A Series of Unfortunate Dates

A regrettably honest account by Devaki Jayal

London is a big city. Huge, even. One would hope that in the 4.5 million men that exist, at least ten, scrap that, one of them who would be equipped with the very basic understanding of social interaction it requires to take somebody out on a decent date. At this point, I wonder if they even understand the formula for a boring date, so bizarre and off-beat are the dates I have been taken on during my time here.

I do not want you, dear reader, to feel as though I am writing this piece to whine— I reserve the whining for dinners with my friends. On the contrary, you are to be gifted with the stories of my most special bad dates...also featuring some very generously donated anecdotes from comrades in battle. Enjoy.

Date One.

Meet Disappearing Bartender. In all honesty, he had been rolling his eyes at every drink he had to pour, so I should’ve seen it coming. Then again he was rather cute, and I’m slightly superficial. My friend convinced me to leave my number at the bar, I did so and then, like the confident, bold woman that I am, I legged it out of there.

We texted back and forth and then met up for coffee. It was average, slightly flirtatious, fine. What was fairly unfortunate was that I was nervously kicking the table leg for a solid hour of the date. Except that it was his leg. And I only realised after. I am also pretty sure that he thought I was trying to play some sort of hardcore footsie.

For date one, the date itself wasn’t really the problem....

It’s more so the fact that he asked me out on another date, and then went MIA. I never saw him again...

That’s a lie, I did see him again - in a café on a date with another girl. Also I think I should let you know that he hid—yes, actually hid—by hiding his entire male-body under the table when he saw me.

That’s all!

3/10

Date Two.

Meet...The Comedian. I think that’s what he’d choose as his pseudonym actually.

Ah, where to even begin.

He had a backpack on.

This isn’t the only time I’ve been on a date with a guy where he had a backpack on.

Hands holding the straps and everything. I really don’t think I need to explain why that put me off.

Anyways, after a significant portion of the date spent on listening to him tell me he’s a fantastic stand up comic, listening to him expectantly make convoluted jokes, watching me not get it, watching me not try to, he decided to...give me the run-down.

I would like to provide a disclaimer and say that I did try to steer the conversation to greener turfs MANY-a-times.

But comics are clever let me tell you, and he found a million ways to keep bringing up his ex- girlfriend. How they broke up. Why they broke up. Who she was currently seeing. For the record, she was Indian too! He made sure to make that very clear.

I did contemplate running away. At one point, I got up to go to the “bathroom" holding my coat, my scarf, and my bag. He looked a little mortified and so I chose to be gracious and decided against running away.

After guzzling down all the alcohol I could find in, and I quote, his “favourite shitty bar” that he had selected as the setting for our first date (what a charmer), I mumbled something about pizza night with flatmates, and again...legged it out of there.

I said no to the second date (surprise!), but let him know I was there if he needed to vent... Thankfully he did not take me up on my offer.

2/10

Date Three

Meet...The Smoocher. Perhaps the most tragic of all the dates. Such a fall from grace. The date began well! The weather was beautiful, the conversation was good, subjects of slight interest to me were breached. He had nice eyes. Alright, standards are low.

We wandered around Hyde Park, spoke about our childhoods, you know the drill.

Then I let him know I had to go for a lunch (I actually did this time, I swear) and we began walking to Knightsbridge station.

I was naively content with my first good date in London.

And then, simply because it is just impossible that it could remain this way, he pulled me onto a pavement in the middle of the most residential part of Belgravia, under the midday sun, and shoved his lips on mine rather intensely.

My eyes were wide open because I simply could not look away from the horrified expressions of parents and their children walking past us.

Eventually, he retracted his tongue into his mouth.

And I...legged it out of there and never saw him again.

Also, I told him I loved art and he said he only liked the art that “looked good.”

I mean, come on.

5/10

(PS - I asked my mother if it’s crass to give each guy a date rating. She said not at all. So there.)

And because bad dates is an affliction that has touched us all...here are some features from my friends!

Date Four.

Meet...The Aristocrat. Unfortunately, the name I give him does in fact stem from his unrelenting, and aggressive signet ring, yelling I went to the Ivy League! from its perch on his pinky finger. Lord above, just leave them at home, fellas. It’s fairly tedious to be able to tell that someone “summers” in Monaco, and spends every afternoon at The New York Metropolitan Club, all by looking at a piece of jewelry. Terrifyingly, I do not think I am generalising.

The Aristocrat had a fabulous talent for being able to speak about himself - more so than most men if you would believe it - which he spent several dates doing, whilst most modestly taking my friend to the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan. He was, even so, considerate as to brief her on the steep exclusivity of their memberships that he managed to valiantly traverse! Swoon!

I think I should mention this interaction between The Aristocrat and my friend:

Her: “I think everyone is gay”

Him:

Her: “Even guys who take me on dates”

Him: “Do you think I’m gay?”

(She did for the first two dates)

Her: “No”

Nevertheless, they continued to casually date for a bit, I even got the great honour of meeting him at a pub! He extended his bountiful generosity to buy us vodka sodas, with the sincerity of Jeff Bezos. Although I do not think they worked as long as he intended because we were entirely sober when we watched him go home with a girl who was... most certainly not my friend.

Ah, the mystery that is a man.

That being said, I don’t know how mysterious I would call his devolution over the course of the dates. He mentioned to my friend that he avoided learning about slavery and women’s rights because it made him uncomfortable.

3/10

Special Mentions:

Meet...Mama’s Boy. Because everyone’s encountered one: the men that have a rather large segment of their cognition devoted to their mothers, and it’s not as sweet as it sounds. My friend and I decided to bet on how long Mama’s Boy would go without mentioning his mother. I said fifteen minutes, she said five. It was thirty seconds in. And of course, in true fashion, he declared that he would never do his own laundry, only ever pay someone else to do it. Perhaps the act saddened him, for it reminded him too much of his own fondness for his mother when she was not in town.

There you have it people. The crème de la crème of my bad dates. On the one hand, these make me want to mentally block men out for the rest of my life like they do in that episode of Black Mirror. Then again, complain as I might, I do derive a truckload of entertainment from the incessancy with which men fail to possess basic awareness. So, until next time. Here’s to more..?