Worst Dates of 2011

You know when you’re pining for someone after a date? It’s rare. It feels amazing. It’s the sign of a good date. But not all dates leave you feeling this way. In fact a lot of them make you want to give up the dating world all together. 2011 was not a good dating year for me. Here are some of the more memorable gems which I share with you for your viewing pleasure:

I love my cat alright!

Kicking off at number 3 is a date I thought had promise; after all this guy chased me across 3 different websites. He was slightly younger than me, slightly fairer than me (oh yes) and had GREAT tits. Not too worked out, not too flabby. He was super keen and seemed interesting so we arranged this date in a pub in the West End.

In my prep for this date I got a fandangled new haircut, you know the big side fringe shaved parting? It looked amazing. This guy rocked up and the first thing he did was comment on my hair. Good start I thought, it got his attention. But then as we progressed, noting things we had in common, he’d look at my hair and fight back, insisting actually he was quite different from me. He asked how my acting was going. I told him I wasn’t an actor. He said he just assumed from my hair.

He’d then ask me leading questions, like where do you go out? Only to reply he really doesn’t go out at all. This went on for a while and it was interesting to watch him row with my answers to his questions. Then came up his cat. So he had one. He loved it. It had a name, I don’t remember. I looked at the photos. I said it looked nice (it wasn’t, it was fucking ugly). By this point, I’m hoping just to give one of his boobies a squeeze.

Nope. He became a bit hysterical about his cat, how he was a Dad to his furry friend, a home body and – with the fear growing in his eyes that darted from my hairline to my face – he then needed to leave right there and then and run back to little kitty in suburbia.

In my head, the date went as follows: He walks towards me all smiles, he shakes my hand, he recognises me as a slaughtering psychopath and his face drops; he pulls his hand away saying ‘no, No, NO!’ and turns on his heels, running screaming in the opposite direction.

I mean what. The .fuck. You’d have thought he’d gone on a date with the Devil’s Haircut. He couldn’t get past it, fought against it and then ran from it. He went back to his cat. I went home and had a wank.

Erm, No.

Ah, coming in at number two is one of the shortest dates of my fucking life. I got chatting to a guy online, and we arranged a date. I was picking him up at his house (seriously) and then we were heading out. I got ready, texted to say I was on my way, all good, got there, all good, he answered the door, stood there, looked at me and said:

Erm, No.

And he shut the door.

This just isn’t working for me

And at number one is the creme de la resistance of all worst dates. Ominously, it was also my very first date of 2011. You could say I was starting at the bottom and working my way up:

So: same old same old; guy online, chatted for ages, I REALLY REALLY liked this one. We got on well, had good banter and he was super sexy, completely my type. We were going to meet at a bar but he suggested just coming round to mine for drinks. Ding ding ding! Oh why not I say, you are speaking my language. He comes over, he looks great, I look great, I’ve got Gin, the flat is spotless and he seems to like everything so far. We hit it off, had a really good laugh and things progressed exactly the way you would want them to.

Cut to me straddling him on the sofa (gross but keep going) and we are making out. Hands wandering making out. T-shirts starting to come off making out. And then, mid snog, full passion flowing, he stops me, pulls back and says:

So, erm, I don’t know about you, but this just isn’t working for me.

Then he sniggers a bit, then looks at me like ‘why are you sitting on me?’ It takes a moment for my head to take control (the cock had taken the helm by this point)  and realize two things. A.) he is not joking. B.) He wants me to get off of him.

I dismount. I pull my t-shirt down. I take a very long, very slow mouthful of my drink. He says:

I hope I can stay, I’d really like to keep chatting to you.

I manage to utter the reply:

I think you should drink up, I think I’m quite tired.

I have no idea how we were able to look each other in the face for the remaining minutes he was there. I also don’t think it dawned on him quite how horrific the situation was. But I do take comfort in the fact that no date I’ve ever had to date as ever topped this one as being so mortifyingly bad.

Everyone has a bad date story. But should they make you quit the game altogether? Definitely not. Because when you get the buzz from that one good one; the spark, the excitement, the chemical reaction; nothing beats it.

So 2012, get your game face on, splash on your best aftershave, get amongst it and make it dirty!


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