To say I am unlucky in love is an understatement. I’ve had more dates than I’ve had hot dinners (which is saying a lot, because I love to eat) and been ghosted more times than the Haunted Mansion ride.
I’ve had good dates too – although none of those spring to mind – but, to kick off “Dating Month” on the blog this week, I’m going to relive three of my worst ever dates, for your reading pleasure and because I can no longer afford therapy but writing it out helps:
The One with the Footballer.
Back in the days of BBM (Blackberry Messenger as if you could ever forget it), a man I didn’t know popped up. I still don’t know how he got my pin but strange men popping up on my phone was not unusual for me circa 2012 – I played it pretty fast and loose with the old digits. It turned out to be some footballer who offered to fly me up North for a date, which seemed slightly extravagant but hey ho.
He’d booked me a hotel for the weekend and I got drunk there as I waited for him. When he arrived, he seemed like a nice guy and I was looking forward to our date. I assumed that we’d get a taxi to a restaurant or something but his friend turned up to pick us up. It quickly became apparent that our date was to include 3 of his friends – not like that – and involved us going to the casino, where I got to watch them all on the roulette table for about 3 hours. The only thing to do was drink, and so I did. Next on our date was a visit to the strip club. Now, I have no qualms with strippers and use to waitress in a strip club but I am not one of those “fun” girls who thinks going to a strip club is a hoot and will make me look cool and relaxed to which ever guy I’m with. No. If we are on a date then the bare minimum I expect is that you don’t look at other females whilst I am there. I would like to think that isn’t asking too much.
At this point I decided to get so drunk that I would no longer care. I proceeded to get absolutely pissed out of my head, continuing this as we continued on to a club. I was so drunk that I fell through both a door and down some stairs and the footballer ended up making some ridiculous excuse about a family emergency in order to not have to take me back to the hotel. One of his friends took me back instead and I inevitably ended up sleeping with him instead as I have zero self-control and at that point needed constant validation from men.
I was supposed to be staying there two nights but one of his friends knocked the door in the morning to tell me that they’d checked me out early. Can’t really say I blame them. I had the worst hangover of all time and felt so fragile and broken that I decided that, instead of going back to London where I lived, that I would get the train back to Cardiff, where my mum lived, for a bit of TLC and some home comforts. I got on the first train that was heading that way but quickly discovered that instead of going down through England and across, it went across into North Wales and then slowly trickled its way all the way down until it got to Cardiff. All in all this took about 6 agonising hours. Welsh trains are quite literally Hell on Earth because they are so fucking old that they don’t have any plug sockets and, because it was a Sunday, the buffet cart wasn’t open. It was the worst journey of my life, rattling along through the depths of Wales, dehydrated, hungry and static with shame, and to this day, whenever I feel shit, I think back to how vile I felt on that journey and remind myself: “it’s been worse”.
The One with the Catsuit.
A few years ago I went traveling around America on my own for three months. Let me just put this out there – even though they never get my jokes, American men are literally the nicest men ever. Talking to them makes me feel like I was in some kind of constant rom com. New York was the first stop on my list and I’d only been there a few days when I met a guy in Central Park who asked if he could take me out that evening. He told me the nearest subway station to where he lived in the Bronx and texted me while I was getting ready to tell me that he’d be taking me to a place called “Applebee’s”.
Now, any American readers will know that “Applebee’s” is not exactly the epitome of class. For my British readers, I would compare it to going out for your tea in a Wetherspoon’s. However, I had no clue what an “Applebee’s” was and in order to impress my date, I turned up in the best outfit I’d brought, ready to see what wild and exciting nightlife New York had to offer. That outfit happened to be a black skintight backless catsuit, that I’d teamed with six inch stilettos. I turned up to the Bronx branch of “Applebee’s”, looking to all the world like Jessica Rabbit cosplaying as Catwoman, whilst everyone gaped at me in shock and some people even took pictures.
To make matters worse, my date – who was unperturbed – insisted on sitting right next to me, rather than opposite me and also insisted that we just have two straws and share every cocktail we ordered. When it came time to pay, he pulled out a wad of one dollar bills and for one panicked moment I thought he was going to start throwing them at me. I told him I was going outside for a cigarette and jumped in the first taxi I saw.
The One with the Oil Dealers.
Many moons ago, my good friend happened to be working as a PA for a very rich man who worked in the oil business. When I say “very rich” I don’t mean stunting for the ‘gram Gucci belt and bottles in the club rich I mean sickeningly, “throw Calvin Klein boxers away after one wear Justin Bieber” rich.
He was going to Paris for the weekend and needed his PA but said that, as he’d be in meetings a lot, she should bring a friend along for company. Enter me. We went business premier on the Eurostar, where the food and drinks were complimentary. In order to ensure that he got his money’s worth I ate mine and both of my travel partners breakfasts when they said they didn’t want them. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Once we got to Paris it transpired that the guy had planned to set me up with one of his friends, which was fine with me. He was a nice enough guy and also disgustingly rich, which has always made me feel slightly uncomfortable. I am not posh by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not even particularly classy. We went to this stunning Parisian restaurant where Madonna was also eating and I wore Primark leggings to eat a dinner that cost more than I had in my bank account at that time.
We then went to a club where the lavish displays continued. My friend is exactly like me. We both hate fuss and people that show off with their money. We were, quite literally, the two worst people you could take on a trip like that. If you want a women who wears designer and wants to drink vintage wines rather than a pint, it’s just not us.
“Oh my God, look at all those bottles”, I said, nudging my friend and gesturing towards 10 members of staff who were all making their way through the club with a treasure chest each filled with multiple bottles of champagne.
“Cringe”, she said, “I wonder who they are for. Oh my God, they are coming to us”.
We had to grit our teeth and smile, illuminated by a whole bonfire display worth of fucking sparklers as they tried to find space for all the bottles on our table. All in, I think the 4 of us managed to get through 3 bottles of the bloody stuff and the club just took the rest back. However, where there are bottles, there are girls and before you knew it we were surrounded by about 15 French girls who wanted to sit down at the table and my date was more than happy to entertain them. That life’s not for me either – I’m not going to come to the club with someone and sit there with a smile on my face, drinking champagne I didn’t even want, while they chat away to other women.
I was already annoyed and then, just to top the evening off and by a bizarre twist of fate, the footballer I mentioned previously turned up at the same club and proceeded to be seated at the table directly above us, which meant that everytime he sat down and I stood up, I was at his exact eye level. It was so, so mortifyingly embarrassing that my friend and I made our excuses and left early.
Once back at the hotel, my friend had a call from her boss to say that his friend’s wallet had gone missing and to ask if I had I taken it. I was absolutely fucking mortified. Of course I hadn’t taken his fucking wallet and the fact that I thought I would have was so embarrassing. You’re probably wondering why this would make my list of worst ever dates, given that I got to stay in a 5 star hotel and all that jazz but can you imagine how horrible it is to feel like you’re getting along with people and that they like you to then find that out that, when it comes down to it, they think you’re some chavvy little ungrateful thief? They rang back about 5 minutes later, full of apologies after finding that the drunken idiot had dropped it under the table but it was too late. Both the guys apologised endlessly to me but it ruined the rest of the weekend for me and I vowed never to stray out of my financial bracket again.
That my friends, is the tip of a very, very deep dating iceberg. My ability to both attract and then continue to entertain utter morons is second to none. What’s your worst ever date? Let me know in the comments & share my shame!