Quick confession: I’m wearing Bridget Jones style control pants at the age of 23. I also found two grey hairs earlier. With that out in the open let’s begin. I figured if you’re given the choice, opt for a date where if they turn out to have the personality of Piers Morgan in the body of… well, Piers Morgan, it won’t matter too much. For example a quick drink then the Canterbury Odeon 9.45pm showing of Drag Me To Hell. Pitch black and enforced silence. Perfect.
Thankfully I had already gained vital information via text. Not what they do for a living or their surname. Who cares? I went for the really important stuff. Are they offended by paedophile jokes involving beloved children’s entertainers? (No.) Which celebrity would they like to impale on a Judas Cradle? (Kate Hudson.)
The plan was simple, if it went well I’d just remember that delayed gratification is possibly the utmost symbol of emotional maturity and self-control. I’d also remember that emotional maturity and self-control are for losers.
Conversely if it was the most socially awkward night of my adult life I’d be awfully philosophical and look on the bright side, now having a humorous anecdote to write a droll blog about. Possibly put on my snuggliest pyjamas and curl up with a Peep Show box set and my dignity still mostly intact.
I went with neither of those options. I went with secret option number three. Fake tears about a mysterious bastard ex, scamper to meet your friends, let them get you heinously drunk on what appeared to be £4 glasses of meth and then ring your long suffering gay flatmate at 1.30am with some ‘specialist’ requests.
This is why I need to go on blind dates in the first place.
WORDS BY KATIE HICKMOTT
PHOTOGRAPH BY NUNO