“I ate his liver with some fava beans, and a nice..Strongbow”

Which is why…I totally went on another date with someone else. For no particular reason. Well, there was a reason. I’ll explain later. And honestly, you couldn’t really call it a date. Well, you could…but…look, seriously, I’ll just carry on.

Myself and The Horror Show – hereon known as HS – had a very brief encounter. We’d quite easily text a thousand more words than we ever spoke in person. She was the alternative type. It’s a ‘blanket’ way of explaining her look and vibe and I normally don’t like to categorise people in such a way, but she was the type who LOVED horror films. Half of her profile pictures were of her dressed up like some horror film character because it was Halloween or a fancy dress party or her birthday or because it was just a fucking Sunday afternoon and she had fake blood that was going to go off or something. She must of been about 24 or 25. Blisteringly blue eyes. Like, seriously blistering. Which was a nice eye-differentiation from my other dating option. They both pointed the same way too.


Our text conversations I actually found quite dull. She never really amused me largely, or intrigued me particularly. She had a boring job. Generally quite boring life. But I found myself saying things like ‘I like horror films’ (I fucking don’t), and that I like dressing up (I really fucking don’t). It was just for the conversation more than anything, I think. She hung out with dudes with beards who smelt a bit and dressed like shit. I felt I had an advantage because I had / have a beard and smell okay and dress okay. Sometimes like shit. Surely, entering into her circle of friends I’d be like…the Pitt / Clooney / Hardy of the group. We got onto discussing tattoos eventually, because she OBVIOUSLY had 16 and desperately wanted to talk about them. She sent me an image not hugely unlike the below:



“What do you think of my coffee table?”

Above in this post, I mentioned ‘reason’. I am a man, and an animal. That leg was the reason. I’d like to point out that the above is NOT HER LEG. She sent me her leg, although the effect was just the same. And as far as I was concerned, it didn’t limp either. Also, a picture of her leg was sent, not her actual one.

We continued texting. I’d tell her what horror film I was watching, she’d say something boring and shit. At one point, I called her ‘sister’.  As in, “The Shining sure is a fantastic film, sister”, like the cool people do. It’s not a hugely common thing for me to say, but I see no weirdness or strangeness or oddness in it. Even now. She did not feel the same way. How do you feel about it? Answers on a postcard.

“You know I’m not black, right?” is what she said.

I debated my response for some time and decided going down the playful route of “What!? Seriously?” was the best option. It sort of worked, I think. But from then on, in her mind, she had forever branded me as some sort of shit Eminem, I’m sure, constantly worried about an impending battle rap.





Her reaction to that text saying ‘sister’ was as shit as her fucking conversation. It highlighted the fact that she was probably someone with a very limited outlook on life, and also served to show that although she was someone who lived the life she wanted and wasn’t afraid of looking or acting different, she put things firmly and neatly in boxes – racially or otherwise. I found that quite ignorant, guarded and immature.

Seriously, that leg picture, though.

So we eventually agreed to meet.

I say agreed. I was planning on catching up with Inappropriate that evening and meeting some of her friends and generally hanging out and getting smashed, but that wasn’t until later. HS was out with a few of her friends, so I thought if things went well I could keep on, or go meet Inappropriate afterwards if I felt like it. Daters prerogative. As I readied myself, I text her saying I’d be the one with the lovely beard. At that point I wasn’t aware of the beard competition. She said I’d have to do more than that to stand out.

It was Saturday night and I’d had a fair bit to drink. Obviously – you’ve been reading this right? When I arrived, her and her friends – about 5 dudes – were all sat around in a booth in a small club I’d never been to before. She was sat at the back, in a darkened part, so actually speaking to her properly was all-round difficult. It didn’t bother me – one of her friends turned out to be a rather large fellow with a rather large beard and I essentially spent the next 45 minutes quizzing him on a) how long he’d had it, b) how he maintained it c) whether I could stroke it, d) whether he faced beard related questions all the time and e) whether it was okay to call a girl ‘sister’ as a milky-white man like me. I cannot tell you his responses.

Me and HS did manage one or two brief words with one another. The group were discussing what to do next, and they were planning on heading to a bigger, louder, darker, smellier club imminently. We all exited, and me and HS walked together. She asked me if I was going to come with them. I remember her looking at me, almost like…she wanted me to come. Her eyes were wide and vulnerable. She actually wanted to go somewhere else where we would actually have more time to talk. Maybe we could go about back and have a smoke together. Maybe we could have a dance. Have a bit of a flirt at the bar. Maybe go home together after.

After a pause of about 3 seconds, I said no, I was going somewhere else. So I went to go meet Inappropriate.

About 6 months later, I had a friend come visit me and was really struggling for ‘night-out’ company so him and I could go out and party with a group. I text HS. She replied saying sorry, she now had a boyfriend.

I was going to text back and say, “No, I really couldn’t care less, I just want my friend to come out and meet a bunch of people” but I didn’t bother. So we played Playstation instead.

And for the record, using the word ‘sister’ is cool.

That was the end of that.