It's just common courtesy, let alone sense, to get ready BEFORE picking up your date.

It’s quite obvious that I’m not stranger to a totally disastrous date, and Carrie Bradshaw thought she had it tough, bitch wouldn’t last one day on the gay scene; where the percentage of weirdo’s, time-wasters, arseholes, and commitment-phobes all increase massively. But on topic, this was one of the WORST dates I’ve ever been on, not the most fucked up, but just plain bad etiquette.

When he confessed his hots for me after a brief meeting in town one night, I was totally stoked. This boy was FINE! Unfortunately, he had the manners of a five year old with turrets. He’s supposed to pick me up at 8pm, so naturally I’m ready and waiting by 6pm. I felt like the fat girl that just got asked to the prom for the first time. Except, unlike Emma Gerber (Mean Girls) I wasn’t 70lbs overweight or wearing an ugly navy dress covered in sequins.

I’d waxed, trimmed, shaved, plucked, washed, dried, moisturised, cleansed, toned, exfoliated, straightened, jooshed, concealed, bronzed, brushed, ironed, and mascara’d – and the douche bag has left me sitting in my new shirt, getting more creased by the second. I hope he liked dried fruit cos I was bowling out that house looking like a five foot eleven prune. (Obviously not really, as I was in no rush, I ironed my shirt another three times while I was waiting).

After being two hours late to pick me up, he couldn’t even make it to the front door and made me walk ten minutes to go meet him. AS IF! If I’d known I was in for a lounging session and an exercise class I’d of worn sweats and trainers. Nobody wears pointy shoes for practicality. This was back when I thought dating meant you should dress like you would for church.

 

In the car, he’s blaring house music so we can’t even talk, or well I couldn’t. Cos she was running her gums, blabbing about some hag he’s friends with. I couldn’t even get a word in edge-ways to make a dig about his lateness. (I’d spent two hours concocting – “Sorry my shirt’s wrinkled, but I have been ready since NINE” – not too debbie but also telling her, if you’re EVER late to get me again, I’ll literally boil your balls in hot water).
So TWO HOURS after our arranged meeting time, and he’s STILL not ready. STILL!! OK, where the fuck was Ashton Kutcher cos this must’ve been a Punk’d set up. HELL-NO! Although they do say every cloud has a silver lining, and this one was a six foot three stud that drove a BMW. The cloud being that he was (a) socially inept and (b) have more boast than Samantha Brick.

Back at his place, where I wasn’t even offered a drink (nope, not even water), I watched him straighten every single hair on his head seventeen times while he talked non-stop about how much money he had and how many properties his dad owned.

“He should use some of that money to buy her a clue” – Whitney, Bring it On. Or at least some liquid beverages to give your guests.

Whatever, I should’ve left there and then. But I won’t penis-foot around it; he was hot, and I wanted to sleep with him. As if the “date” wasn’t already a catastrophe, when we finally make it out (at 00.30am) he takes me to the dreggiest bar in Soho. So Mr. Money where’s Daddy’s dollar now?!
I may sound like I’m spitting pure venom, but at least I wasn’t spitting absolute bullshit.
He then proceeded to talk to his ex-boyfriend (who worked at the said bar) with his back to me. I should’ve definitely left then, but like I already said – he was hot, and I was horny.

We followed the bar up with a club, I believe entry was £2 when his credit card was declined on the door. I didn’t even NEED to say anything, lady karma got there first… And she said it EVER so sweetly. DELUDED, DECLINED, DIVA.

He refused to drink, which agitated me EVEN more. I’m like, did someone leave a tap on? Cos you my friend, are a DRIP!
I’d rather he took drinks off me than was so mind-numbingly boring. I’ve literally had better conversations with drying paint. So I literally just got drunk and played over conversations in my head, as if he’d been interesting.
Back at his, I just wanted to hump and hope he’d never call again. There was a mystery in the air, would it happen? Would it be good? Would it drown out the pain of the last eight hours? We stripped, kissed, climbed into bed and…
…Slept.
So he was rude, broke AND frigid. The first time I saw him after this was over a year later, OFF HER TITS, sweating her cunt off and gurning like his jaw was off-set. Again… Thank you karma.

Gilet’s moral: Being rich and attractive counts for jack shit when you’re duller than dick wipes. And two years later if you’re mephed up and sucking off my friend in the doorway of a block of council flats, I’m no longer lusting girl, I’m laughing.