Me Love You Long Time | Issue 11
Critic’s blind date column has been running for a while now. We’ve all got some good laughs out of it, and at least a few people have scored themselves a night of romance. But here at Critic we feel that it’s time that we stepped it up a notch. The date is now at Little India to add a little more spice. But that’s not all; each week our blind daters will have an extra challenge to deal with, which they won’t be told about until they arrive for their date. If you want in on the action, email firstname.lastname@example.org with your details.
VIVIANSorry in advance if this write-up’s a bit rough. I’ve spent the last couple of hours curled around the toilet revisiting last night’s lethal combination of curry and wine. Spent the entire day yesterday studying every “totally normal, tall, good looking, smart” male I passed by as this is what Joe, Critic’s editor, had told me my date was in the emails leading up to it. I’d been told there was going to be a twist to my date and the change of venue to Little India made me think there might be a Vindaloo or something in there, a few cheap laughs for the readers. Alas, no Vindaloo.
Instead, my date was Joe Stockman himself. First thoughts are ohfuckohfuckohfuck my chat quality is going to need to be x100000 better than what I’d prepared for. I think back to the emails. Modest yet reasonably accurate self-description. Then – wait. How old is this guy? We play the age game – I’m too young for him according to the “half your age plus seven” formula (he explains that this comes from Islamic origins). I realise this is all very one-sided as he had the opportunity to Facebook stalk me beforehand.
He orders fish and garlic naan, has me thinking he’s writing off a pash early on in the night. We share respective Indian food horror stories. Go to bathroom, have 12 texts from flatmates: “Who is it? Is he a creep? Want a pick up?” Send generic reply to silence them. Nosy bitches. Move on to Albar. Halfway through our drinks he surprises me with a sneaky pash. Not complaining, also pretty good kisser. Traipse off to IBs, recommend for him a Jager and Ginger Ale. Doesn’t find his drink too pleasant.
Then comes his classic line, while staring into my eyes: “God, it’s so hard not to kiss you” followed by another pash. Wow. But a bit too intoxicated to care at this point. We begin the walk, buy another bottle of wine. Terrible call. Decide to have a naughty stopover at Critic HQ. All gets a bit ridiculous from here. Apologies to those Critic staff who are sitting on the couch with their morning coffee. Also apologies to Howie. I do hope the rumours about your amnesia are true. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and deal to my pash rash.
EDWARDWhy am I doing this? I was of course, cajoled and pressured into it, but still this can only end badly. And you have to question the morality of the Critic editor going on the blind date.
But I feel that I have to do it once. I need to know the terror that I am putting everyone else through on a weekly basis. Plus, working 70-hour weeks doesn’t leave much time for a love life. The first issue was whether to Facebook stalk … of course, I already have her email addy. I make it three days before caving in: One mutual friend and I can see her profile photos and – thank god – she’s hot. But really, isn’t that just more pressure?
I only just have time after work to shoot home, shower, didn’t shave; hope she likes the slightly rugged look, not going to help with making me look younger though. Smash a few Jagermeisters in the office with Howie, then head on down.
Am I underdressed? Do I smell? Is there shit in my teeth? Why do I care so much about making a good impression on someone that I have never met before, and possibly never will again? She turns up, looks great, smiles, and sits down: Here we go.
Dinner goes well, and the Corbans is gone quickly (why the hell did I make myself drink Corbans?) and she’s keen to carry on for another drink. We head to Albar for the Tuesday night Celtic band. I’m guessing she probably hasn’t spent a lot of time here (second-year law, living on Castle, probably more of a Cook fan). A cheeky whiskey, a cheeky half pint, and a cheeky pash … it’s going well.
Another drink at Alibi, another cheeky pash, and her reason for coming on the date becomes clear: “So, do I get to meet Howie now?” Seriously? You’re more interested in my cat than me? Damn you Howie. But yes of course you can meet him. Back to the office, we chuck some music on, and pop open another bottle of wine. Now, Howie is basically the most chilled out cat in the world, he loves everyone. But for some reason he is seriously unimpressed by this girl being on his turf. We have to leave before he kills her, and I walk her back home. A kiss goodbye and I’m walking back to mine, already thinking about tomorrow’s meetings and print deadlines.
At least she was cute. Thanks, ah, me?