“…I didn’t really want her to hang around for a shower, but I did leave her with spunky tits, so I sort of felt bad”
“Why did you end up spunking on her tits?”
“Because we couldn’t find a johnny”
“Excellent. Oh look, times up. Bye”
You get three minuets with each of the 24 men who come and sit at your table in rotation while speed dating, so some people like to go right in for the kill. This guy was off his face on coke, so he managed to tell me his entire life story, ending in the above, which is how the last woman he met on Tinder met his sticky end before being turfed out into the cold.
He thought he was being charming and turning me on with stories of his sexual conquests; actually, I was bored shitless and less than impressed that he had a tide mark of blow up his nostrils still. What a waste.
This was a speed dating event for city workers, so I was immediately out of place in the venue teaming with women dressed in designer clothes and men wearing tailored suits – In a moment of polite small talk, a very elegant woman asked me what label my dress was. “George of Asda, I believe” was my reply. At least she had the good grace to laugh.
I honestly have no idea why I, Slough Girl, was asked to go to a dating event with city workers. I can get on with anyone but some of these people were just beyond anything I have ever experienced. Both the women and the men seemed like they were from a different planet to me.
I wasn’t speed dating for me, it was purely for work purposes. If I had been single and on the look out for a man, I would have run for the hills after the introductory drinks. Both the men and women took no time tucking into the class A’s, loudly discussing which bank Daddy works for and being vile to the waiting staff – one poor waitress ended up leaving the room in tears after one of the men slapped her on the bum while sending her off for more champagne. All jokes aside, what sort of a rude, pig of a man does that? All the men and women stood around him laughed, the men high fiving him for his hilarity and the women laughing at the waitress for crying. If that’s what a life of privilege does to you, then I am glad I grew up poor and with some manners. The men’s behaviour was bad enough, but if a man I was with slapped a waitress on the bum and was rude to her, I’d rip him a new one there and then and make sure she was okay, not laugh along with him and his friends.
You can see how Cameron ended up fucking a pig’s head: I was expecting one to be rolled out at any time so the chaps could have a jolly good time with their cocks while the horsey girls whooped and twiddled their pearls.
I kind of realised that the men here weren’t exactly relationship material, but as I was getting paid to be there, I got stuck in.
The second guy I spoke to after my baptism of fire with Spunky Tits was the waitress arse slapper.
“What bra size are you?” Was his opening gambit.
“I like to break the ice with a little flirt”
“That’s not flirting. How big is your cock?”
“A bit shit to ask someone a question like that, isn’t it mate?”
We sat in silence for the rest of the two minuets and thirty seconds until the bell rung, while I text my lovely boyfriend telling him how lucky I am to have him, because my god, there are some odd men in the world.
As the bell rung and he stood up to move to the next table, he said to me: “You know, it’s very rude to sit on your phone ignoring company.”
“And it’s not rude to slap a woman who is trying to do her job on her arse and then laugh about it? You cunt”.
Next up was Archie from Balamory. Okay, so it wasn’t really Archie, but it was a very posh man with ginger hair wearing a kilt.
Unlike Spunky Tits and Arse Slapper he was actually quite a nice person and spent the three minuets telling me how hard he was finding it to get over his ex girl friend. I seem to get a lot of that, I think I have the sort of face which says “please, tell me about your ex girlfriend at length” because most men seem to do that to me, I heard a lot about exes during that speed dating event.
The next few men were all very boring and all tried to impress me with their job titles, how much money they earned and which Caribbean Island their families were Christmas-ing on. From eavesdropping around the room (because a) I am a nosey cow and b) I am never one to miss out on good stand up material), it seemed that the men and women were all on a mission to out do each other with tales of schools, boats and salaries.
When it was my turn to speak to Yacht Boy, I new I was in for a treat as I had heard him very loudly discussing his plans for summer sailing with the woman sat next to me, who I swear almost had an orgasm when he mentioned a mooring in Cannes.
“And what do you do with yourself.” He said as he sat down with a big grin.
“I’m a writer and you know, I’m here with the film crew.”
“What’s your degree?”
“I’m looking for a woman who can support herself”
“Right,” I said as I made a mental note to re do my tax credit form, “is that important to you then?”
“Oh yes, I’m not having a damn woman running off with my money.”
Turns out that Daddy had been shagging the nanny for years and when his mum found out, she divorced him and got half of the assets, even though she was “just” a mother. He was probably the first man I’ve ever met who took his philandering father’s side over his mother’s.
He then went quiet, did the most awful, dirty grin and started to slide his hand up my thigh under the table.
Looking me right in the eye as he did it, he said “I’ve got a yacht and a mooring in Cannes.”
I have never stood up so fast in my life.
“Get your fucking hands off me you little shit or I’ll kick you in the nuts.”
Thankfully, the organisers overheard and Yacht Boy was asked to leave the event.
My favourite one of the evening was Mr. Audi.
“Do you drive?” He asked as soon as he sat down.
“I’ve just bought a new R8 with a custom interior, guess how much it was.”
“I don’t know love, did you get it out the Auto Tra-“
“135k.” He smugly said after cutting me off again.
“You spent135 thousands pounds on a car?”
(He gave the full spec at this point, my eyes glazed over and I began slyly texting my boyfriend under the table).
“Wow, that sounds ni-“
“I’ll take you for a spin if you like.”
“No, it’s fi-“
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in a hundred and thirty five grand car, have you?”
Then – and this is gold – the woman sat at the table next to me who had been sniggering at me and my Primark boots all evening cut in with. “I doubt she’s ever been in a hundred and thirty five grand house! Ha, ha, just joking, sweetie.”
Well, fuck you love. I live in Ealing. I am throwing away a full months wages every month renting a vastly over priced shithole, so I think you’ll find that yes I have.
At the end of the speed dating, you have to say who you would like to see again.
22 out of the 24 men said they would like to see me again.
Maybe they like a bit of rough.