I’ll admit I’ve been keeping this corker under my hat for a good while.
Mainly because I’ve actually struggled to articulate how utterly bizarre and terrible this date was.
I sincerely hope you are all ready for this.
Ps: before we begin, be warned this account may make you run screaming back into the arms of the last terrible boy you dated, shouting I CAN LIVE WITH YOUR WEIRD FEET. Remember – just because that guy is not as bad as this guy does not mean that you should shack up with ‘horrible Chris with the weird shaky hands’.* This guy is no benchmarker and nor should he be.
*incidentally an entry on the ‘men I’ve slept with’ list. Sorry mum.
Before the date
I will admit that there were some clear warning signs with this one. I’d met him on a dating app that will remain nameless lest you all delete it in horror after this tale of woe. Let’s just say it rhymes with SMUMBLE and it’s the pits.
I’d been chatting to this chap for a couple of weeks (I’m a slow mover ok! God!) and he seemed perfectly nice plus very keen on dating me. Plus he’d read this blog and seemed pretty on board with all my ‘quirks’.*
*hideous facets of my personality
So far so good
It became slightly less good when he started to persistently badger me for selfies. In effort to encourage me to send pictures of my face he sent me many many pictures of his own face. In all of them he was wearing a ginormous pair of headphones and had the same expression on his face (a creepy half smile). I started to wonder if he was using a cardboard cut out of his head for efficiency purposes. Wouldn’t rule it out knowing what I know now.
He also decided to call me prior to our date to ask me if I actually looked like my photographs in a very serious, earnest manner.
Firstly rude. Secondly phoning me before we’ve even met screams ginormous weirdo. Thirdly I mean yes and no mate. Obviously, they are the nicest versions of myself – mama didn’t raise no fool. Just imagine that nice picture of me laughing into a pint of beer (look how relatable I am boys – I’m such a laidback goodtime gal!) with less of a tan, a stress spot, a gluten intolerance that means I can’t drink that beer without some serious ensuing gas and some abandonment issues and basically what you see is what you get!
So yeah a few red flags but I am nothing if not a trooper and also really awful at letting people down so was unable to cancel the date.
The day of the date
Turn up to meet him full of dread. The ultimate way to start a first date.
I spot him at the end of the street and am immediately incensed as he claimed to be 6ft 2 and was quite clearly 5ft 7.
Let’s get this straight. I am 5ft 4. I care not how tall men are. I do care though if one has lied about his appearance after calling me up to accuse me of catfishing him before I’ve even met him.
It only went downhill from here.
As I approach him he sees me and immediately turns and walks away from me up the street. Right.
Undeterred I follow him around the corner where he greets me with such surprise you’d have thought I’d popped out of a manhole cover and yelled SEE I DO LOOK LIKE MY PICTURES into his face.
Him: Shall we go and get this over with then?
Me: umm ok?
We walked down the road to a bar whilst I regaled him with fun details of my day i.e. jabbered absolute nonsense as he grunted replies back at me.
We arrive at a very busy bar and start queuing in silence.
Thank fuck he’s decided to acknowledge my presence. I’m ready to dazzle you with my sparkling personality you miserly old hag.
Him: (at top volume) So you know that blog you wrote about when you got really drunk, took your clothes off and posed on an exercise ball?
Me: Ssh and yes.
Him: Did you fuck him afterwards?
Him: alright god I was just asking. Anyway do you want a drink? God I hate buying drinks in Soho, it’s so expensive isn’t it.
Me: (looking round dingy cheap old mans pub) right…yeah I guess…I mean do you want me to buy my own drink?
Him: No! Just choose something cheap yeah.
Me: ohhhkaayy. Umm white wine please?
Bartender: Small or large?
I gathered up my thimble of wine and headed outside to enjoy more of my delightful date.
As we got outside my date decided to exercise some more of his special brand of charm otherwise known as ‘being extremely rude to someone he didn’t really know’.
“I just think all women are snakes. I mean this isn’t a date. We’re just here as friends. I mean I just can’t be bothered with dating so I think we should just be friends. Why are you confused? This was never a DATE… just a friend drink. Don’t look at me like that I could have just taken you home and fucked you but I’m nicer than that ok!’
“How many people have you slept with? I’ve slept with most of my female friends. You haven’t slept with all of you male friends? Are they ugly or something?”
“This is how big my penis is – erect” (holding up his hands to show what I can only imagine is a wildly generous estimate)
“Can I take a photo of you? No go on let me! Why are you being weird?”
“(sniggering wildly into his phone) No honestly I’m just texting my mum. I swear. (snigger) No really”
“How much do you earn then? JESUS. I should have made you buy the drinks”
This is no exaggeration. If it gives you any idea of the scale of awfulness, when he went to the loo a nice man in a suit came over and asked if I was OK. My dates obnoxiousness had actually forced a stranger to interact with another stranger in London. Powerful.
I can only blame my ridiculous British politeness and huge guilt complex about not being a cheapskate for what happened next.
Whilst my head screamed RUN AWAY YOU STUPID BITCH YOU COULD BE WATCHING POIROT IN YOUR PYJAMAS my mouth said “umm do you want another drink?”
Him: “if you can be bothered then yeah”
Me: “Well…I don’t…”
Him: “Indian pale ale please. Pint.”
I scuttled to the bar and hurriedly rang my friend H
Me: “He’s bloody AWFUL and he’s being so rude and he’s got ginormous sweat patches and I think he might actually be clinically insane”
H: “Oh god shall we go to the pub? Where are you?”
Me: Ummmmmm……Buying him a drink?
Having arranged to meet H in the pub in 40 minutes I steeled myself, glugged at the actual bucket of survival wine I’d bought myself and like Bear Grylls facing off against a cayman I headed back out to the beer garden of doom.
Date of the year: “sorry what were you saying before you went…” unfortunately here a girl in a mini skirt walked past so he just decided to gawp at her instead of finishing his sentence
Me: “I was saying absolutely nothing.”
Him: “oh cool. Well look I think that we should be friends. I don’t want you to hate me after this. And then if something happens between us then great. But if it doesn’t we can still be really good friends. Yeah?”
Him: “Do you often sleep with guys on the first date?”
Him: “You look really unhappy. You can go if you want to”
Him: “Unless…if you wanted to…go back to my place”
I am pleased to announce kids that I downed my wine and ran out of there as fast as my trotters could carry me.
Moral of the story. Always take heed of those red flags. And never trust a selfie enthusiast.
I’ll admit I’ve been keeping this corker under my hat for a good while.