Get this. I’m hanging. Badly. REALLY BADLY.
I know, right? This is the perfect counter-balance to my last post declaring alcohol is the devil – link here
I woke up on this Thursday morning without an alarm, it was around 7am, I had about 1.4 blissful seconds of feeling great. Then it hit me.
Light was flooding into my room through the uncurtained window.
Last night’s clothes, including my new fave first date shirt (it’s a pink and blue check number – Sydney watch out), were strewn across my bedroom floor. A crumpled metaphor for how my body was feeling. Thought process went a bit like this:
“Fuck Fuck Fuckety Fucking hell!”
“What day is it?”
“Is it a work day?”
“What time is it?”
“SHIT! Am I late for work?”
“Has someone shoved a javelin through my skull?”
“Maybe I should call in sick”
“Why does my back hurt?”
“Did I leave my umbrella in the bar?”
“I need to piss”
“I REALLY need a sauna”
I’ve been told the blog can sound a bit preachy at times. Well folks, I will preach sod all today. I am a broken, shambolic mess of a man.
Look, I’m aware that I’ve slagged off booze. I’ve slagged off modern society. I’ve slagged off modern dating culture. I’ve even slagged off gluten (fuck you, gluten). Today I’m not slagging off anything.
No, today I’m down on my knees. My arms tied behind my back. Ball gag in mouth. Getting figuratively f*cked in the arse by this hangover, as my liver desperately attempts to restore some homeostatic balance to things.
I’m a flawed human, just like everyone else, and well, I got truly carried away last night. It was a first date. Whatever. It was bloody good fun. Would it have been as much fun without the ‘devil juice‘ coming along for the ride? No fucking way.
I’m not going to go into the specifics of the date too much, we met on an app and after two weeks of ridiculous role play text chat, which mainly centred on our failed marriage, her drinking, and our three delinquent children, we agreed to meet at a bar in the city last night.
Funny old start to the date to walk you through though; I rocked up about ten minutes late. I was washing my hair – Legit – I went to the gym to kill some time beforehand and pump up the guns – standard. Then I showered and washed my hair, it took a bit longer than I anticipated. Man’s gotta look sharp and smell good for that first meet.
So, I walk into the bar, I can’t see the girl so I plop myself down at the bar and introduce myself to the bartender, a young chap with a strong beard, and a garish tie. His name is Josh. I think this is an excellent move on a date, I often do this. I’ll tell you why:
- It’s basic human manners
- It warms me up, conversationally, before my date arrives
- I will, hopefully, look to my date, upon their arrival, like an outgoing normal kind of person who can engage with humans. I hope to be perceived as such.
- I can get some advice on which wines are worth drinking
- Later, if the date is going badly, I can ignore her have a good chat with the bartender instead
- I like to talk to people, it feels good to talk
Anywayyyyy, so I’m chatting to Josh, he’s poured me a well deserved glass of red, a French GSM (love a good red blend #winewanker), loving life. Josh has a girlfriend of four years. He has Sundays and Mondays off. Josh is Australian, but would like to pour drinks in London at some point. He’s hoping Brexit will mean that they relax the immigration rules to let more Aussie bartenders in.
A couple come stand at the bar near to where I’m sitting. The girl, sits down on the stool next to mine. I think “fuck it, I’ll chat to these two too” So I do. I tell them that they’re a great looking couple, and we’re off. The girl, ‘Melea’ is half cut already. The guy, ‘Al’ seems pretty sober. They’ve got a great vibe about them, quite the comedic duo.
Melea finds out I’m waiting for a date, a first date, and naturally, loves this – they proceed to interrogate the shit out of me, ask to see a photo of her. We decide they should come back half way through the night and run an interception. I suggest that they roll back over in a couple of hours and ask if the date is up for the foursome. Which incidentally they did.
I’m having such a laugh with Al and Melea, that I don’t notice until 7.28pm that there is no sign of my date. We were meant to be meeting at 7pm…. So I text her saying I’m at the bar, and ask her what she wants to drink. She texts me back saying she is also at the bar, and already has a drink. She’s been waiting there for 30 minutes, angrily texting her friends, probably on the group chat, and was about to leave. Brilliant. I brush it off, it’s all good. And we’re off. The rest is conversation, flirting, LOTS of flirting. I’m on fire. The warm up with Melea, Al and Josh has paid off.
Five or six glasses of red, a negroni and few glasses of overpriced Japanese scotch later I am full-blown wankered. Like properly properly blotto. My date has had a solid six or seven glasses of white. I think she’s drunk too, but I’m too drunk to tell. The date has escalated: my hands are on her, her hands are on me, we’re sat at the bar and snogging the faces off each other. At one point I lick her face.
“did you just lick my face?”
“Yes, I did just lick your face”
She responds by kissing me forcefully. This is great.
Fast forward, I’m in the toilets, trying not to fall face forward into the urinal. Al comes in. He’s also too far gone. We’re stood at the urinals having a grand old chat about how well my date is going. Al says:
“If it doesn’t work out, I work with a smoking hot single lass, you should go out with her”
(he’s Scottish, is Al)
So I give him my number, and we agree we should go for a beer, regardless of whether I date his hot friend or not.
After that I don’t remember much, I think me and the date PDA’d some more. I got home, presumably in a taxi. The umbrella made it back.
Happy days. The end.