The Pourer

This story goes back to a time when there was no Tinder.  There was however – Facebook.  So begins the romantic tale of the 21st century.  Or as I like to call it – the worst date I ever had.

One day I had a random guy pop into my mail box.  This guy was by no means unfortunate looking in the slightest.  In fact, after a bit of light Facebook stalking, it transpired he was a model. Apparently my image had appeared and he just had to ask me out.  This was the first time I had been approached this way but we got to talking and arranged to rendezvous.

I am sure most girls have their own sets of “rules”.  Mine so happened to be not to go to a guy’s apartment on the first date.  I don’t have to explain why this is a bad idea and if you are in any doubt you definitely won’t be after reading this shit show.  Skipping dinner on a first date has been another I have adopted to avoid a lengthy conversation where I would rather climb out of the bathroom window and run through fields, barb wire and electric fences, to get away.

We arranged to meet in a local bar.  Since he had his car I guessed this wasn’t going to be a wild night.  My go to date bar which was usually pretty chilled and generally not rowdy, was anything but.  This resulted in shouting into each other’s ears which as you all know is the pinnacle of romance –a near burst ear drum.  Now this is where the game changer kicked off “I have wine back at mine do you want to go up there instead?”  As this goes against my rule you would think I would have said no right?  Wrong.  For some reason, probably the fact I really wanted a wine and was annoyed the bar wasn’t playing ball, I went against my better judgement and accepted.  I wasn’t completely mentally vacant.  I did contact two of my friends with the address and SOS instructions before departure (stranger danger kids).

We sat down on a 3 seater sofa, him on one side and me on the other.  He popped on some music and broke out the wine and two large glasses.  When he began to pour my wine I should have realised this guy was a novice when said glass was almost so full it overflowed over the fucking table -should have just asked for a straw.

It didn’t’ take long for the equally shittily poured wine of his to be rinsed down the hatch. After chatting a bit and watching him sink the second glass like a convict in a prison food hall, things began to take a turn for the worse.  Mid  sentence, old mate starts singing (I use that term as loosely as his hand was pouring the vino).  I’m talking full high pitched, hair brush in the mirror when no one is watching, lady gaga style.  Feeling slightly awkward I tried to soften the weirdness with some light banter “should I have brought my tambourine?!”

At that point he stopped…. staring into my eyes trying to focus while his pupils were wildly dilating, he slid across the sofa and (slapped) his hand down on my knee.  Proudly staring up at me like he just climbed Everest.  At that point, I felt it was my cue to make an Uber escape.

I politely excused myself to the bathroom and proceeded to make the SOS call like a Liam Neeson film.

“The guy is totally off his face come and retrieve me haha!” I was giggling down the phone telling my friend.  “Go through, get your coat and walk outside.  I will meet you there”.  While grabbing my coat quietly from the upstairs bedroom (where the toilet was situated) I began my descent down the spiral staircase to the living room.  As I made my way down the steps alcho jean here was laying face down on the floor.  I stopped dead in my tracks…. I noticed he had some white substance running down his leg.   You are all thinking the exact same thing right now don’t deny it. I stood there genuinely disgusted and horrified.  Just when I was away to take some action I heard a gargling noise coming from the floor.  At that stage I realised that he was actually being sick.  Full blown bile, exorcist style, I go all paramedic at T in the Park mode trying to remember the recovery position and wondering where is that fucking full wine glass when you need it.

 I couldn’t leave him like that,   so at this point (back in the Nokia days) I decided to “phone a friend” and see if someone more qualified could come and alleviate the burden.  After coming across a brother I thought I was saved!  Unfortunately this brother lived in England… “look I am going to have to call my mum and dad to come round”.  Great.  What was even greater was that these parents were Jehovah’s witnesses.  Again where is that wine glass.

I sat down on the sofa with my glass of wine, staring at the casualty and sipping slowly until they came.  Making small talk, I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for them… that was until his mum wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted driving me home.  Instead of being generally mortified that a random girl is sitting in her sons living room making sure he doesn’t choke on his own spew she took this as a marketing opportunity to try and pimp her son out  “he isn’t usually like this” “he must not have eaten” “he doesn’t usually drink much”… no shit Sherlock. Back to the drawing board………..