This humdinger of a bad date took place about a year and a half ago. It was one of my first forays into the mad, sad world of tinder dating, and I had a lot to learn. Despite now realising that my tinder date’s profile had quite a few warning signs, naive little me set upon an evening of cocktails with Rory from North London.
Now, 26 year old Rory worked for a Media consultancy agency and was half German. As a German looking 22 year old working in another creative industry, I assumed we’d have a lot to talk about. I was actually excited. I feel for past me.
As a South East Londoner with cockney parents, I was rather alarmed when a super posh Rory pranced towards me across Soho Square. First things first, I am in flats and despite Mr Fibber’s profile saying he was 6ft, I was almost definitely only an inch smaller. Fab start. I was then greeted by not 2 cheek kisses, but 4 and was mildly horrified by the initial amount of human contact I was forced to endure with Mr Short.
After I’d got over the initial ridiculous accent (this dude genuinely sounded like a Royal correspondent,) we headed towards Oxford Street where he said he knew a great bar.
It Gets Worse
So we arrive at the worlds smallest cocktail bar where I feel the music’s vibrations in my pants (about the only feeling I got in my vagina that night,) and Mr Tinder pulls out a child size chair for me and gives me a cringey wink.”Sorry, I’m such a gentleman.” I wince, inspecting the stall my butt barely fits on. Seriously, what is it about trendy bars that offer primary school sized chairs?!
We order outrageously priced OTT cocktails (God I pray he’s paying when they’re £10.50 a drink,) and we get to the good stuff. Oh no wait -sorry, this is where he began telling me how much he could drink. Yep, great chat girls I know. For approximately 30 minutes, I learnt that Rory, the posh boy who grew up on a farm in Hertfordshire (seriously, could we be anymore different?!) could down a bottle of wine in 6 seconds, had once drank a pint of his friend’s piss at a rugby social and enjoys only the finest whiskey’s.
Having already accepted that me and my date had zero in common (not that he’d know as he’s asked fuck all about me,) I resigned to myself to a night of proving I can beat him on the drinking front. Despite my elbows positioned on the table and hands under the chin, a clear sign of my utter, painful boredom, did my date offer anything else of interest? Of course not! Dear Rory just began bragging about his banking job in the city, that his father (who calls their dad, father?) helped him get. This is where I call in the shots. And yet another cocktail (we’re on about 6 at this stage and it’s the only way I can see myself surviving.)
The majority of the date continued in this manner, me downing a drink and Mr Tinder boring me to death. I excused myself, unwilling to take much more and took a quick 5 minute cigarette break. Outside, I peer back in and see him grinning to himself – obviously very proud and blissfully unaware of my shear lack of interest in him or anything he has to say. I take my five minutes alone to text a friend and arrange the emergency call that I so desperately needed (yes, girls do that when need be,) and inhaled my cigarette with such force that I hoped it would kill me there and then.
The Messy End
I finally brave my return to the table, happy that my escape route call is due in approximately 10 minutes, and Rory continues his conceited anecdotes of his times in VIP clubs, some toff’s stuck up uni and how many women he’s dated (one of which was a model don’t you know!) It’s then that I realise that I must have committed a heinous crime of Karma at some stage in my life (or was this a blessing? I’m not sure)- as my toff of a date splutters – a sort of burp, vom motion, and grabs for a napkin. Eye bulging from my head, I realise that drinking pro Rory is in fact about the chunder at any moment. After screaming for him to vacate the area and run to the toilet, It is then, right or wrong, I quickly request the bill, pay it in full and get the fuck out of there.
So there is is. 4 hours, scabbed elbows and £90.00 later, I had escaped the worst date of my life. Despite receiving about 10 phone calls twenty minutes later (After he’d vommed his guts up,) and a text saying “Tad rude just leaving,” I decided to leave this absolute catch of a man to someone with more similar hobbies… or a death wish.