Me Love You Long Time | Issue 12

Me Love You Long Time | Issue 12

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 with your details.

We’ve mixed things up again this week: Rather than let the blind daters report back on their own dates, we sent the Critic interns along to play third and fourth wheels, and report back on the awkwardness …


She had really wanted him to be a doctor. Instead, she got a PE student who had fucked her flatmate in first year and left her with bruised thighs. Apparently it had something to do with his big hips.

She started sensibly, opting for only a few pre-drinks to calm the nerves and resisting ordering the garlic naan, all the while we encroachingly observed from across the table. But when he snuck away to the bathroom and the meals had arrived, her impatience shone through: “Can I eat without him?” Upon his return, a romantic attempt to feed her a bit of mango chicken dipped naan exposed her distaste of the evening: “Your meal is pretty fucking average.”

But regardless of her rapid transformation into a decisive and demanding she-devil, and her declaration that he was the “cockiest cunt I have ever met in my life”, talk of marriage was already on the table. She coaxed him into a public display of affection and had him down on one knee placing her very own Karen Walker bow ring upon her newly expectant left hand while she blurted out a half-arsed “I will.”

The wine began to drain, and she was now on his lap. It was time to talk about the technicalities of marriage. (1) The prenup. They say always use protection. (2) The in-laws. She was curious about her future father-in-law: “Is he hot. Like fuckable?” Upon hearing he looked like her date with darker hair she said that she “could work with that.”

We all scurried out of the ethnically appeasing Little India for her first ever venture to “Vice-a-versa” (or Vi Va Ce for the more culturally aware). But not before a bit of bus-stop lip-banging for us to froth over.

She suggested that they head in the direction of home and “see what happens”. The happy couple managed to ditch us somewhere near the Rob Roy. But our peeping from behind a picket fence seemed to expose an imminent breakdown. There looked to be kisses, the draping of arms around one another, and maybe even tears. After several minutes she turned her back on him. There would be no parting of legs tonight, just a parting of ways. But there was always her father-in-law …


Arriving fashionably late seemed classy after he put down his no-label bottle of wine “straight from the vines.” His pre-date preparation of “throwing some tin” Geordie Shore-styles had paid off however. He looked pleasant.

We arrived just in time to interrupt their flamboyant conversation, presented them with their wine and told them that we would be tagging along, which went down as well as some of his pick-up lines. Him: “How do you like your eggs?” Her: “um … I don’t know, like boiled …?” Him: “No… poached, scrambled or fertilised?”

He was soon regaling us with stories of life on Hyde Street, and how the Hyde St Party was the best week of his life: After taking two pingas and being up for 36 hours, the come down was mad. He admitted to crying when he heard Coldplay’s “Fix You” during this very depressing period, proving he had a deeper side to him contrary to his tin-throwing appearance, which he enhanced by a wearing a shirt one size too small.

He then spilled out that he had hoped to meet his soul mate on the blind date. With this tactically skux move, they both agreed that they most definitely should get married just for the night. Not knowing her intentions, and only having $7 on his eftpos card, he asked for a pre-nup so he could keep all his shit.

He got down on one knee and proposed. Stoked to get an “I will,” mummy’s boy decided to call his mum on his parents’ 30th wedding anniversary to tell her of his joyous news. She was not quite so ecstatic. “Would you concentrate on your bloody studies?” and hung up. Much to his despair his date stated the obvious – they were probably having Anniversary Anal.

After finally pouring his date’s wine like a true gentleman, they sifted off to Vi-Va-Ce’s where he wouldn’t even fork out $4 for a song. We decided to give him one last opportunity to pull out any remaining hymen-breaking chat on his bride-to-be.

Even in the dark and hidden behind a fence we witnessed his walk of rejection home. Maybe she did really believe in no sex before marriage. Or perhaps she was turned off by him slipping “LMFAOmayonaise” into the conversation.
This article first appeared in Issue 12, 2012.
Posted 7:58pm Sunday 20th May 2012 by Lovebirds.