Dates From Hell

My worst date? Oh, where to begin. Perhaps with the charity blind-date night I was pressured to sign up for in my first year of uni. On the form we had to submit, I had answered honestly that I was bisexual, which freaked out the (straight, somewhat sheltered) young chap I was matched with right from the get-go. He kept asking if I was sure I wasn’t gay and wouldn’t rather have been paired with a woman. (I would have, purely to have avoided him.) Anxious to break the ice and alleviate his obvious discomfort, I suggested he buy me a drink in the first student bar we went to — bedecked with hideous pink tinsel in honour of the occasion. Somewhat huffily, he did. I reciprocated at the next bar, only for him to down it in seconds when he spotted a girl he actually fancied across the room, at which point he sheepishly asked whether I’d mind terribly if he went off with her instead. Rather than prolong the awkwardness, I graciously let him go. One month later, I heard he had turned our ill-fated encounter into a stand-up set at his college’s comedy night and was telling audiences about the ‘lesbian’ he’d been set up with, who demanded he pay for her drinks and then didn’t even have the decency to go home with him. Mike, if you’re reading, you’re a twat.

One month later, I heard he had turned our ill-fated encounter into a stand-up set at his college’s comedy night and was telling audiences about the ‘lesbian’ he’d been set up with, who demanded he pay for her drinks and then didn’t even have the decency to go home with him. Mike, if you’re reading, you’re a twat. You see, I have something of a hang-up about not being paid for on dates. (At least with men — a woman can buy me however many drinks she likes: mine’s an Old Fashioned, thanks for asking.) And with good reason. Some seven years after the blind-date fiasco, I succumbed to the toxic hellscape of Tinder and Hinge and a certain charming gentleman who proudly told me he worked in finance invited me to a cocktail bar in Soho. On a sky-high rooftop with prices to match, I told him before we ordered that it mattered to me that we split the bill. We had a wonderful night, until I stepped out to take a quick phone-call and returned to find he’d paid for everything. How sweet, you might say, if you think blatantly ignoring a woman’s clearly stated boundaries is sweet.

Ever the good girl, I said a polite thank-you and decided not to hold it against him. I even let him kiss me goodnight. After which he informed me, “I’d love to see you again, and I’ve just spent eighty quid on you so you have to say yes.” Reader, I never saw him again. I have learnt over the years that men can be easily confused, so it’s best to start a relationship on the grounds you mean to go on. I don’t believe in traditional gender roles in any other aspect of my life (except possibly spider removal), and if they’re going to have a problem with that, I’d rather find out before we both waste our time. The best test is to turn expectation on its head. Insist on a first date somewhere you have the upper hand — a restaurant you know well, or, even better, somewhere you’re lucky enough to have substantial credit behind the bar. Let him lose himself in the sheer opulence of the whisky menu, then calmly let him know the drinks are on you. If he panics, he’s not worth it. If he thanks you for your generosity and orders the 18-year-old Talisker, you know you might have a chance. And, in my experience, he’ll be extra eager to reciprocate in other ways later. On an entirely unrelated note, my husband and I always celebrate our anniversary at Boisdale. He ordered the scotch

Dating apps are an inexact science, but I’ve generally been quite good at filtering out the incompatibles long before any in-person interaction occurs. We all have our particular red flags: inspirational quotes in their profile bios; openers that are either dull — “How is your day going?” — or downright apocalyptic — “What are you up to this weekend? Hope you don’t get up to too much mischief with your cheeky smile and vibes.” (Yes, this is an actual thing someone once said to me on Hinge.) One potential Mr Right began with the promising line, “Wow, you are beautiful”, then pivoted, moments later, to: “Oh my God, I just realised who you are. Sorry, I don’t date fascists.” Having finally escaped prolonged deployment in App-ghanistan, I agreed on a date with someone I’d met, in person, at a party. These days, that’s a bit like admitting you met your partner over the Spinning Jenny or at the bash they threw to celebrate the discovery of fire. So it was that I found myself in a particular establishment in the West End. I arrived first, so had time to observe the other clientele. In fact, I had rather a lot of time as it turned out, as increasingly pathetic WhatsApped excuses as to why he was late began to stream in. I began studying my fellow diners: braying bankers indulging in that most potent of pairings, Guinness and coke. Then there were the plethora of obnoxious Instagram women taking pictures of their steak but rarely doing more than nibbling its borders. Finally there was the odd tourist, wondering how they’d stumbled into a Hogarth print.

Not only was my dinner date very late, it soon became clear that he’d turned up drunk, too. Not just ‘two martinis’ tipsy, either — clearly an entire afternoon’s-worth of heavy drinking had been involved here. I’m all for getting a bit squiffy over dinner, but ideally this happens with both parties engaged in the process. At least the food would be my salvation, I thought. Alas, the service left much to be desired. (Without naming names, let’s just say this fine dining establishment starts with ‘G’ and ends with ‘uinea Grill’.) Despite numerous pleas to the waitress, the wine took so long to materialise that we’d almost finished our steaks by the time it arrived. Even my attempts to catch up were being thwarted. As my date slurred and mumbled his way through his anecdotes, my dinner was turning out to be about as dry as a meeting of the Band of Hope. My great-grandma (a temperance lady from North Wales) would have been proud. Until now, I had never fully appreciated that serving a succulent chateaubriand without a decent bottle of Bordeaux to wash it down is really more of a human rights violation than a simple waiter error. One for the judges of Strasbourg to deliberate on. Dinner over, wine (quickly and resentfully) glugged, bill paid, I attempted my escape. Suddenly the man in question, who was perhaps beginning to sober up after the enforced sobriety of our date, came to and started apologising profusely. Too late — I hailed a passing black cab and hurled myself, Mission Impossible-style, into the passenger seat. The following day, a bunch of flowers arrived on my doorstep, along with a contrite letter. Almost three years later, we’re still going strong, though I have yet to return to the Guinea Grill. But perhaps it’s time to let bygones be bygones; after all, if I can forgive the man, I can surely forgive the restaurant.

Eight years on and my worst first ‘date’ still makes the hairs on my arm stand up in horror. I was 22 at the time and working in Parliament — that den of iniquity — as a researcher. I had a boyfriend who I adored, but the swaggering gym rat (let’s call him George) who worked a few doors down was keen on me and repeatedly told me I could ‘do better’ than the man I’d been dating for three years. At some point, he organised a ’corridor meet-up’ at a local curry house, which sounded like fun. But on the morning of the dinner, he called me with bad news. Incredibly, not one but all three of the other guests had had to drop out, so it would just be George and me for dinner. To make it up to me, he’d booked us in to one of London’s finest restaurants. The night would be on him. At this point, I had a sneaking suspicion that I might be being strong-armed into a date with one of the most obnoxious men I’d ever met. But being a skint 22-year-old foodie, the allure of a free Michelin starred dinner was strong. I spoke to my boyfriend, who correctly surmised that the prospect of me leaving him for George was remote and gamely said I should go along for the free grub.

From the moment I arrived, I knew the evening was a terrible mistake. George was 40 minutes late, his speech was slurred, and his eyes were out of focus. Rather sinisterly he’d pre-ordered drinks for the whole dinner — far more than even two seasoned parliamentary drinkers could reasonably manage. As we finished our starter, I gently asked if he’d drunk anything before meeting. Yes, he replied, a bottle of whisky. Then promptly passed out in his plate of pheasant. I roused him, he paid the bill (thank goodness), and tottered off to the loo. I sat there waiting. And waiting. Twenty minutes later a waiter came to our table and curtly told me my friend was causing some disturbance in the gents. ‘Some disturbance’ was something of an understatement. My apologies to anyone tucking into their own plate of pheasant as they read this, but having dramatically redecorated the men’s bathroom, George was now fast asleep in his own vomit. At this point, perhaps understandably, the staff at this prestigious London restaurant quickly turned off the charm switch. I was told that I must remove George from the vicinity immediately, or they would have us both arrested for causing a public nuisance. This was easier said than done, given that George

was six foot two, comatose, and sprawled two flights of stairs down from the restaurant exit. With huge difficulty and some help from a kind bystander, I lugged him into the street. Whereupon I was faced with the true horror of my situation: George lived outside London, there was no hope of him getting back on public transport, and, tempting though it felt, I wasn’t callous enough simply to leave him on the pavement. One hour later, following a brainwave worthy of James Bond, I used George’s thumbprint to unlock his phone, called a man who appeared to be a close friend of his, and, God bless him, he came to collect George and take him home. After that night, George gave me a wide berth at work, and a while later we both moved jobs. I married my boyfriend, and my nightmarish evening became a favourite dinner-party anecdote. You can imagine my surprise when, just last year, I saw George’s name once more — on the pages of The Times on the honours list of a certain ex-prime minister who had put him forward for a knighthood.

There is a sublime scene in the American sitcom Parks and Recreation where its lovable and gaffe-prone protagonist lists her history of bad dates. “One time, I accidentally drank a bottle of vinegar. I thought it was bad wine,” she says. “Another time, I tripped and broke my kneecap, and the guy said he wasn’t ‘feeling it’ so he left and I waited for an ambulance.” And there was the time “a guy broke up with me while we were in the shower together”. Yes it was fiction, but when assigned with this delightful task by Boisdale, it was the benchmark against which I couldn’t help but set my own experiences. Vinegar? No. But I did once order a pint of Guinness to impress a date, only to conceal a wretch with every sip while attempting to sound sophisticated by extolling its “notes of coffee and toffee”. It might be healthier than the typical beverage but honestly, dear reader, at what cost? Nor have I ever broken a kneecap, though hours before dinner with the man I thought could be Prince Charming, I marched across Leicester Square so engrossed in my phone that I didn’t see the temporary crane erected outside Cineworld, and walked straight into a horizontal joist. The next thing I knew I was supine, mildly concussed, and surrounded by a small crowd of concerned tourists asking if I could count to ten. Reluctant to postpone the date, I went anyway, dizzy, and with an eggshaped bump prominently jutting from my forehead. Remarkably, that was not the end of our dalliance. Neither was the moment I rounded off a great date by dashing ahead of him to hop on a Tube that had gone out of service. The doors closed, the lights dimmed, and I looked around only to realise I was the only person on the train, destined for a lonely

night in the siding. He was forced to walk up the packed platform to alert the guard to my predicament, while would-be passengers gawped at me through the windows. This, I now realise, is rapidly escalating into a list of my most embarrassing moments. So what about those occasions when the fault was all theirs? Well, there was the time I was invited to haute cuisine chez lui, which turned out to be his family home. The food was exquisite, though not sufficiently palatable to compensate for the sheer awkwardness of making small talk with the parents of someone I barely knew. Perhaps I’ve been spared some of the worst experiences, having met my husband (yes, despite it all, I still found someone willing to marry me) before internet dating really took off. Back then, you might have met your dream man on truelove4eva.com, but it was more likely you’d spend two hours wondering whether the universe — or some California tech bros — were playing a cruel practical joke. Then came Tinder, Bumble, Hinge, and many others to quash the stigma around social media dating and revolutionise how Brits find love. One in five couples today met their partner online. It was reported earlier this year that dating websites are quizzing users on their attitudes towards environmental issues to help gauge early on whether two individuals might have ‘synergy’ for a future relationship. There were no such filters in Embargo on a Friday night during the early-2010s. But I strongly suspect that, however much these platforms and their sophisticated algorithms come to dominate our romantic lives, half a century from now women will still be sharing stories about the time they went out with a guy who wore 3D glasses the entire evening.