I’m an award winning trophy date - this was not a good thing
Literally!
Names have been changed for privacy reasons, but sadly for me, this is all 100% true.
“I have something embarrassing to tell you, it’s been a bit of a deal breaker in the past.”
”Go on” I told him, knowing that this date could hardly get worse.
“It’s my parents” he paused, possibly for effect but it was wasted on me, “they err, they distribute pornography”.
“Ok and? Do they star in it or something, is it geriatric porn?”
“No, no, they just distribute it.”
“I don’t think that’s embarrassing”, I genuinely didn’t. I watched him let out a little sigh of relief. “No the fact you banged on for 45 minutes about how all your money is in crypto currency and NFTs, is far more embarrassing.” Yes possibly a tad rude, but I felt I had well and truly sang for my awkward supper and I was done. What’s worse is, he still tried to kiss me at the end of the date. Read the room A.
I matched with A on a rainy Sunday afternoon. Nowhere to go and nothing to do, I decided to forage on Hinge for the scraps left over from the weekend. A, was cute enough, dark floppy hair, chiselled features if a little doughy. He seemed well travelled but not obsessed with making it the only aspect of his personality. What struck me about A, was a photo of him holding a lammergeier vulture, which was a niche choice. So I sent him a like asking ‘is that a lammergeier you’re holding there?’ As is the case with rainy Sunday afternoons, he matched with me in minutes.
In case you were wondering what it looks like. The Lammergeier or Bearded Vulture. Photograph from Wikipedia.
He seemed rather enthralled that I’d been able to identify the bird. He said I deserved some sort of reward and offered to take me for dinner anywhere I wanted in London. I was feeling somewhat in a teasing mood and said I deserved better than just dinner for my ornithophilic knowledge and that I deserved a medal.
A, was not dissuaded by this, in fact he agreed.
Ok we’ll get you a medal, what do you want me to put on it?
Not knowing the appropriate response, I simply said, whatever you think would be funny. Our conversation continued on after that, it wasn’t stilted or uncomfortable but it didn’t set my world alight either. Finally we agreed to a date, at the Connaught hotel on the following Sunday afternoon.
I didn’t really hear from A, much in the week, this isn’t unusual, but I do like to get to know my dates before I meet them. It was telling that I was more excited about the food than the date itself.1 Sunday rolls around and I get dressed up in my usual first date attire, jeans and an expertly cut white blouse.
When I arrived at the Connaught, I saw limo after limo and bodyguards on the door. I wasn’t sure the protocol, but A had assured me he’d booked, so I gave it a whirl. The bodyguards let me in without asking for anything, seemingly making themselves redundant. Tip tapping my way through the lobby, I saw an array of celebrities in immaculate evening gowns, which was odd for a Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t work out if I was under dressed or if there were over dressed. Turned out it was the BAFTAs and I was swimming in a sea of celebrities, none of whom I could recognise.
When I’d finally navigated my way to the restaurant, I was the first to arrive. Just as I was awkwardly asking the maitre d’ about the reservation, a man vaguely resembling A, swaggered up behind me. Or as close as you can get to a swagger while clutching a black bin bag. What sort of lunatic had I set myself up with, why was the man carrying a black bin liner to a first date and did I actually want to know. A, wasn’t as good looking as his photos had portrayed but neither was he bad looking. He was however dressed terribly in black tracksuit bottoms and a garishly mix pattered Ralph Lauren shirt, usually favoured by the upper middle classes, who like to don schoffels. It made my eyes bleed. I presumed his aesthetic was roadman meets Made in Chelsea.
We had our awkward first hellos and we were shown to our table. I didn’t want to eye up the bin bag, lest he produce its contents, so I pretended to be transfixed by the menu. A, ordered us some overpriced champagne, it was unnecessarily flash gesture, but I had a feeling I was going to need it.
“Well SJ, let’s toast, to our first date” we chinked our wafer thin crystal glasses and I had to restrain myself from gulping it down. “I bet you want your medal now” he said in a manner I think he thought was wry.
“Pardon?”
“Your medal, remember, you said you wanted a medal.”
“Oh, err, yes” Christ has the man actually got me a medal, is that what was in the bin bag. I couldn’t work out if a gimp mask would have been better or worse.
Though his parents did work in the porn industry after all, which perhaps explained the bin bag.
“Well I thought you deserved more than a medal, so I had a trophy made for you!” He delved into the bin bag, like some poverty stricken Santa, and proudly produced said trophy. It rivalled his shirt in terms of hideousness. He enthusiastically thrust it in my direction. It was surprisingly heavy, which probably meant it wasn’t cheap. My heart sank, what was wrong with some flowers or Charbonnel et Walker truffles. No instead I get a gilded plastic trophy on a replica marble base.
“Oh you’ve had it inscribed” I squeaked, barely containing my horror.
“Yes! It says, winner, winner chicken dinner.” He sat back in his chair for what I could only assume was some fawning over his quip, inscribed forever on this junk.
“How funny” I said, without laughing or smiling, “shall we order?”
A, ordered us the chicken, because “winner, winner chicken dinner”. His humour knew no bounds.
“Shall we display it, you know, on the table!” You’d think it was an Olympic gold medal the way he was carrying on.
“Sure” I mustered, resolving myself to never attending a function at the Connaught again.
We made stilted conversation till the food arrived, I say we, I mean he did. On and on and on he went about how crypto was the future and did I know what a block chain was, when I nodded in response he decided I didn’t actually know as much as I proclaimed, and proceeded to explain it to me, poorly.
Then the NFT2 chat started, did I know what that was, did I know how much he’d spent on one by some band from the 90s, five.thousand.pounds! Five. And he held up all five fingers to show me. It was like being on a date with a toddler, who was aggressively unknowledgeable and yet still patronising.
A, did not ask me a single question about myself. Not one. This isn’t uncommon on dates, often I find I have to sandwich myself into the conversation. It’s incredibly tedious and I never choose to see them again. Then thankfully the food arrived, while it was being laid on the table, the lovely server sweetly asked about the unsightly trophy.
“We’ve all been wondering” she beamed “what is it for?” How on earth was I supposed to tell her it was a joke gone awry, from a strange man on Hinge. A, was about to open his mouth to tell the story when I cut him off.
“It’s just an inside joke” this unfortunately didn’t stop her.
“Oh how funny, how long have you two been together?” She was smiling so sweetly, I envied her.
“About 45 minutes” I said and I laughed at my own joke, because lord knows I needed it. She looked temporarily embarrassed for us and then swanned off back to the kitchen. Wonderful, nothing like second hand embarrassment on a first date.
We ate, what was actually delectable food. A, continued to brag about his life, in between large mouthfuls of desiccated chicken, his Porsche he drove here, his second home in Kensington and then, the second confession of the date dropped out of nowhere, like a surprise Rihanna album.
“You should know I used to be married.”
“Ok”, I can’t say I cared, as long it was ‘used to be’ and not ‘I still am’.
“She cheated on me” he said, mournfully “and the thing is I did her the favour, I married her so she could get a visa, I bought us a nice home in Belsize Park and this is how she repaid me.”
“Oh right, how did you find out?” A, had ceased to be second date material the moment he showed up with a bin bag to a 5 star hotel, but at least now there might be some juicy gossip.
“She moved her “brother” in, yeah her “brother”. I thought they had an unusually close relationship, he was always kissing and cuddling her and I thought maybe that’s what they do in Romania. She was Romanian. So fucking beautiful, more beautiful than you, you know.”
I didn’t even care by this point, I needed the rest of the story.
“Well I came home early from Devon one day to find them fucking in my bed.” Oh.my.god, dinner and a scandal!
“Anyway I divorced her and she took half my money, but thankfully I made it back with crypto, that’s the good thing about crypto you see.” He continued talking but he’d lost me. I didn’t care for crypto, so I stared at my warped golden face in the ugly trophy.
Then something hideous happened, he reached over and grabbed my hand
“SJ, you’re such a good listener, no one has ever listened to me like you have. Everyone thinks crypto and NFTs are boring, but you really get it.” I did not. He looked into my, less beautiful than his ex wife’s eyes, like a lost puppy dog.
“Oh you’re welcome, anyway do you want to get the bill while I pop to the bathroom.” Anymore of A, and I was going to have to work out how to asphyxiate myself with the bin bag, that was still ruefully lurking under the table. Thankfully by the time I came back from the toilet, the bill was paid. I thanked him, graciously and profusely for dinner and suggested we start to head home as it was getting late. It was actually only 5pm, but it was mercilessly and disorientingly dark outside.
Weaving our way through the lobby, we made it to the front steps.
“So I had a lovely time” he said, rubbing his hair. Yeah I bet you did, you spent most of it gorging on chicken and talking only about yourself. I wasn’t even entirely sure he knew my name anymore. “Oh and here, don’t forget this” as he handed me the bin bag trophy. Drat, my attempts to avoid carrying it home were foiled.
“Great, thank you, can’t believe I nearly forgot it. Silly me.” As he handed me the bag he leaned in to try and kiss me. Revulsion shuddered through my entire body and all I could think to do was lean back, Smooth Criminal style, to avoid it. He realised his error and withdrew.
“I’ll text you” he said, I’ll block you, I thought and I lugged the trophy back to my flat.
Yes, I still have it!
Next time on Dating Nightmares; take off dating disasters;
The ex army officer with a shrine
Thank you for reading My nightmare dates- tales of dating disasters, as part of the Ask SJ series. Remember bad dates make for good stories, if you want to hear more, click that subscribe button. It’s free.
Or forward on to a friend who might enjoy my dating disaster.
While a girl has gotta eat, I don’t recommend going on these sorts of dates. You want to be excited to meet someone, not googling the menu the night before to see what you can eat!
NFT stands for Non-fungible tokens. If you’re wondering what it is, think online pyramid schemes popular in America, eg LulaLaRoe, but for men. Men don’t sell leggings, they sell useless photos of monkeys smoking a cigar and call themselves business geniuses. In case you’re wondering, it is in fact, a red flag.