The only chance we'll get to put Bob and Spit on ST
A first date outfit tight enough to say I’m a woman, but loose enough to say I’m a lady? Tick! Makeup and hair natural enough to make me look, well, somewhere near natural and convincing enough that I don’t need much effort? Tick! Err….a good clear throat?!
So this guy (I can’t remember his name – so let’s just call him ‘Pete’) had text whilst getting himself ready for our first date, which also happened to be our first face-to-face sober meeting. His text was telling me how he was currently making some huge effort for me this evening and actually ironing not only front, back but both sleeves of his new shirt and if upon seeing him the shirt at least should impress if nothing else. A text which I’ll admittedly for some reason made me feel compelled to return to the wardrobe in search of ‘more effort’. Even though the current outfit had a total of three days and two friends’ consultation so after awhile decided that this was sufficient effort and certainly matches that of ironing a fucking shirt.
I’m sure somewhere a voice must have been screaming “stalker alert”.
I had met ‘Pete’ at some shitty media party, although may I add, I use the term ‘met’ very loosely and would think that ‘stumbled into and coke ranted at’ would describe it more truthfully. However, falling into a cab home alone that night I thought no more of the encounter - that is until the next day when it turned out that I had in fact met Poirot. Somehow remembering my name and place of work enabled him to source out my email address. Clever, especially when I couldn’t even remember where my bank card was. I’m sure somewhere a voice must have been screaming “stalker alert” but in my confused hunger head it will have just sounded like annoying white noise. Plus I’ll not lie – I noticed he worked for an Ad agency from his email address and well times were/are hard in publishing. Anyway one reply always leads to another and before I knew it a few weeks had went by with us going through the standard daily ritual of numerous witty little daily messages, which then of course lead onto (mostly drunk) texting. With the most brutal test passed it was agreed that we should bite the bullet, make the next move and have ‘a date’. It was obvious I had suitably impressed him with written word and my 4am texts of “whaat yuoo uottgo” didn’t seem to bother him…so what’s the harm?
Onto round two I went, the date. I found myself sitting waiting anxiously on a bar stool - well they are the stiletto of the chair world and make you look taller and slimmer, right? Having suggested a pub which I decided was just cool enough to impress and make me look like the regular girl about town and arrived early in order to position myself well whilst giving enough time to knock back a bit of nerve medicine, a unhealthy sized glass of wine also known as ‘the best part of a bottle’. There I sat, sheepishly eyeing the door believing every man to enter be him to the point where I completely lost the foggy image in my head of what he actually looked like. I could have now at this point been meeting literally anyone. Eventually there he was walking towards me, or so the corner of my eye would have believe as I was by now ordering glass number two, and yes please do make it a large one, Mr Bartender. Thank you.
I set to work hastily trying to remove our new friend.
After the initial and yet if honest expected ‘yep, fucking beer goggles’ thoughts the drinks continued to flow as easy as the conversation, and with it the self-confidence rose and my jokes grew louder and more expressive and of course funnier… if probably only to me. Completely lost in my stand-up routine it came as quite the surprise to feel something alien to me unload from somewhere deep, deep inside. I was sure I felt something exit as I desperately tried to create a hand barrier. But I was too late it was. I knew it was out there somewhere. This thing that came rocketing from my mouth was definitely not cupped in my hand - I checked. After slowly moving my hand down my chin I felt no sign. Glancing swiftly my eyes darted over my probably a bit too tight date outfit. Again I found nothing. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, I hoped. But that’s when I noticed my date’s polite laughter had gone silent.
Following his gaze down to his neatly pressed shirt I was confronted with a huge dangling ball of very dark green phlegm just hanging there, right in the middle of his chest. When I say huge, believe me I mean huge, you will find no exaggeration here. Massive. I could mock footballers with it. Silence continued and in panic I just grabbed the closest thing to me, which just happened to be a used food napkin from a dirty plate on the bar. I set to work hastily trying to remove our new friend. Ignoring the pleas and frankly disgusted face I persisted until sitting back to see that the end results just made matters much worse. The ball was now a huge leisurely spread out smudge but now with a scattering of discarded garlic bread and mayonnaise added for good measure.
Thoughts of a swift taxi, the quick exit, but no that’s was coward’s way out.
Almost immediately I found myself sitting alone at the bar once again whist my date made a hasty visit to the toilets to clean up. The evening was most certainly over, there didn’t seem to be any chance of let’s get another drink, laugh and who knows we may even tell the grandkids one day. Thoughts of a swift taxi, the quick exit, but no that’s was coward’s way out. I had most definitely made the mess and I should at least wait at least until someone else had cleaned it up. On returning with a now crumpled wet shirt an apologetic and polite finishing of drinks took place and the night was over, as was my contact with what’s his name.
I wish I could say that was my only disastrous first date – but it wasn’t. There have been loads. There was the time my hair caught on fire from a table candle over dinner and the waiter having to ‘put me out’. Have you smelt burnt hair? Well the entire restaurant did that night. Then not forgetting to mention the time I suggested a bit of ‘world cinema’ to look cultured – only to be confronted with a South American porno and fellow cinema goer wanking in the aisle in front. This particular guy the next day sent me a text message saying ‘I think we like different things’ alongside a picture of a bunny. I’ll now call that one a lucky escape. So in summary all I can say on the subject is first dates are generally fucking dreadful. Good luck.
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