#MyWorstDate

Hands up if you use Tinder more like a game? If you get a match, you stare at your screen in complete bewilderment? Hands up if you collect matches like stamps? Never to be used, just looked upon in wonderment of what could’ve been… If you only summed up the courage to crack the cheesiest line you know. Hands up if you have crossed the line and spoken to these relative strangers, only to find they belong in the valley of freaks or are amateur dick models? Now, hands up if you’ve been through all of this and gone on a date with a match? (Hook ups not included, not much talking occurs on these apart from asking about condoms and taxi numbers). To those who made it through my somewhat painful hand holding up survey and answered yes to any of them, you’re a hero. Playing this single game is not easy, if anything it’s far from the glamour portrayed in Sex and the City or similar programmes. It actually verges on dull.

Quick side note, if you found a lasting and meaningful relationship on Tinder, please now raise your glass for all your comrades who have fallen. Or are still fighting.

I am proud to say that on my Tinder journey, despite all my awkwardness, severe sarcasm, and feminist tendencies that lead to either party almost immediately un-matching, I have managed to go on one date! *Waits for applause.* I thought that I had hit the jackpot. Nice photos, with a talking point as well – he was clearly in a band, and not your run of the mill band either. He had some quite artsy shots of him playing a double bass in what seemed to be a rather lively jazz band – awesome. Not so bad on the eyes either, *tall, dark and handsome. Our conversations were normal and nice, no mention of sex or what cup size I am, or how many inches I can take in either my vagina, arse, mouth or ear. He was interesting, a lecturer at a top London university and he had Grade 8 (if that’s the top music grade) and had performed all over the world with his Jazz/folk group. He had also played with orchestras at both the Royal Albert Hall in London and the Sydney Opera House. Bingo! An interesting person who can hold a conversation without inquiring about my vulva.

“Want to go for a drink sometime?”

Oh sugar, how was I supposed to respond to this, I didn’t even know if the point of Tinder was to meet people or just to mindlessly judge them from afar. Tentatively, I agreed. That Friday night, I would do something subtly sexy and meet face-to-face with someone and pretend I was normal for at least an hour. We arranged a time and a place, a pub relatively close to me, so I was in close quarters to my home in case the date either went well or really badly. We spoke for the next few days, a bit of banter and the usual niceties. I was getting more confident that I had bagged a good'un and my evenings of sitting at home alone with my dog crying into ice cream were over. He’d even started flirting a little more and soon became known to my friends as sexy, bass guy. However, writing that now it looks like I was attracted to someone who resembled a fish…

The evening soon came around and I was feeling good, and that was definitely not because I got ready with a good, old friend named Pinot. I jokingly messaged him saying,

“One of the reasons I matched with you was because you didn’t feel the need to disclose your height in your bio, so I can’t believe I’m asking this but how tall are you? Need to know if I can wear heels or not!”

Being 5'8'', I can easily tower over some guys in heels, and it’s my preference to not do that.

“Haha, yeah it’s awkward telling people I actually have dwarfism.”

Now, I do not have a problem with dwarfism, and I wasn’t going to let that stand in my way (pun intended). Peter Dinklage is sexy so this man could be too! So, I replied,

“Oh okay, no worries! Do you have to have your instruments specially made as I was under the impression double bass’ were quite large?”

I thought this was great, I nailed the whole breezing over something he may feel awkward about.

“Are you f***ing serious? I’m 6'3'' f***ing hell how gullible are you? You must be at least 6' to play a double bass.”

Who was I to know the correct height for a double bass player, I work in the motor trade… This message shocked me a little, he hadn’t spoken like this to me before and it seemed a little unfair seeing as I was just being polite. However, I just replied,

“Heels it is! See you soon.”

6'3'' my arse, I would’ve been more pleased if he were a dwarf because at least that would’ve been closer to what he actually was. So, in my chosen heels I was about 6'. Not a problem for someone who is 6'3''. The man who got out the taxi, and came strutting towards me with a smile of his face was 5'4'' at best. Now, I would’ve excused this lack in height on a typo, 6'3'' could easily be mistyped from 5'3'', but no, he had clearly stated, the lecturer and double bass player he is, that you have to be “at least” 6' to play the double bass. Anyway, I took a deep breath and slouched as much as I could without looking deformed and gave a half-arsed grin back, I had to at least get a free drink out of this.

“I’ll have a large glass of dry white wine please, pinot if preferable.”

I smiled at the barman, then the man child beside me practically shouted,

“What red wines do you carry? Or is this a sh*tty establishment that differs their wine by colour, red white or pink?”

Both myself and the barman looked shocked. He spluttered to tell him there was a list, then scrambled to hand him said list. The man child looked down his nose at this list and then with a heavy sigh went “Is this it? No Pinot Noir?” I have no idea how this entire fiasco fit into his gameplan, was it to impress me, by pretending to know about wines? He then muttered loudly under his breath,

“Why do I leave London?”

By this point a different bar person had handed me my glass of wine and man child was throwing a twenty at our primary dishevelled barman. Damn, I’m way too polite/awkward to leave now when he has paid for a drink, especially in such a low level establishment in his eyes. We sat down. I asked him some more about music, as this is what we had been messaging about,

“Look, I’m a music lecturer, I talk about music all day every day, can we just talk about something different?”

I took the largest sip I could fathom and took a deep breath and asked,

“Okay then, what’s your favourite car?”

Thinking that if he didn’t want to talk about his profession and hobby then this would lead to maybe me talking about mine.

“Oh god you’re not one of these people whose life revolves around what car you drive and the importance of these engines and tech.”

Umm, its kind of my job, I told you this. I smiled and weakly said,

“Half and half, I do like cars hence why I work in the trade but I wouldn’t say I’m a fanatic.”

Another large gulp was consumed. It was at this point that the most cringeworthy thing I’ve ever seen in real life, happened. He picked up his large glass of Merlot, and downed it. Then looked at me and said,

“If you’re going to be going on about cars I needed that.”

He then laughed to himself and then raised his arm in the air clicked in the direction of the bar and shouted at our still dishevelled barman,

“Two more and don’t delay, I’ve got myself a chatterbox.”

How this man could not read my face I have no idea, my eyes were wide with disbelief that this was happening. The only thing that was similar to who I’d been chatting with all week was his face. He then slammed another twenty down on the table and slurred,

“I’m going for a slash, I’ll give you a tenner if you tell him to keep the change and get a haircut.”

He walked off laughing, I was still staring wide-eyed at the air where he was sat when my next glass arrived, I handed him the money and apologised for his behaviour and said to keep the change by way of apology.

Things started to become clear when he returned from the toilet. His nostrils had been dusted with a white powder. Oh, right. If I knew it was that kind of party I would’ve stayed at home and cried into my ice cream. I used to do a lot of drugs early in my career, but I’m a little older and wiser now. However, even back then I probably wouldn’t get nutted on a first date. Maybe it was his way of coping with the fact he struggles with simple things such as the metric system. I don’t know.

“Ah no way you gave him the change,” he snorted and laughed.

I smiled sweetly “Yes, I only heard you say to give him the change, so I did.”

I was pleased with my words and little win they gave me, until his laugher abruptly stopped. His eyes widened. I felt frightened, this guy was off his face and clearly had a repressed violent side. He looked possessed. He looked me dead in the eye and coldly whispered,

“I should’ve known you were f***ing stupid when you thought I was a f***ing midget.”

There was so much wrong with that statement I just can’t comprehend. One, he lied about his height entirely thinking I wouldn’t notice, yes yes after all these years of living this evening I decided,

“Screw the metric system!” to give him a free pass for being shorter than most women on their sides. At this point I rolled my eyes and made the international coke symbol at him with my finger under my nose, can also be confused as moustache gesture. He winked at me, then left the table, again. By this point I had texted my friend Josh, saying something along the lines of - please come and pick me up I’m a bit scared of this guy. I can take care of myself, but it had just started hammering down raining as well, so not ideal. He replied saying half an hour. I finished my first glass of wine safe in the knowledge I already had another one backed up, and took a deep breath. I could do this.

“Always a good excuse to go back to the bathroom for another cheeky little dabble.”

He winked at me as he sat down. How much coke did this reprobate have on him? Was I that repulsive in my messages that he thought the only way to be face-to-face with me was to get as high as a kite. He then downed a mere half a glass of his wine, a little demure for him by this point. I had just decided to stay silent and look anywhere else but him but oh no, this guy was on a roll now. He was out of control.

“I love how good sex is on coke, it’s like f***ing on a cloud and cumming the rainbow.”

This was quite a nice gastro pub, and suddenly I felt eyes burning a hole in my head from every corner of the restaurant. Usually, someone saying that would crack me up, as it’s practically straight out of Anchorman. Somehow though, I think this guy was only quoting himself, not Ron Burgandy.

It was only to get, worse.

“Traffics mental in this rain, I’m gonna be another half an hour.”

Josh told me this whilst we were speaking on the phone when I had snuck away to the loo. Great. I gave myself a pep talk in the mirror, reassuring myself it would be over soon, I’d look back and laugh. Also, crucially, I still had most of a glass of wine out there. How foolish of me to assume the latter. As I arrived back at the table, my bleary-eyed date managed to explain to me that I had taken too long (I must’ve been about four minutes), so he had finished my wine but not to worry, he’d ordered us both a bottle. Fantastic. I love me a glass of wine, so know it’s no small feat when I say I have never so eagerly grabbed a bottle from a server’s hands as I did then. We sat in silence for about five minutes. He kept kind of grunting under his breath, laughing at something he’d thought - probably about how stupid I was compared to how awesome and hardcore he was. I then picked up my bottle of wine to top up my glass, then the strangest thing happened. He started singing my actions under his breath. In a creepy minor tone, he said,

“Stella’s pouring the wine.”

I thought he had fallen asleep and was sleep talking, but with that amount of blow in his system it was near impossible. I tested my theory and slammed the bottle back down on the table hard, to a) wake him up if by some miracle he had fallen asleep, and b) to see his reaction. He jumped to an upright position, his eyes not managing to focus.

“Stella’s a noisy little girl isn’t she.” He said as he gazed my way in a boss-eyed state.

I was officially creeped out, luckily for me, he then stumbled to his feet and went back to the bathroom. I was going to go to the bar and ask to sit in the kitchen or staff room or something, until I could get straight into a car. As I was rushing to put my coat on, I got a tap on the shoulder from someone who I vaguely knew to be the manager, he looked concerned. I just assumed it was because he’d seen how my date was acting, it partially was, but it was also so much more.

“We’re sorry to tell you this miss, but your partner has been using counterfeit bank notes and we also suspect him of taking illicit substances. The police have been called and are on their way, they will want to question you both. If you would like to come with me, I have to detain you in my office.”

I had no idea what to do, I was suddenly associated with what I could only assume was a criminal con-man who happened to play a double bass, or managed to pose with one at least once in his life. I went into serious mode and replied,

“Okay whatever but get me in their quick and keep us separated, because that man is not my partner, this is a first date.”

His eyebrows shot so far up they could’ve flown right off his forehead. He ushered me away fast and said to me with a sympathetic tone,

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you another glass of wine.”

The office was behind the bar, there was an open door which I could just about see our table from whilst leaning, but I had positioned myself so if I was sat up right I couldn’t be seen. I was looking around at the bar staff who were all looking quite concerned, being a Uni town I imagine none of them signed up for this when they agreed to work at a pub, they probably thought they wouldn’t have to deal with this as it’s not a student club.

“Where’s the slag gone now? Has she gone to see how far she can fit that bottle up her pussy for me?”

I heard booming across the pub, followed up by another snorted cackle. Then I heard a loud crash, followed by a dull thump. I stood up out of shock and concern that one of the staff had been attacked or god knows what else. By the looks of things, he had gone to lean on the table and caught the edge and fallen. There was stunned silence. There was a circle of staff surrounding him but with a cautious meter radius between them and him. He stumbled to his knees, and without a sound, projectile vomited. It must’ve gone about two metres in front of him, covering the legs of at least two staff, including our original barman. At this point the back-office door started to open and I jumped out of my skin, two police officers came barging through and I breathlessly said,

“Oh thank goodness.”

I was stopped before I could say anything further by being told very abruptly,

“Miss, sit down and don’t move.”

Oh gosh, with everything that’s gone on the manager couldn’t have phoned them or spoken to them to explain that I was nothing to do with this man. I sat in the office for about 20 minutes, I think, crying. Everything just blended into white noise with muffles of shouting and glass breaking. I hadn’t disassociated for a long time, my manic depression was under control, but it started happening – I was shutting down mentally through the stress. By the time the police came, I had passed out, slumping out of my chair on the floor. When the police had got him cuffed and into a van, they came back and saw me and assumed I too, had taken illicit substances.

I came around with the manager, who knelt beside me holding a bar mat filled with ice to my head. I started hysterically crying as I couldn’t remember what had happened for a moment, I was scared, hurting from the fall and remembering what had happened. I realised it hadn’t been a nightmare as you can’t wake up into the same nightmare. Over my tears I could hear a familiar voice, an angry voice, but it was the angry voice of my friend Josh. He was protesting my innocence to the police, showing them the texts from during the day when I told him I was going on this date, through to the ones I’d sent that evening. He was also panicking asking for correct help to be bought as he was hugely concerned when he turned up and saw the Blues and Twos, then come inside to push through a bunch of coppers and bar staff that I was passed out in a back office. He thought I’d been drugged, heck at that stage he could’ve been right. After a while I was calm enough to talk, I explained I felt no effects of drugs, haven not taken any myself, or been slipped them. I had just had a mental blip and/or panic attack. I told the police everything I knew. I showed them all my messages to and from the guy, all my messages to and from Josh to corroborate his story. After what seemed like hours, I could go home. The pub was deserted, I didn’t really know what the time was, whether the pub had just shut or if everyone had been asked to leave. With a final farewell and good will gesture bottle of Pinot in my bag from the pub, and some mutterings as potentially being a witness from the police. I got into the safety of Josh’s car. My date/night from hell was officially over, I was going home.

I woke up the next morning, extremely hungover but thankful to be okay. Josh and I had stayed up until the early hours drinking and watching The Inbetweeners (makes me feel better about myself), and Anchorman, to pull me out of my state of shock. That evening, after many cups of tea and more than one order from Dominos, I felt back to normal. I’m a pretty positive person and told myself it could’ve been so much worse, and one day I would look back and laugh, and hey, it’s a good dinner party horror story to tell.

About a month later, I got the letter - I was summoned to court. Bloody hell, I’d told the story so many times now in a jovial way, I barely knew if I could recount it seriously anymore. The day soon rolled around, Josh went with me for support (also he promised to drive so he could treat me to a glass of wine afterwards, I wasn’t going to say no to that). My account was relatively brief, in a question answer situation it was mainly stating facts about date, time, location, forethoughts and the usual, “Was I aware?” business. Yes, I was aware he was off his face, no I had no idea they were counterfeit. They asked me if I was suspicious when he kept offering to pay for the drinks, before I could stop myself I’d said with a cheeky smile,

“I’m sure the ladies in the court will agree with me that you never turn down a free glass of wine!”

Shockingly, no one was amused. Seeing as all the ladies were 50+ and either barristers or lawyers. I’m just pleased I somehow managed to stop myself following this up with “AmIRight?” All too soon I was sat down at the back, totally done and wanting to leave. Even seeing the back of his head made me want to kick him in the crotch for putting me through that.

My ears pricked up when he was in the dock. I learnt, that it was not just cocaine he had taken that day, but an abundance of pills too. He also was carrying enough to be classed as dealing. That didn’t come as much of a shock, however a question I heard a while later, really did.

“Is it fair to say, Miss Stamper was one of a number of women you had coerced into a meeting with the view to gain access to their home, and carry out a burglary?”

This guy really had been playing me, it wasn’t just me being dumb, he was genuinely playing nice to get me to meet with the view of doing more. I shuddered at the thought of having this man in my home. I have no idea what happened to his game that evening, if he was a good enough criminal to use counterfeits he surely must’ve been aware that he shouldn’t of been high on blow and acting suspicious. The weeks I’d spent silently torturing myself thinking I should’ve just gotten up and left. The amount of people who told me that’s what I should’ve done, were all wrong. If I had done that, he could’ve followed me. I’ll never know if the insane number of drugs were part of his plan to get me to leave, or he just screwed up. When they were reading a series of messages from his phone from various names about various things I was too lost in my own thoughts about what could’ve been. I’m just thankful everything played out the way it did. I mean, yes I could’ve gone without it, but what’s life without a little drama, eh?

Driving away from court with Josh, headed for a pub, he couldn’t help but have his own little joke,

“You gotta give it to the guy, I mean he did say you were gullible, and he was technically right.”

A swift elbow to the ribs shut him up, and also reminding him that if a girl so much as stares at him for too long he’s considering how he should propose.

The letter came a few weeks later, he had been sentenced for three years thereabouts for a number of charges included burglary, possession and fraud. Alongside the usual things such as paying damages etc.

I recently opened Tinder again, and started swiping through. I almost stopped myself, but then I thought “The worst has happened.” I give each and every one of you permission to slap me if I’m on here again in a few months writing about how I went on a date with a Columbian drug lord or human trafficker. I’m pleased to report I’m writing this on my sofa, with my dog and ice cream. No tears, however, life’s to short. AmIRight?

On a serious note, it did raise a lot of questions for me about the safety when it comes to online dating. There aren’t many security protocols in place. Anyone with a social media profile or even just a mobile number and a few pictures can make a profile. It raises the age-old question; do we really know who we are talking to? I thought as I got older the risk of stranger danger and strangers on the internet grooming me was practically gone. Even when I followed the unspoken rules for women in making the location close to my home, and had a friend on standby, I still fell victim to a predator. The shame is, in this world of twenty-thirty somethings struggling to make ends meet, vouching for an online dating service rather than going to out to meet people, is a way of saving money, can we really win? I want a relationship, as much as I love my ice cream and dog, and crying at the TV, I would love to have someone to do stuff with, to have regular sex with, to sit with me and eat ice cream. However, my job takes up so much of my time and the money I earn just covers my rent and bills, that’s once I have taken out an amount and put it into a savings account for a mortgage I may never even be able to afford. I feel like I have no other way of meeting a future partner. I work in an industry surrounded by men, however after a few experiences I’ve learnt not to shit where you eat, to put it delicately. Then the nights I do go out on the town are usually just a chance to catch up with friends, as we’re all so busy with careers and trying to get on the property ladder it would be a waste of an opportunity to catch up if we copped off with someone half way through the night. I know there are plenty of organic ways I will be able to meet men, but at the moment I’m just incredibly busy, but I’m still hopeful it will get easier. But it does suddenly become very clear why the use of dating apps and sites is on the rise, we simply don’t have the time, money or energy to meet someone the old-fashioned way. As this is the case for so many people, I think more pressure needs to be put on companies like Tinder and Grindr, to correctly vet their users. Most of the time the user, such as myself, will be able to work out for ourselves whether this person is decent, but what about the con-men such as the guy I went out with? These companies earn millions of pounds a year through subscriptions and advertising, surely some of it could be put into better software, or including a calendar to your profile where you could book in the slots when you will be on a date and where, and you can check in and out of this so the app knows your safe, or could locate you via GPS if you are gone longer than expected. I know there are a lot of flaws with that idea, such as what would happen if you ended up hooking up and in the heat of things forgot to let your app know you’re safe? However, I work in the motor trade, it is not my place to come up with and fine tune software like this. It does raise another question, though. If I can think up something like that when it is not my full-time job, and no one is paying me to do it, why haven’t they?

All I can say is to anyone who may be in my position, don’t stop having fun because there are one or two arseholes out there. Similar to the way no one stopped going to New York or London after the awful terrorist attacks, we won’t put our lives on hold because a small majority want to ruin it for us. Just make sure you do what I did, have a friend who knows where you are and who will have access to their phone for the duration of your date, if possible do it on your territory. If necessary, find a member of staff or a trustworthy civilian to keep you safe. The old saying is true, in the one-on-one situation of a date that’s going wrong, if you find someone to stay with until you can get home safe – it's safety in numbers.

Happy dating everyone. I hope your best dates, your best shags, and better days are still to come. And because I feel I have been a little to serious for a while now I shall leave you with the wisest words I’ll ever say – Ladies and Gentlemen, never turn down a free glass of wine, AmIRight? (Unless you suspect it to be spiked, naturally.)