- Date: 25.04.15
- Venue: Gremios
- Participant: Tinder Girl #7
I matched with this girl on Tinder a few weeks ago. Congratulations to her, she was my 317th match. My usual practice these days is not to message any of them, but to wait for the ones that message me. This way you can sift out the keener ones.
So she messaged with “Good Moooooorning”. I replied with “Good afternooooooon” (a few days later). It continued like this for a bit. She was from Brixton, which was a convenience I would usually only expect from Happn. An added bonus.
So one day we were exchanging messages and she asked if I happened to be free that evening. I was. I was in a bit of a quandary. It was a Tuesday night. Mondays are certainly sacred. They’re like the Sabbath. I try not to do anything other than get through my personal admin. I also try and keep Tuesdays free – I feel the soul requires two days of sobriety. However, I also believe in the paradoxical ‘carpe diem’ mantra. I followed the latter.
It transpired that she was out with a friend and couldn’t actually meet till about 11pm that night. Now Brixton is a lively place, but on a Tuesday night, even in Brixton, you will struggle to find a place still serving. I’m a little out of touch with how the youth of today work (she was only 24), but to me, this seemed like what one would refer to as a ‘booty call’. I’m used to a bit more preamble than just turning up and getting down to business. I was unsure as to how this would pan out, but I was willing to sit it out to find out. I messaged back with my number and told her to let me know when she was back in Brixton and wanted to meet.
Obviously I couldn’t do this sober, so I went to the shops to buy some strongbows and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc #earnit. I came back home and proceeded to drink the requisite amount of alcohol for such events.
It got to 10.30pm, 10.45pm, 11pm… still no reply. 11.15pm, 11.30pm… time to give up I think. I’d got through four cans of strongbow and a bottle of sauvignon. What a waste.
She messaged the following day apologising. Her phone had died. Apparently. Likely story? Who knows. Nevertheless, we arranged to go for drinks in a couple of weeks. Go with the more traditional approach this time.
So it was a Saturday night. I don’t usually date on Saturday night, especially first dates. However, the existing evidence led me to believe that this might be worth sacrificing a Saturday night for.
She suggested going to Gremios. Obviously I love Gremios. It’s one of my go to Brixton date venues. But this would be the third night in a row, with three different girls. Was this a good look? What would the delightful barmaid think of this?
I was actually a little apprehensive about leaving the house. The date messaged saying her friend had told her there were ‘riots’ in Brixton. I had been wondering why there had been a helicopter overhead for quite a while. It turned out it was an anti-gentrification demonstration turned sour. Someone got over excited and smashed up the front of Foxtons. Then the law got a bit loose with their pepper spray. On my way to Gremios there were a lot of police out, and I saw the smashed up Foxtons window, but it seemed to have calmed down. On approaching Gremios I passed some banners. One read ‘Gentrified area: poor people keep out’. It’s a good job I’m not poor, I thought as I entered the bar.
I arrived just before her, so I loitered near the entrance. She arrived a minute later, unnecessarily calling me just before she came in. She looked like her photos. She was carrying a bit of excess, but less than I had allowed for. There was no revealing body shot on Tinder. It looked like she might be on the larger side, but only just. I’d learnt from previous mistakes and given this a good deal of consideration and analysis. She had her Instagram and Twitter on her bio. Her Instagram was private. I went on her Twitter. There were a few photos. Nothing that revealed any more information. Her full name was on her twitter, so I looked her up on Facebook. Slightly better representation. She’ll do, I thought. You have to do your research these days. If you don’t it’s like turning up to a job interview and not knowing what the company does. Unforgiveable.
After we greeted (two kisses) we instinctively started walking towards the bar. She was working. Oh, there she was, the delightful, glorious, flirtatious, wonderful barmaid. She might not have seen me with this new girl – she probably did, but she might not have – so I thought I’d go and sit the date down, out of view, before I went to the bar. I did. I don’t know why though, I would be ordering a bottle of wine (her favourite), two glasses. She’d know. She was actually working the other side of the bar, so she didn’t serve me. She saw me, gave me a lovely smile and a wave, followed by a look of confusion or disapproval. Or both. I know, I’m here again. Yes, with a different girl. I want you though. Please.
Oh well, for now I’d just have to make do with this one.
We chatted away. She was very lively, and asked a lot of questions. However, when she started saying things like “I’m very ambitious” and “I’m doing very well for myself” and “I want to be the youngest female Conservative MP in history” I started to think she was a little over confident. Some people might call her an arsehole. Some people. Oh, and keep it in the ground love.
I was willing to put some of it down to the over exuberance of youth. She was 24. Well within my acceptable limits, but sometimes five years can seem like a lot. Particularly when she pointed out she was younger than my youngest sister.
In between all this there was some enjoyable conversation, such as discussing whether the v neck of the tee of the guy sat near us (also on a date) was too deep… we decided it was. It turned out his date also thought it was. She still left with him; a confused and somewhat traumatised look on her face as she did. She was not unattractive. (I looked for her on Happn the next day. I couldn’t find her.) I also managed to get in another lengthy conversation about plane crashes.
Nevertheless, the conversation kept coming back to things like “I’m the youngest head of department at my school” and “gender is a social construct: discuss”. Some people might call her an arsehole. Some people.
Anyway, time for another bottle of wine. She wanted food as well. It was 10.30pm. Think about the logistics. I went to see if they were still serving food. I got served by the delightful barmaid. They were still serving food. At least this gave me a chance to have a longer chat with her. Oh, and I’ll have another bottle of wine.
“The same as the last two nights?” she asked.
“Yes, the same.” Your favourite.
You’d think the good thing about being on a date with someone who was doing so well for themselves and who believed that gender was a social construct would be their willingness to pay their way, or at least contribute. No. Some people might call her an arsehole. Some people
After food and some more wine, she started falling asleep on me. I unfortunately saw an ex colleague. I went and chatted to him. It’s not what it looks like. Then a group of girls came and started dancing near where we were sat. At first they were smiling / laughing at the fact she was asleep. But this soon seemed to turn into looks of disapproval. Oh, and they weren’t unattractive either. I looked for them on Happn the next day. I couldn’t find them. Then the bouncer came over and banged the final nail in, telling us we had to leave. Should I take her home? Was this immoral? We went to another bar.
She perked up a bit. We went to Kaff bar, where I ended up with Friday’s one. She didn’t seem to like the place. She asked if I lived nearby. I did. It’s the reason I’d come here. She wanted to come back. At least it saved me buying this round as well.
I believe they call it an anger f*ck. If she ever does become the youngest female conservative MP in history, then I’ll call up the Daily Mail and tell them she puts out on the first date. The Liberal Tory.