Be careful what you fish for.
Following on from the seriousness of my first ever online date, Date#2 took a slightly more comedic turn. I also think, to this day, it’s the quickest turn around from first message to an actual first meet. It was a Friday morning and I was in work, taking my usual time in the toilet. And when I say in, I mean on. And had been for a good few minutes. Now if you’re a girl and reading this, take heed. There’s every chance the person messaging you could be in the middle of what can only be described as a ‘giant’ poo. It was Friday after all. It’s not just poos either. I’ve used the online dating app in nearly every conceivable scenario.
A few messages back and forth resulted in an exchange of numbers, and then the question of whether I was free later that evening. Would you believe it, I was. Sort of. We’d made plans to meet in a bar at 7, which gave me 2 hours to go to the pub with work colleagues, have a few pints, and walk into my second date armed with a little more charm than the two hours previous. This is another thing – I have never been into a first date dry. Maybe one. But generally, I’ve had two or three drinks to calm the nerves a little. In one first date I went in absolutely wrecked. As in, at the time, I genuinely thought to myself “My God, I’m completely fucked.” But more on that later.
First impression? THE INTERNET LIES. She was genuinely pretty with a lovely smile but my God she was so fucking annoying. I won’t name the accent of the city she was originally from but lets just say it’s known for being irritating and making you sound stupid. Which is desperately unfair on her as she wasn’t. She had the personality of one of those cliche characters you see in American teen movies where they rattle off a million words every second and every single sentence ends up sounding like a question even though they’re not questions despite some actual questions being hidden in there somewhere but you have no real time to answer those questions because of how bloody quick they’re talking and how quickly those questions are being asked?
Oh, and she breathed like Darth Vader.
She wasn’t, and isn’t stupid though. When we left the pub and I walked her to the bus stop, it became clear that she had breathing issues. Nothing life threatening (please don’t think I’m being callous) but definite breathing issues. It didn’t fucking shut her up though. I’m not a particularly religious man but I can’t help think it was a hindrance delivered direct from the Gods in an effort to get her to slow the fuck down and not talk for a minute. But bless her, she fought her way past her disability and carried right on. Annoying me.
It got better.
No, I lie, it didn’t. But we did actually meet again. A couple more times. The first time, we went out on a school night and she got massively drunk, hoping I would dance with her whilst in a semi empty club – dancing to music I did not enjoy. Which is, and was, invariably a no. I must confess though (and I will confess details about myself throughout this blog quite readily) that her assumptions about my dancing were partially my fault. I may have, in some of our conversations, professed to be an exquisite dancer which is not a complete lie, however my dancing does require the perfect balance of alcohol, music and lighting. Like, a perfect balance.
It’s worth noting also, before my judgment sounds purely breathing related, that Talkative Vader was a relentless texter. I sent one text, I got 7 back immediately. Then a few the next day. And the next day. Now, I have a strong opinion about this – if your text conversations on your phone show a whole page of just you talking, then stop fucking texting.
The second time after the first, I met her at her house as I figured it may of been a case of poor meeting environment that had led to a categorical romance failure. We had oven pizza and put on a film. I can’t even remember what film it was, but I’m sure we changed it half way through. I want to say Scrooged…but I’m sure it wasn’t that. I don’t know. It might have had Colin Farrell in it. Alexander? Oh god, I just have no idea. It doesn’t matter.
We went upstairs, did…things, but we weren’t…you know…fully fledged intimate. And we never were. It just didn’t feel right. If it were to happen, it would have been purely for the sake of it. And I realised that I didn’t want to do anything purely for the sake of it. I also realised at that point, gentle reader, I had become a man.
Until like, way later, when it happened. But more on that in a bit.