Critic’s infamous blind-date column brings you weekly shutdowns, hilariously mis-matched pairs, and the occasional hookup.
Each week, we lure two singletons to Dog With Two Tails, ply them with food and alcohol, then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this svounds like you, email critic@critic.co.nz. But be warned —if you dine on the free food and dash without sending us a writeup, a Critic writer will write one under your name. And that won’t end well for you.
His - O.J.
My flatmates decided to sign me up for this date without my knowledge (LOL thanks Rusko, Pies, Smithy, Biffer, Boffer, Bombur and Thorin Oakenshield – you know who you are), and as a student of “Love Is Blind” tropes, I decided to fully commit to the experience and got thoroughly sloshed beforehand.
We ate at Dog With Two Tails, which was slightly awkward for me because my great-uncle worked at Chernobyl. But I’m a sucker for miniature trains – an extremely attractive quality, as I’m sure my date would agree – and there was free wine, so on balance I was mildly satisfied.
I stood awkwardly outside the restaurant until her car pulled up. She told me her name was Charlie, and gave me some Charlie’s orange juice so that I’d remember. I was feeling a connection. Mike Puru appeared from nowhere. “Ladiesh,” he slurred. “It’s time for your date.” He ushered us inside. I really hoped we wouldn’t have to wash any dogs, especially not if they were irradiated mutant freak dogs with multiple tails.
The only thing that flowed better than the conversation were my tears, the clouds of cumin stinging my eyes like a fine yellow mixed metaphor. I don’t remember exactly what I ate, but I think there was a lot of hummus, which would explain the weird brown stains all over my clothes the next day.
She told me she was studying the ontology of hermeneutic interpretations of gender among early-period post-structural Frankfurt School offshoots, so naturally we had a lot in common. After the meal, she invited me to challenge the integrity of our empirical senses through the performative intake of socially validated toxin, so we got drunk at Pop bar and had some sharns.
Things were going well, and signs were positive for our synergy going forward, so I decided to take things to the next level. “Will you accept this rose?” I stammered, thrusting forth some wilted leaves that I’d scooped up outside. She recoiled slightly. “That’s okay, I actually have a husband and three kids,” she said. “I’m just here to research a PhD on awkward social situations.”
Thanks for nothing Critic, go fuck yourselves.
Hers - Charlie
I rocked up to the blind date after pregaming with the flatties (who had ever so conveniently pulled a red card when I told them about my date). Maybe this was a mistake, as when I met my mysterious stranger I had trouble believing my eyes. He was very handsome, but obviously very nervous. As my flatmate pulled away from the kerb (cheers for the sober drive, you the real MVP), he offered me a bottle of orange juice, introduced himself and made what I think was a joke about the name of the restaurant.
We went inside, and he waved behind him at the empty air. Clearly the folks at Critic thought it would be a laugh to set me up with this guy, but I was pretty pickled and was willing to give it a go. Plus, he wasn’t half bad looking-- a bit on the short side and a little hairier than I’d usually go for, but hey, YOLO right? I should have seen the warning signs when he ordered hummus for dinner. Instead, I ordered my meal (a burger) and excused myself to go to the bathroom.
When I returned, my date was crying and rubbing handfuls of hummus vigorously onto the fronts of his trousers. Little puffs of spice (nutmeg maybe?) got up my nose as I returned to the table. I’m still not sure what was prompting the tears: the entire contents of the Dog With Two Tails spice cabinet? Was the hummus bad? Or were they tears of joy? I attempted to comfort him, but he wasn’t really coherent at this point. Was he drunker than I was?
Our lovely waitress arrived with a bottle of Appletizer which I assumed my date had ordered. She gently asked if everything was ok, and my date nodded yes through his tears and choked out something bizarre about sausages or hot dogs. It was here that it got a bit too weird. I told him my flatmate was feeling sick and that I had to go and as I turned to go, he grabbed my wrist and shoved a pile of wilted lettuce into my hands. I noped the fuck outta there and as I left I heard him urgently telling the waitress about roses and husbands? I didn’t stick around to find out.
Cheers Critic for the valuable life lessons I learned! PS: my Tinder haul that night was as fruitful as the blind date was not.