Me Love You Long Time | Issue 23

Me Love You Long Time | Issue 23

None of you read this anyway. Itís just that little weird standfirst bit above the action below. But anyway ... The Blind Date has been at Metro bar for the last few weeks, and it sounds like theyíve been putting on quite a show. Great feed, good drinks, excellent service etc etc. If you want in on the action, email with your details.


Initially, I had this fucking terrible feeling that I would be shafted with an awful human, like some first year who decided that her studies compromised her ability to socialise. However, I ended up with this bloody tops girl, a forth year who not only had a great demeanor but also had awesome chat, varying from her love of Disney movies to her hatred of shrimp on pizza.

Either way, the lass was alright. After a bit of pizza and some hilarious comments about how the blokes sitting across from us were having marital problems (yes we thought they were extremely into each otherís appendages) we did some shots and by christ they were fucking potent. If I didnít mention, they shifted the date to Ratbags... if you ever get the chance to go there, ask for the Bartender who makes Backdrafts, that shit is awesome, set it on fire and shit.
Anyway, we watched a few crackup music videos being put on and then decided to move our little rendezvous to any place that serves drinks. Well the bog was open and it had some seriously shit poetry going (some lady loved her cat heaps... yea like to the point where she wrote poetry about it) and had some super in-depth chat about why the life of a scarfie was so tough at times. Well, we bought a few more beers and watched a bit of the the Dally M ceremony, but with the mute on it was hard to hear Darren Lockyerís rape voice, but instead decided to leave the poets on and a bit of the average guitar playing hippies. So we left the olí Bog and moved off to Maccas. Yea Maccas, whilst on the way doing some community service by moving some cones around and, well, the cheesy was bloody good.

So after that decided to walk her home, not because she was on the way, but because she was an awesome character. In the end, numbers were exchanged, and both agreeing that it was a good night but both not ready for serious shit. Good night, shot Critic for a free feed and piss, plus not setting me up with a cunt.


I had my cougar on and a bottle of Chardonnay forced down me by the scheming but well-meaning flatmates. I was ready as ready could be. My flatmates were actually more excited about this than I was. At Metro an apologetic manager and a team of leering builders redirected me across the road to Ratbags, where I was again redirected to upstairs IB. Being the first to arrive a strong gin and tonic was on the cards, along with a small pep talk from the babiní bartender.

I canít really recall my first impression. I remember a blue puffer, a strong handshake and a cheeky grin. Iím okay with that.

We drank the bar tab as fast as the conversation flowed, which thankfully started with acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation. We then decided it didnít matter and braved the garlic prawns pizza anyway. He supplied the best banter and hilarious stories, whilst maintaining a sweet boyish charm. We bonded over his inability to burp (runs in his family), our original hometown of Wellington and Justin Timberlakeís frosted tips. Heís such a sweetheart and it turns out I know his cousin; itís a small world after all.

After pestering the bartenders at IB we roamed the streets causing some road sign tomfoolery until eventually The Bog was the only place left open. Cool. Did you know it was poetry night on Tuesdays? Neither. But poetry was apparently open mic night and a talented duo singing The XX saved the night. It was here in the dim light with cheap beers that we poured out our hearts to each other.

Despite this we both ended up admitting no attraction (initially he reminded me of my little brother). But somehow he sneaked in a sneaky kiss or so after plying me with more beer and those Listerine fresh mint strips. NOT brotherly at all. Awks, I take back the friend zoning.

Ever the gentleman he treated me to the finest food McDonaldís has on offer, let me wear his puffer and even walked me home. I would definitely hang out with this guy again, yet I feel friendship is on the horizon rather than romance. But then againÖ

High five to the Critic team for the great night and to the bartenders for being awesome and letting us dominate the playlist. Everybody loves the 90s right?
This article first appeared in Issue 23, 2012.
Posted 4:03pm Sunday 9th September 2012 by Lovebirds.