Jack
It was the usual story for me: my flatmates dobbed me in for the date and I decided to go along with it. My date was a good old-fashioned Scarfie lass – a GB in the truest sense – and I thought we were in for a relatively good night. I was wrong.Initially, it seemed like dinner was going really well. She was drinking the wine as fast as me and we enjoyed chatting about the trivialities of life on a Castle Street that has basically failed to deliver its usual promise of extreme Scarfiedom. We even talked politics – neither of us is so sure that the Dynamic Duo is anywhere near as strong as the Logan days, but time will tell. She ordered food that was too hot for her which was sweet as for me – I basically got two meals, and she got quite drunk.
After a decent feed we were still going strong, and so we headed out to a bar … or five. It was after that that shit started to go downhill. Initially it was fine – conversation was even better than over dinner and I felt like we were actually getting quite close in that way that gets you excited for what could come next. But she started launching into me about not paying enough attention to her and getting too caught up in my own thoughts and priorities, which I think was really fucking harsh. I was just trying to keep what I thought was a really good conversation going. Being with an angry drunk is never fun and, to quote my Grandma, “it’s really unbecoming.”
I decided it was time for me to head to the hills and told my date that my mates were out drinking and desperate for me to join them. She acted all disappointed (“aww, really?”) which almost changed my mind again – after all, moments earlier I was sure I was going to get lucky – but the decision was made, and I wandered home alone (via town, just to make sure that my lie was believable).
Jill
I’m not sure what I wanted from this date. They seem to be either awkward as fuck or perfect, and I just had this gut feeling mine would fall into the “awkward as fuck” category. Naturally, I was right.Dinner was long and boring but the food was really good and the bottle of wine went down a treat. We had some decent conversation but the guy was just really self-absorbed and, at the end of the day, simply had nothing much of interest to say. I heard about his drinking habits and his exes and his time back home and his “epic” flat and I couldn’t have cared less. Ah, well.
As many people do on these dates I texted my friends about the mediocre/ middle-of-the-road guy I had been put with, but they advised me to just stick with it – apparently these people can be kinda fun sometimes. He wasn’t, but that’s okay. I downed my bottle faster and faster until I got myself to a point at which conversation was genuinely easy, and eventually I wasn’t in so much pain. I’d even go so far as to say that I started having fun.
I had a gut feeling that it was a mistake but I agreed to head out for a post-dinner drink at some of my favourite bars, and surprisingly it wasn’t too bad. Despite the boredom, the alcohol and close proximity had put me in the mood for a shag. I’m not a “do it on the first date sort of person,” though (I think they’re a rare breed these days even in more outrageous circles), so I flicked my usual teddy bear a text to see what he was up to. Nothing. Perfect. After our third (I think?) bar I excused myself to “see my friends who were having a party” and avoided his request to exchange phone numbers.
It was a good night all in all – thanks Critic for the feed and giving me something to talk about!