Three hours of Laura McIntyre’s life that she’ll never get back later…
Luck wasn’t needed in the end.
The outfit I wore wasn’t a problem.
To tell the truth, I could have turned up dressed up as a giant chicken and it wouldn’t have mattered.
I knew things weren’t going to go well when my date for the evening walks into Café Leon wearing cycle shorts… the really tight kind that show off a man’s junk like prize plums in a greengrocer’s window.
They were shiny silver (the shorts, not his plums) – mixed with what I can only describe as nuclear orange.
…so was the matching skin tight t-shirt.
…and the helmet.
…and the shoes.
…and good God yes – the bike as well.
It was about four degrees outside and pitch black. This guy has turned up to a date wearing a thin lycra body stocking that makes him look like a neon dildo.
I saw him ride up on the mountain bike through the window.
Café Leon is not blessed with a back door so I had nowhere to run.
I then watched with a sinking heart as he spent a good five minutes padlocking the bike to the railings outside. It takes him that long as he has three separate locks to clip round the frame and both tyres.
He double checks each one before walking away from the bike.
…then goes back and triple checks.
It’s plain that even if Graham turns out to be a wonderful guy who I fall head over heels in love with, I’ll be spending most of my time warring for his affections with the bloody bicycle.
Having established that his beloved mode of transport is less likely to be stolen than the contents of Fort Knox, Graham makes his way into the coffee house crotch first.
I’ve never seen a man pull this off before (no pun intended) but he manages it. Some people lead with their heads, others lead with their feet. Graham leads with his penis.
The poor little bugger looks quite hamstrung and deeply uncomfortable in those shorts, but Graham doesn’t appear to be bothered.
He smiles broadly at me and comes over to the table.
‘Good evening! You must be Laura!’
It’s not just his clothes that are loud.
‘Yes, that’s me. Are you Graham?’
I say this with a small catch in my voice. It’s the last dying vestige of hope that there has been some kind of colossal mistake and Captain Crotchbulge is in fact here to meet some other poor unfortunate girl called Laura.
‘I am indeed!’
Bugger.
Graham sits down, his legs as far apart as is humanly possible – putting his genitals on display for the world to see.
‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ he barks, ‘been on a ten mile ride and got lost in myself.’
What?
I’ve been lost in Hastings, Milton Keyes and Florida, but never ‘in myself’.
Was this some kind of euphemism for masturbation I’d never heard of? If so, how did he manage to keep peddling?
‘Ah… okay. Well, don’t worry. I only just got here myself.’ I reply, a suspicious look creeping across my face. There was every chance I was on a date with a lunatic.
‘What can I get you to drink, Laura?’
‘Flat white with an extra shot of espresso please.’ I’d been up since five in the morning so this seems like an appropriate order.
‘Gotcha!’ he says… and does gun fingers.
You know what gun fingers are, don’t you?
It’s when people point their index finger at you and stick their thumb up.
I say people… I mean twats.
It was a miracle he didn’t make ‘peow peow’ gun noises as he did it.
Graham’s penis gets out of the chair and the rest of him follows it up to the counter.
I’ve never claimed to be a great judge of someone’s character from a first impression, but I’m fairly sure I’ve got a handle on Graham.
This is the type of guy who revels in strenuous outdoor activities. I’m sure he’s no stranger to paragliding, rock climbing, spelunking and extreme mountain biking.
He has a carefully controlled diet no doubt - and probably checks his own faeces for fibre on a regular basis.
I couldn’t hear him place his order at the counter, but I was willing to bet vital parts of my anatomy he was ordering something with soya in it...
I hate exercise.
This is because I am a normal twenty first century woman.
Exercise is only to be undertaken when a look in the mirror and a four pound gain on the scales demand it.
It is not something to be done in place of more entertaining pastimes, such as eating chocolate, watching soaps or having sex.
I’m pretty sure Graham would happily forego all of those things for a chance to cycle up the side of Ben Nevis in a force nine gale.
He’s probably watched every TV show Bear Grylls has ever made.
My thoughts are interrupted by Graham’s penis as he brings our drinks over. My flat white looks delicious. His latte looks anaemic.
‘Here you go, Laura!’ he booms. ‘That’s a lot of caffeine you’ve got there… you want to watch how much you’re drinking. It can cause a lot of gastrointestinal problems.’
Wow. He’s got the charming small talk off to a tee.
‘Yeah... thanks for the advice,’ I reply. I then take a gamble: ‘How’s your decaff soy latte?’
‘It’s great!’
Hah!
Graham slurps his coffee and I start to wish those gastrointestinal problems would strike me down right now.
‘Stephanie tells me you’ve been single for ages!’ Graham says, with no trace of tact whatsoever.
‘Um. A few months, yes.’
‘Yeah, me too! Been far too busy with work and the biking. Just haven’t had the time to squeeze a woman in!’
‘Has something changed then?’ I ask, wondering if he’s finally given up on trying to have sex with his mountain bike and wants to return to basics.
‘No, not really, but Stepho filled me in about you and showed me your picture - and you looked hot enough to have a go at!’
Oh good God.
‘That’s… nice. I certainly wish she’d told me more about you,’ I say, biting the rim of my polystyrene coffee cup.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a really interesting lifestyle. You’d love it.’
‘A lot of mountain biking involved is there?’
‘Absolutely! I’m about to enter the annual Lake District hundred mile cross country challenge.’
Really? I’m about to enter a state of abject despair.
‘That sounds difficult.’
‘It is! Going to be a real challenge, but I’ve been training for six months now. That’s why I was out riding before coming here. Can’t stop my regime just to meet up with a woman you know!’
‘No, no. It’s perfectly understandable that you’d put your training ahead of dressing to impress.’ I try to inject as much sarcasm into that statement as I can. It falls on deaf ears.
‘That’s right! I’m glad you understand!’ Graham takes another gulp of his pointlessly healthy coffee. ‘You sound like the kind of girl who likes to be active, just like me!’
Do I?
‘Do you bike Laura?’
I’m pretty sure ‘bike’ isn’t a verb, but I choose not to point it out. ‘I’ve got one in the shed. It’s pink.’
‘Do much riding?’
‘Not recently.’
Graham springs to his feet. ‘Come on then!’
‘What?’
‘Come on… let’s go outside. You can have a go on mine!’
I look with disbelief from Graham’s earnest face to the dark, cold winter evening beyond the café window. ‘Now?’
‘Yeah! Why the hell not?’
Because I’m not a bloody mentalist, that’s why, you stupid walking dildo.
‘Um… it’s a bit cold, isn’t it?’
�
��Nah! Just brisk!’
Before I know it Graham has grabbed my hand and is pulling me to my feet.
The force of his sheer idiocy overwhelms my reluctance and I’m powered towards the door with a stunned expression on my face.
Outside, the elements batter my cardigan clad body. Graham appears completely impervious to the biting chill of the March wind.
The multiple locks come off the mountain bike and before I can protest further, Graham is waggling the handle bars in my direction. ‘Hop on then! It’s got active suspension, so it’s the most comfortable ride you’ll ever have!’
Shivering, I take the bike and try to mount it. It’s a man’s bike and my jeans are far too tight, so instead of throwing one leg over the bar I whack my knee on the frame.
‘Oopsie daisy!’ Graham says with a chuckle.
Oopsie fucking daisy?
I’ve probably just broken my patella and all he can offer in the way of commiseration is the kinds of phrase my Nan stopped using in the fifties?
‘Never mind. These things can be a bit difficult to get the hang of, especially if you’re a girl on a guy’s bike.’ His tone is so patronising I want to kick him in the penis.
I never, ever intend to see Graham again for as long as I live. This ‘date’ will end with me handing over a fake phone number and showing him my heels as quickly as possible.
However, I’m not going to let the little bastard get one over on me like this.
I don’t like being patronised at the best of times, and I certainly am not going to let this walking sex toy with a handlebar fixation get away with it.
With a grunt of effort I stretch my leg over the cross bar, fighting against the tight jeans for all I’m worth. Having successfully negotiated my way onto the bike I sit back on the saddle with a look of hardcore female determination in my eyes.
I must show this prick that women are capable of riding a stupid man’s mountain bike!
‘Good girl! Well done!’ he cries with delight. I avoid looking down at his crotch just in case he’s started to get an erection.
My heeled foot fumbles around on one pedal for a few moments, before finally getting a decent amount of purchase.
I push away with the other leg and I’m off…
I’m sure there are things in this world that are more difficult than riding a full suspension mountain bike designed for a six foot man, when you’re in three inch heels, spray on jeans and a thin cardigan, but none immediately spring to mind.
The front wheel starts to wobble.
My feet slide off the pedals.
My bum cheeks grip the saddle as hard as possible.
My hair whips into my face.
I’m concentrating so hard on not letting the bike fall over that I’m unaware of cycling straight towards the local branch of Burger King before it’s too late. One of the spotty teenage staff is cleaning the windows and the door is propped open with a bucket.
I hadn’t intended to visit Burger King that evening. Especially not on a bright orange mountain bike.
It’s funny how your plans can change, isn’t it?
‘Oh fuck!’ I wail as I cross the threshold.
In my terror I forget I have brakes.
Two girls - the only customers at this time of night - watch in disbelief as a freezing cold skinny blonde in high heels rides right up to the counter, gets her wits together enough to brake before she flies into the chip fryer, and slowly topples sideways onto the freshly washed floor with a plaintive squawk.
Graham’s penis enters in front of the rest of him.
‘My bike!’ he wails.
I disentangle myself from the flaming thing, knowing that I’m going to have a large, healthy bruise on my right hip come morning.
Graham picks the bike up and starts checking it for damage.
I see red. ‘Oh thanks very much, you lycra wearing tosser! I could have been killed and all you care about is your bright orange girlfriend!’
‘This thing cost me three grand,’ he argues.
‘Really? How much did the costume cost? How much is it exactly these days to make yourself look a complete wank stick?’
‘Now, now. Calm down there Laura.’ He actually contrives to look hurt.
‘No, I don’t think so, Graham. All I wanted to do was have a cup of coffee with a guy and see where it might lead… and I end up nearly mounting a Burger King cash till!’
‘Are either of you going to order?’ says the teenager behind the counter.
‘No!’ I shout.
‘Do you have any salads left?’ Graham asks.
Throwing my hands in the air in disgust I storm out of Burger King, leaving the walking dildo to order his evening snack.
Stephanie rang the next day to ask me how the date had gone.
I started by telling her what Graham had been wearing.
‘Oh… that’s unfortunate,’ she said. ‘That’s why everyone calls him Crotch Goblin.’
So there you go, Mum.
Is it any wonder I’m single when people actively think it’s a good idea to set me up with somebody called Crotch Goblin?
Love and miss you,
Your bruised daughter Laura,
xx
Jamie’s Blog
Thursday 21 April
I’ve always thought the phrase ‘speed dating’ was something of an oxymoron.
When I do get lucky enough to score a night out with a woman I take an inordinate amount of time a) worrying about where to take her b) deciding what to wear c) trying to think of something witty and charming to say during the date itself, and d) worrying if she wants to see me again or not.
The concept of getting all this over and done with in mere minutes sounds completely counter intuitive.
Besides, finding the love of your life is surely something to take your time over, isn’t it?
This is a pretty serious life decision we’re talking about here, not what take-away food to order on a Saturday night.
…come to think of it, I take ages deciding whether I fancy a Chinese, Indian or a kebab, so even that’s not an appropriate analogy.
Nevertheless I’m desperate (as we know all too well) and will try anything once.
My sister saw an advert in the paper for ‘One-To-One Speed Dating in your area!’ and tore it out to show me. When your loved ones think you’re so pathetic that they have to scan the back pages of the local rag to find you a partner, you know you’re in trouble.
‘Go on, give it a go,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to. It’s stupid.’
‘Good grief Jamie, stop being so stubborn. You never know… you might have fun!’
‘I very much doubt it,’ I predicted with a scowl on my face.
What did I have to lose though, eh?
…other than what was left of my self respect, anyway.
The event is held at The Cheetah Lounge – a nightclub in the heart of town known for its relaxed approach to licensing laws and casual violence.
I arrive at the front door dressed in what I think approximates ‘smart casual’ and am ushered in by a large bald security guard, who can’t quite suppress the smile on his face as he looks into the eyes of yet another loser who can’t get laid.
That’s what his expression says to me anyway… but I admit I may be a bit paranoid at this point.
Following some barely legible handmade signs, I wend my way to the rear of the nightclub, into a Latin themed area called ‘El Cheetos’.
As I enter I’m greeted by an excitable stick-thin woman, who introduces herself as Natasha from One-To-One Dating.
‘And what’s your name?’ she asks.
‘Glen Artichoke,’ I reply.
Now, you may be wondering why I’m giving a false name.
If you’re thinking it’s because I’m embarrassed by this whole enterprise you’re only half right.
The other reason is because I watch far too many shows on the Crime Channel (which you’ll find way up in th
e thousands on your Sky box if you can be bothered to look for it).
I’ve recently been watching a fascinating series called Killer Broads, about women who murder - and why. There are many reasons why these ladies choose to take a life, but every victim has one thing in common: they’re all men.
One particular woman would stalk her victims via various dating services until she found one she liked the look of - and then she’d burn his house to the ground with him in it. The lunatic managed to cook six unfortunate blokes extra crispy before the law finally caught up with her.
I wasn’t taking any chances…
If there was a murderous nutcase here tonight then she’d have a bloody hard time tracking down Glen Artichoke afterwards for some light murder.
‘Here you go, Glen,’ Natasha says, handing me a badge with my fake name written on it in permanent marker, just below a large number 13. ‘We’ll be kicking things off shortly, but if you’d like to go in and order yourself a drink we’ll let everyone know when we’re starting.’
I pin the badge to my jacket, give Natasha a weak smile and walk into the bar area.
There are roughly two dozen men and women standing around, all looking as apprehensive as I feel. I order a drink and stand at the bar trying to look inconspicuous.
I spend more time checking out the competition than eyeing up the ladies if I’m honest.
There’s one guy in a white cotton suit who looks like he’s no stranger to the gym, but he’s the only stand-out in a group of unspectacular looking individuals.
This makes me feel terrible, as chances are I look as unspectacular as they do.
I’m amazed to discover that none of the women look like they’re on day release, or the backside of an angry cow, so my spirits rise somewhat. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
Five minutes pass and I nervously sip my Diet Coke until Natasha bids us follow her into the large dance floor area through a set of heavy blue curtains.
Inside is a selection of small tables and chairs, laid out in a ring around the edge of the dance floor.
There are sixteen men and sixteen women altogether, so we’ll get a chance to spend a whole five minutes with each member of the opposite sex before moving on to the next. The women stay seated while the men move one place to the left.
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 4