The preamble:
Mr #17 and I had exchanged a few odd messages via t'interweb and then t'ext, and although he's quite a bit younger (and I'm thinking I should have learned my lesson on this a while back), he seemed articulate and intelligent beyond his years, so I thought why the devil not!
The man:
Age:24
Profession: Recently unemployed media sales person turned creative writing student
Random factoid: He'd not only just packed in his job as a media sales person in favour of impending studentry, he'd also managed to make himself homeless due to fallings out with his housemates. Clever boy.
The date:
Mr #17 and I met on the glorious Brick Lane, which automatically scored brownie points with me as it was close to home. Win. Sadly, that was about as good as the date got. When Mr #17 arrived, I was struck by how much like Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting he looked...if Matt Damon was uglier, spottier and gingerer. Someone been doing some Photoshopping!
Pretty swiftly my impression of Mr #17 was cemented. Within 15 minutes he told me I wasn't much of a flirt, probably because I wasn't perched on his lap pawing him already, although I just couldn't bring myself to tell him it was because I didn't fancy him remotely. Shortly after, he then enquired whether I had self-esteem issues, and then proceeded to flex his intellectual muscles by trying to psychoanalyse the fuck out of me. Er...what??? I've neglected to mention the fact that we were drinking spirits and mixers, although it rapidly became evident that he was on the doubles, whilst I was trying to keep a clearer head on singles. And I, it seemed, had to buy most of the drinks, on account of his recent unemployment.
Conversation was driven by him, and was essentially a tool for him to crowbar in as much of his knowledge of Freud, Nietsche, Marx, Lacan and other such heavyweights as he could. Thank god I paid enough attention at university, and how pleased I am that my £10,000 student loan was well spent on being able to stand my conversational ground on a first date.
It all came to a head when he used the immortal line 'I think all charities are evil' at which point I could stomach no more. He may have described what ensued as a heated debate, but I would put it more as a full on argument. Even after my insisting that if his nearest and dearest were struck down with something hideous and life-threatening, that he'd want to know some compassionate souls had donated money into medical research and support. But he still persisted with his whiskey-fuelled belligerence. That's it! Enough! I'm off!
We headed off back down Brick Lane, in silence, apart from the random clinking as he ricocheted off inanimate objects. Knowing I lived locally, he drunkenly offered to walk me home, but no way on god's earth was Twat Damon knowing my residence. Instead, I insisted on waiting at the bus stop, at which point he decided to ram his tongue down my throat. If ever the number 25 bus has ever saved my life, it was now. I literally impaled myself on the bus driver in my desperation to get away from HMS Thunder Tongue, wished the doors would close faster than the speed of light, and that was that.
The verdict:
Memorable Quotes:
'I don't talk to my parents much. My mum is fucking stupid and my dad is a pretentious twat'. Nice, really nice.
Events of note:
Seeking solace chatting to the rather lovely bar staff who noticed my relief at being able to get away from him for five minutes. Oh, and the nice girls in the toilet that I spoke to in order to further prolong my absence.
The verdict:
No no no no no no no no no no no and no.
Did I say no?
NO!
Seriously, he gives Mr #6 a run for his money! He texted whilst I was still on the bus trying to arrange a repeat meet, and I had to pull out the 'thanks but no thanks' card. His response? 'Oh! Why is that?' he asked, because he thought we were getting on so very well. Let me count the ways: you belittled me, you psychoanalysed me, you waved your intellect around like some great big wanky weapon, you're plug ugly AND you insisted I bought you doubles! But I've got news for you Sonny Jim...the last one I bought for you was a single, a single I tell you. Victory, albeit a small one, is mine. The hangover, however, is yours.
