Here's the deal. I've been single since time immemorial. So, in an attempt to remedy my eternal singledom, and to get over my nauseatingly pathological fear of dates, I've decided to challenge myself. The challenge? To go on one first date a week for a year! So in 52 weeks time, I will have either found my Mr Right, or I'll stay forever Miss Write. This is what happens...

The Rules

Here are the rules to the 52 First Dates challenge...

1. A first date must be had once a week, EVERY week, for a year, that's 52 dates in 52 weeks.

2. Taking someone home after a drunken night on the cider does NOT count.

3. Second and third dates are allowed, I must continue first dates unless there are exceptional mitigating circumstances. For example, God forbid, the start of a relationship.

4. Each date must be blogged.

19 December 2011

Mr #28 - Mardy Bum

The preamble:
Mr #28 was relatively quick off the mark to suggest a meet. But from his profile and the few emails and texts we'd exchanged, I thought he'd be worth sharing a couple of cheeky beverages with. He'd even texted me a picture of himself holding THE Olympic torch, which impressed me no end, so I was rather looking forward to the evening. Oh but how wrong I was...

The man:
Profession: Works on the 2012 Olympics in something to do with IT, radio, I don't know actually, by this time I was busy working out what I could use in the pub to kill myself with. There was a noose above the bar. And I was very tempted...
Random factoid: Looked down my cleavage an average of 20 times per minute, which has got to be some sort of a record. A bad, bad record.

The date:
I met Mr #28 outside the tube, and what struck me was he was better looking than I'd anticipated. This, however, was soon to be entirely irrelevant, after what I can only describe as one of the most torturous hours of my life. 

We headed off to a pub of my choosing, he grabbed a couple of beers, and then sat and did the date. I'd detected en route to the pub that he was not only Northern but very dry. But on reflection, this guy's dryness had absolutely bugger all to do with geography, he was just a dreadful human being. I have to say, and I don't say this lightly, but this guy could well take the biscuit for being the worst date ever. 

I've already mentioned his predilection for my breasticular area. I'm the first to admit I'm not the most generously blessed in that department, but the way Mr #28 stared at them re-fucking-lentlessessly made me think he was trying some sort of Matilda-esque telekinesis to get them to grow. But, if there had by chance been any movement in my bra tonight, it would have been because he bored my poor bloody tits off.

He genuinely made me furious, and I've yet to experience such fury on a date. And it's not even as if he gave good chat to make up for the mammary fixation. He was the grumpiest bastard I have ever met in my life! First off, talking at me about his incredibly boring job and how shit it'll be when they're all unemployed after the Games are over. Then, he chose to bore the life out of me about his travel into work every morning, including listing every train between the times of 6.50am and 8am. Sweet Jesus. Really??? But it didn't end there. Oh no. 

Then came the infernal belly-aching turned to his landlady, the distribution of bills in his shared house, council tax traumas and the fact that the flat isn't double-glazed. Every one of these mind-numbingly boring anecdotes lasted about 15 minutes each, and it got to the point where I had to run and hide in the toilet for 10 minutes just so I could Tweet a cry for help to the rest of the human race so I didn't feel so alone. 

When I finally managed to steel myself to leave the solace of the facilities, I was elated to discover he'd finished his beer, and I was able to feign a phone call (the first time I've ever had to do that on any of my dates - an oldie but a goodie) and I was finally able to escape.

We headed back off to the station, and to add insult to bitter injury, whilst giving me a farewell peck on the cheek, he also tried to cop a feel of my boob. Even an hour after saying goodbye to the guy, I'm still fucking fuming about giving up an hour of my life to someone with the social skills of the contents of the pub's drip tray.

Memorable Quotes:
'I mean - am I heating the flat, or am I heating the entire street?'

Events of note:
Seeing the back of this awful bastard.

The Verdict:
There is no way on God's earth I would ever entertain the idea of seeing this guy ever again. If I ever hear a peep from this sorry sonofabitch, I'm going to tell him on no uncertain terms why he was possibly the rudest date I have ever had. He spent the whole night quite possibly trying to grow my breasts with the power of his mind, bored me borderline suicidal with his ridiculous whingy whiny rants and at no point during the entire night did he ask me a single question. Not one. Not even 'how was your day at work'. Literally astonishing. Instead he chose the night to bless me with the most self-indulgent and fucking boring lectures of my life. Why on earth would you want to go on a date when you have absolutely no interest in trying to be a decent human being? I'm genuinely baffled by what the whole point of it all was! If anything, to give me a whole new benchmark for all time dating lows. But that, I'm afraid to say, is nothing he need be proud of.