The worst thing about internet dating is the actual dates.
Meet Adrian, aged 49, builder, and a bit of a knob. I knew this because I’d met him years ago when he’d built a shed for my neighbour. Last week he contacted me through my oh-so-fabulous dating site, and suggested dinner.
I wasn’t keen. He wore down my resistance, and we compromised with takeaway pizza at his house. Do I know how to have fun, or what?
I knew Adrian had a dog because he’d posted a photo of it on his site. A ratty looking, terrier thing with an evil glint in its eye, so I took my dog along. Mainly because I thought they’d scrap and I’d have an excellent excuse to make a fast getaway. Wrong! They immediately became the best of Pedigree Chums, the traitors!
Well, Adrian built his house and I was honoured to have the guided tour. I couldn’t comment on the actual building because I couldn’t see any of it underneath the piles of junk, hanging cobwebs and filthy, dirty dishes. It was foul! Even the dogs declined to jump on the furniture for fear of the resident wildlife…
I perched precariously on the edge of a chair, nursing tea from a stained, chipped mug and wondering how the hell I was gonna dispose of it, when the ratty dog thing leapt on my lap, bouncing me backwards. Adrian was warbling on about his new teeth, screwed in that day and giving him jaw-ache. Well, that made two of us. The terrier thing lunged at me, pinning my hair down to the back of the sofa, and started snogging my face. I couldn’t move! Hot tea was slopping down my leg. I tried swatting him away with my free hand but the mutt was on a mission. My dog, thinking Woof! That’s a fun game! jumped up and squatted on my free arm. (He’s a big, butch labrador, but he has no brain.)
It was a canine snog-fest with me caught in the middle, making this muffled, strangulated noise out of the corner of my mouth; I was too scared to open it – a dog’s tongue would’ve been in there tickling my tonsils. ‘Gerrofff….’elp….meeee…’toff… fcks…seck….arghh…’eeellllpppp…’
Adrian was completely oblivious. He was too engrossed in his new diatribe against self-obsessed women to notice that his dippy, demented dog was eating my face.
Us girls only want a bloke for his wages. Nobody’s interested in a lowly builder. Poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he isn’t bringing in the dosh.
If I could’ve opened my mouth, I would’ve put him straight: poor Adrian can’t find a woman because he’s a bit of a knob.