Recently Marie Claire tweeted about one of their bloggers, Lucy Robinson, and how she turned a series of horrendous dates into a two book deal with Penguin. Isnt this everyone’s life? Dont we all have bad dates? I certainly have! And I think it suffices to say that I kissed a lot of frogs, A LOT OF FROGS, before I met my prince.
So I got to thinking that whatever Lucy can do, I can do just as good. Over the next five weeks I am inviting you on a “Date Night” where I will relay a few tales of my worst ever dates. It has been hard to select only five but, lets see how it goes. Names have been changed for obvious reasons, except for the last one as that actually is my husband!
Without further ado, let me introduce you to…..*cue drumroll*
Years ago when I shared a flat with the friend who made me blog, we decided that maybe our “type” wasn’t our type at all because we were still single. Not for the want of trying I might add.
We were both career girls, attractive (modest), funny, could hold our G&T’s well (did I say we? I mean her!) and could think of no reason why we weren’t getting dates! Naturally we came to the conclusion that either all men we met were gay (which isn’t entirely a lie as we both lived with one at some point..) or, we were obviously far too attractive to be approachable (I say this in jest.. I am not, repeat not, Samantha Bricks!).
We booked ourselves onto a speed dating night. In an attempt to increase our man supply. It was at a well-known club in central london which was dimly lit (at the time I thought it was sultry, now I know it was to disguise the goods!).
I’d never been speed dating before but it was exactly what it says on the tin: dash round 30 something blokes, two mins each, suss out who you might like and then have a cheeky snog at the end of the night, huddled in the corner while Lionel Richie belts out a slowie. If you get an actual date, you’re lucky.
I did. I thought I chose well. I steered clear of my “type” and chose John from St Albans. I thought he was a Hugh grant / John Cleese lookalikie – I know, I should have called it a day there and then.
We arranged to meet on the corner of Leicester square, by the iron fence, opposite Chiquitos. When I got to the corner, I held back a minute, as you do, to take a sneaky peak at the good. Nnnnooooooo… Beer goggles!! About turn.. Run, head down, sprint…quick!
Uh oh too late! He’d spotted me. I had to go through with it. I took a deep breath and thought oh we’ll, it’s a free drink then a trip to loo to call my mate, to call me, with an emergency!!
I said my hello’s praying to God that I wouldn’t bump into anyone I knew. We (he) found an outside table (God no, not outside!) at a pub off Leicester square. Bless him. Whilst trying to be all masterful, he reached across the table for the wine list. WHAT THE…??? His long hairy fingers, on the end if his long hairy hand, on the end if his long hairy arm, opened the wine list with a gasp. He mesmerised by prices. I was mesmerised by the hairiness. Reddish blondish hairiness. WHAT THE…?
And then I saw it. As his hairy arm reached across the table, I noticed the elbow. WHAT THE…? You know those cheap shirts from cheap shops, the ones that come in a plastic packet with a plastic dog collar and the shirt is wrapped around a cardboard square with little plastic pegs to keep it in place? you know the ones?
Elbow John was wearing one. How did I know? You mean, other than the fact it was off-Lemon, not quite white, not quite yellow, not quite lemon – off-Lemon. Other than once I took a proper look, it hadn’t been ironed so still had the creased and bends of once having been wrapped around a cardboard square.
How did I know he was wearing a cheap shirt? Because, I tell you, because, as his hairy arm reach over the little plastic peg that had been once holding the shirt in place, was still attached to the elbow of the shirt!!! I was mortified!! I, me, moi.. was on a date with a yeti wearing a £2 shirt.
To this day, I don’t know how I choked back the laughter. Whilst he was, still, musing over the cheapest wine on the list, I made my lavatory excuse and called the friend who made me blog. Five minutes later: “Poisoned?! What do you mean the cat has been poisoned?? Ok, calm down, I’m on my way!”. We didn’t have a cat.
And as I sat on the train home, thanking my lucky stars I was single, I could only hope that the yeti and his plastic peg shirt had made it back to St Albans in one piece.
I’m sure you all have had similar experiences so do leave me a comment below with your funnies – I could do with a good belly laugh!