It may have come to some of your attentions that my travels were winding up. You were right. My finances and my freewheeling vibe were fast running on fumes – so I took my tanned, broke ass home.
Home for me is a town where you recognise people from their family resemblance rather than the fact you have actually met them before. So I figured I needed to get out of dodge. Enter – Bristol. That’s right, from now on, you’ll be getting updates from the West Country. Fueled by cider, a new lease of life and hopefully some pirate-type boat adventures.
As I am the new kid in town, I did what what anyone in my position would do. You guessed it. Got these grade A loins back on the meat market that is Tinder. Unfortunately, this didn’t really go as well as I’d hoped.
So, lets call date 1, ‘Aladdin’… I show up at the bar, which was very close to my new house, meaning: bonus/quick escape route. He’s already there and texts me asking what I’m drinking. Great stuff. I see him standing at the bar and not only is he taller than I thought, he is far better looking than his pictures – an occurrence rarer than rocking horse shit in Tinderland. Plus he drops in that he got a taxi here from another part of town that is dog dick far away. Maybe cupid is smiling down on me?
We got chatting and it’s a little awkward, but I smile and try to ask leading questions. I have been on about 45 interviews in the past few weeks and I see Tinder dates as no different, apart from this is more like I’m potentially giving them the job of getting my knickers off.
He kicks off by apologising about the state of him because he went to a rave last night and is on a massive comedown. “We’ve all been there, I’m impressed you’ve made it out!” I say kindly. It raises a small alarm, but I really have been there and my name isn’t Judgey Von Holier Than Thou, so we settle at a table.
Five minutes into the date he asks where I’m from and when I tell him, he casually replies “oh yeah, my ex missus’s parents are from there.” Right, you neglected to mention you have an ex wife.
That’s OK I think… people have a past now we are closing in on 30 (that they tend not to mention so fucking early doors, but lets breeze past it). “Yeah well I didn’t have my little girl last night so…” he slips in, almost mumbling. OH COME ON MATE. Can’t you just do as all the other guys and plop an obligatory pic of you with a sprog on your shoulders up so everyone can decide if they want to be a step mum before they iron their best blouse and trek out in the minus two weather? The rest of the chat is fine, but I have no money to buy any more drinks and he’s got the last three rounds in.
“I’m gonna shoot off, got a big day tomorrow!” I pipe up when there is a lull in the conversation. His eyes widen and he looks horrified in the way that only a man that has been up until 6am chewing his face off can look.
Aladdin: Was it something I said?!
Me: God no, I promise, I just have a big day tomorrow and it’s a school night
Aladdin: I am staying even if you aren’t – sure I can’t tempt you to stay?
Me: Ok… go on then one more.
Aladdin: (comes back from the bar) I got you a better wine as a thanks for staying.
This is like shooting fish taped to the end of my barrel at this point. I stay for a few more and we actually move to a different pub. You’re probably thinking, this all sounds OK, come down, the ex and secret love child aside. I guess it was really but despite more protests I take myself home and leave him to get a taxi.
Then comes the stinger. The next day I wait patiently for a ‘thanks for a nice time, I like/don’t like you. Let’s do/not do this again’ text. That text, my friends, never comes. He just disappears. Poof! Gone! Me and my harem believe there is a island where all these men live, the isle of wankers, where cowards and ne’er do wells reside when they have a date they were expecting to end in a vaginal garage to park in and never got to seal the deal.
Low and behold, a few weeks later flicking through tinder and who appears but Aladdin! I swipe right out of morbid curiosity… it’s a match…sur-fucking-prise. I take my chance to get a final chapter to this story:
Me: Hello Aladdin, I thought you’d died!
Aladdin: Oh hi sorry – I was off tinder for a while because I had a family bereavement.
Me: Oh no, so sorry to hear that.
Now I have a few issues with this:
- It’s bullshit
- Unless it was your thumbs and or mobile phone provider that died, then I am afraid that’s not a good enough excuse for being a digital deaf mute.
- It’s been three weeks, you’re now over this well timed death and are ready to get your willy wet again. Pull the other one mate, it’s got bells on.
He asks me out again. I inform him politely, I’d sooner give a dog a blowie. The hunt continues…