of course I’ll tell you what happens.
Harrison out




About the author, a picture of Harrison Chase

I was practicing my about the author photo face on the tube this morning.

I don’t want it to look too happy, I want people to look at it and think “Wow, that guy’s deep, what’s going through his mind? Loads probably.”

I think I nailed it somewhere between Chancery Lane and Oxford Circus.

I case you’re wondering, I haven’t actually written a book. I have some big ideas, I just can’t be arsed to do anything with them.

If you’re a young Londoner, the cover of a book is the only part of a book that really matters. It’s the cover that other people will see on the Tube, it’s a way to sell an idea of yourself to fellow commuters. A book on the tube is 60% fashion accessory and 40% entertainment, a big rectangular programmable mood ring. It’s partly due to this type of vanity that the kindle hasn’t totally killed off paper books.

Of course there is always that weirdo who displays something unbecoming. I saw a woman reading Bridget Jones’s diary on the tube recently and concluded that she already has, or is going to have at least 13 cats in her flat. Those who don’t know her name will call her ‘cat lady’ Those who know her name will call her ‘cat lady’

I’m currently reading ‘Discoverers of the Universe: William and Caroline Herschel. I’d like to think that when people see me flicking through the pages they think “Ooo he’s hot, and he looks like he works out”

They’ll probably just think “Nerd”

William Herschel is actually my second favourite scientist and will be the subject of my next painting if an actual photograph of him exists. He’s an all-rounder, an accomplished musician, then an astronomer, inventor and scientist. William Herschel discovered infrared by accident, found Uranus and its two moons while hunting for comets and made optical telescopes that were a quantum leap ahead of anything that had been made before. He also discovered two of Saturn’s’ moons, Enceladus and Titan

Unfortunately, he died before photography became mainstream, and I don’t want to paint a likeness of a painting. Oddly enough it was Herschel’s very own son who helped to bring photography to the masses. John Herschel invented the glass plate negative in 1839, seventeen years after his dad had popped his clogs.

It’s just struck me! The thing people will think when they see my book cover is the same as what you must all be thinking reading this


Point taken, I’ll not doubt have some sexier blog fodder from my round of dating. I’m lining them up this week. It’s all about quantity, they can’t all be pond life. While we’re on that theme…..I’m not kissing all these frogs, I’m just having awkward drinks with them and then legging it.  I’ll skip saying anything about tadpoles, a pond theme can be taken too far.

Alright, I’ve got a party to get to.

See ya losers,

Harrison out

Magic hug x




50 Ways to Leave Your Lover

Hello fuckers! .

I’ve got a bit of an update for you, but first, let’s have a little refresher.

Last week on ‘The Life & Loves of Harrison Chase’

“I’m three dates in at the moment, but I’m not spilling the beans on this one as he may or may not be sticking around. The man has got me on rations, releasing infrequent text messages like they’re fresh eggs in 1942. I’ve got a big appetite man, I’m not sure I can handle it much longer.”

Well I’d lost my appetite for the manky war eggs before we even met last night. There we were, drinking wine in a restaurant that had all the charm of a submarine corridor. He was like “I think it might end up as relationship, but I’m probably not going to be in touch if I don’t feel like it” and I was like “Erm, fuck off”

I was wondering how I could escape when suddenly they started playing Paul Simon’s 50 ways to leave your lover in the restaurant. There was no hiding my mirth.

Anway, thanks for the tips rhyming Simon. I appreciate you trying to help me in my struggle to be free, but I ended up just cutting the night short and chucking him by text message the second I got home.

Now, time to message that Elon Musk look alike I’ve matched with on Tinder. I know, I KNOW it’s weird, I can’t help it, he builds space rockets and shit.

Harrison out…..oh and listen to this.

Life, lovebites and Space X…XX

I’ve got to get over this crush on Elon Musk, it’s weird. I’m having dreams about him twice a week now. The man is clearly a prick and not at all good looking….just my usual type.

I’ve had a few real romances which are probably worth a mention. Pour yourself a drink, I’ll meet you back here in five for a walkthrough.

I’ll start with Renat, cool, handsome, polyglot, hilarious, American (love it!) and a closet case. Yeah, that last one was the first and the last nail in the coffin. I’m a meet the parents type.

I couldn’t wait to meet Swifty a few weeks later. Here was a man with a cheeky nick name and a dirty smile. I knew he might be trouble, fun trouble. Swifty’s photos depicted him as a hot biker bad boy. Sadly, in reality he was more like Bungle from rainbow, he  even sounded like him. To top it off the man ordered a bottle of desert wine for our first drink. It was like sipping rabbit blood with golden syrup. We consumed it at a snail’s pace, dragging out an evening of my life that I would tragically never get back.

Next was the handsome scientist. I told him about my old lab days, he told me how much he hated everything.

“This beer is awful. My friend just told me she’s pregnant”

“Oh, great”

“And I mean, am I supposed to congratulate her just because she’s going to squeeze some screaming kid out of her vagina!? 


“Have you been here before? This place is awful

The most ‘colourful’ character was the man who gave me a love bite. A love bite! I know I look young, but I’m not fucking thirteen. Around ninety seconds after he’d inflicted the thing on my neck he suddenly pointed to it with a look of sheer horror and said

“That! I know it was from another man, you’ve been with someone else today!”

Uber for Giles!

He texted me three times on his way home to call me a slut. The next day he emailed me (relentlessly) to tell me he’d had a lovely time and would like to meet again. Get fucked Giles, the last time I met someone as mad as you I accidentally ended up buying a flat with him. I’m not falling into that trap again.

Shit, I’ve broken the chronological order. I missed one, the banker. The banker was a French gentleman who wore a beige cardigan to the date. He told me he’d just been sacked for stealing confidential data. He was caught WeTransfering himself gigabytes of sensitive material.

 I asked him if he’d just done that so he could work from home. He said “No, not really”

And that brings me to London, present day, thirty million fucking degrees Celsius and its so hot that my tortoise can’t sleep.

I’m three dates in at the moment, but I’m not spilling the beans on this one as he may or may not be sticking around. The man has got me on rations, releasing infrequent text messages like they’re fresh eggs in 1942. I’ve got a big appetite man, I’m not sure I can handle it much longer.

Harrison out



Sex, Lies and Internet Dates

Hi fuckers,


Let me make it all about me for a bit.

Do you know when a fridge suddenly switches off and it’s only then that you realise it was making a terrible noise for a very long time? I’m feeling that kind of quiet and calm now.

The very high pitched nasal whine of an exhaustingly persistent mood hoover has stopped.  I wonder how I ever put up with it in the first place. How did I ever take arguments so seriously when it sounded like beaker from the muppets was shouting at me from the other side of the door.

Here’s a thought….

We were always getting post addressed to Mr Harrison Chase and Miss [insert slut case here]

I used to think it was because people thought he was an abbreviated Janet, but maybe the confusion arose when they heard his miserable lady voice on the phone.

Anyway, enough of that lying sack of hate, we’ve got a proper divorce agreement now, and more importantly he looked like utter shit when I last saw him, which is the most important thing is it not? I looked fucking great by the way.

I am back on the dating scene now, as I was way back when I first erected my magnificent column. I’ve had one date so far, he was very handsome. I mean he was very handsome six years ago when his profile picture was taken.

This all sounds very negative, but things are actually amazing. I feel happier than I have in years. My new flat mate is a real joy to live with, I have abs that my gran could wash socks on and I finally found that checkered suit.

Anyway, watch out everyone. I’m back, and this time I’m in slim fit MacCallum tartan.






I was awoken this morning by a couple of middle-aged scratters having a fight outside my flat.

A woman in grey flannel leisurewear was following her gentleman friend down the street screaming abuse. She had clearly had a leisurely breakfast of cooking sherry and cigarettes. He looked like the type of man who might have a taste for methylated spirits. Perhaps it’s the rich purple colour that appeals.

The screaming match went on for so long that I wanted to throw the contents of a latrine on them from my balcony. Had we been living in 1650 I probably would have.

At one point the lady in flanelling grey started shouting “You’re a dirty…….disgusting….stinking…..” …only to be cut off by a tiny, self assured voice.

“Is it you?”

“What?” said the woman

Standing across the road was a school girl with her hands on her hips.

“Is it you though? ……….Is it that you’re talking about yourself?”

The woman didn’t say another word, and just stood there with her mouth open

The girl cheerily said “You want to look at yourself mate” before skipping off to school.

Peace at last.

I see a bright future ahead of that young lady, either as a diplomat or a reality TV show judge.

The Getaway / Art Crowd

My nocturnal adventurings often take me to strange and unusual places.
Last night my band of handsome thrill seekers ended up at an art dealer’s party in Mayfair.

We were lured there from another party with a badly cut invitation, printed on cheap inkjet photo paper.

When we arrived, the man who had invited us looked like he was sucking on the sourest lemon in the whole of the land.

“Plus three? Well…..I suppose…..you know it was just…….oh come in”

The house was magnificent, the booze was abundant, the h’ordeuvres were….well they were a bit dry really.

The party was packed with type of artist who you could talk to without mocking them in your mind.

Unfortunately, every time we opened our mouths to say something we were asked to pose for a photo. My friend Kevin pointed out that it would have been a massacre had we been aboriginal.

As the champagne flowed freely, Mr lemon mouth buzzed around us like a bitchy mosquito.

Were we enjoying the free champagne? Wasn’t it a shame that it was going down so quickly since there were three of us and only one of us was really invited.

I can’t remember exactly what he said to make me snap, but the events that followed were spectacular. In an eloquent stream of obscenities I told our foul inviter that his company was unbearable and that none of us could take another second of his passive aggressive shit headery.

As we proudly strode out of the 20 million pound property, lemon mouth neurotically ran after us, begging us to wait.

“Fuuuuuck youuuuuuu” we chorused, without even looking back.


Today, I woke up and the first thing that went through my mind was


Last night something mortifying happened. While I’m waiting for my intravenous saline drip to kick in and cure my hangover I’ll tell you all about it.

The beers were really flowing last night. I was at the window table in a bar in Soho, chit chatting with two tall attractive friends about the pros and cons of red underwear. All of a sudden a curly-haired blonde lady caught my eye through the window. With a pang of recognition and warm cuddly nostalgia I ran outside to reunite with my old friend Hannah.

“Hannah!” I shouted as our eyes met.

“What did you call me?” came the reply.

I realised with horror that it wasn’t Hannah. It wasn’t even a lady, it was a man man! I had two options here, one was turn around and walk back inside. The second was to try to talk myself out of it and walk away with my head held high. I chose option two.

I have to say, I think I did rather well considering how many beers I’d had. I told the androgynous young man that I’d mistaken him for my German friend “Hannalt” who I hadn’t seen for five years. Unfortunately the conversation kept going for another ten minutes after that. There were lots of questions about who Hannalt was, where in Germany he was from, what he did for a living.

There has only been one other occasion when I’ve put my foot in it so badly. I once congratulated a colleague on her pregnancy. It turns out she’d just become really fat.

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