Believe it or not I was not always this smooth...
Although still a couple of sonnets short of a Romeo, you may be alarmed to know that I have actually got a lot better at meeting girls.
When reading that last sentence please appreciate where the 'pulling' goal posts were first positioned. I was awful...no really awful. Amongst friends it's easy to be outgoing and confident but making that intial approach to that stranger in a bar is a completely different proposition. Praise the lord for alcohol, you probably won't find a passage in the Bible that will help you to do this (too busy banging on about the poor and the needy) but try and praise him regardless.
Alcohol is the all important social lubricant and without it you would not have been born. Take a look at your Dad right now, chances are he's not exactly the Fonze. Can you imagine him confidently swanning up to your mother without 8 pints of special brew bubbling away in his gut? And this was all in the days before Internet Dating and text messaging, so no sodding way is he meeting/talking to your mother without a skinful of Dutch courage.
That's why Jesus turned water into wine, so we could all get laid. And thank God, quite literally in this case, otherwise I would still be reading my 'How the Body Works' educational book (thanks for that Mum, way to parent).
Still Alcohol does have one or two minor, minor flaws. According to top scientists it has been known to affect judgement and decision making. This usually results in one of four scenarios when approaching a mademoiselle:
1. You approach someone way out of your league - she surprisingly says no (may use words other than no, but essentially it will amount to the same thing).
2. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league (think the Macclesfild Town of lady folk) and she says yes. You try and laugh it off the next day by saying something manly like, 'every dog has her day and it was her turn', but really inside your crying. Also probably wasn't a great idea to swap numbers, you know your going to text her the next time your out.
3. You somehow manage to find and approach someone in a lower league, she says no, you think oh dear, your onlooking friends think oh yes... tomorrow you are going to be their banter bitch.
4. Possibly the worst, your punching just above your weight but hanging in there until the full extent of how much of a drunken twat you really are becomes painfully apparent, she walks/runs/evacuates away out of the building.
Everyone has a few number 4's in their locker, let me tell you about one of mine.
We were in Bar Med in Guildford, for those of you unfamiliar with this particular brand of chain bar, it is a popular hang out for Smirnoff Ice clutching underage drinkers, sporting their latest 'Mad House' purchased Yves Saint Lauren shirt.
My friends and I frequented it regularly.
Several Reefs, Red Squares and the afformentioned Smirnoff ice's later, I was taking one of my every '15 minutes' alcohol induced toilet breaks. However, en route to the powder room I found my path blocked by a beautiful young lady. Having politely asked her if I could get past, it turned out that this block was intentional and she did in fact want to talk to me...oh dear.
My alcohol intake was worrying high in light of the task ahead. The almighty confidence that alcohol had giving me, was unfortunately at the expense of general speach and mobility.
Focus, must focus, these opportunities don't come along too often. We talk, the simple stuff to start off with. I ask her name...three times, in fairness the music was loud but I think she is starting to suspect.
Nevertheless she invites me to sit with her, probably more for my own safety as it probably looked like I was going to collapse. I'm losing the battle, my lack of speach is only inturrupted by mindless drunken jabbering. I just about manage to get a sensible question in by asking her what she did for a living. She replied that she did a bit of modelling work, probably a lie, but who cares I would never find out the truth so as far as I was concerned a model was interested in me.
This only doubled the pressure and in response I started to drink more to give me that 'killer edge', surprisingly this resulted in disaster. The facade was broken and it was clear that I was a drunken idiot. Luckily for all concerned it was the end of the night.
I give her a peck on the cheek and in a moment of unbridled optimism ask for her number. 'Unfortunately' she had only recently purchased the phone and did not know the number off by heart so it was best that she took my number instead.
So I woke up the next day and in the cold light of sobriety realised that I had royally messed it up with a number 4. It's moments like these that you vow to 'never drink again' and instead devote your life to helping people. No way was she going to call.
All of a sudden a text comes through, it was her and she was asking how I was. This is cruch time, in one text I need to rectify all of last night wrongs and prove what a funny, great, good guy I am. This is what I wrote:
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
This was not the best text to send.
This was not the text that would encapsulate funny, great and good guy and I realised this very quickly. Amazingly she did not get back to me.
A few days later a whole load of us were going round a friends house, this whole episode was behind me and I was to learn from these mistakes and grow as a human being.
As we all sat round, one of my friends asked if I had heard anything from her. I explained that I had not. He persisted, 'really you havent heard anything, nothing at all?'. I reiterated that I had not and asked why he was being so inquisitive? Surely it was no real surprise that she hadn't been in touch. 'Oh nothing', was the reply and then he beckoned his little sister into the room.
She came in clutching her mobile phone and proceeded to read a text from her phone out loud,
'Hey was great to meet you last night, you know I went out with a model once, that was until she fell apart!'
Yes you've guessed it, the text was never sent by 'the model' but was instead sent by my friends little sister.
So there I was with this 12 year old girl ripping it out of me thrilled that she was part of this wind up. It was bad enough thinking that I had sent the worlds worst text message to some girl I would never see again, let alone effectively sending it my closest friends.
This was to open up a whole new world of piss taking and I was to be reminded of it often...
Monday 23 April 2007
Saturday 21 April 2007
You Learn, You Grow
You can look back and laugh, but at the time I was self harming...
It was hot, very hot. I was off to Guildford to meet a girl who I had got talking to at a bar on a previous night out. It's two and a half miles to the nearest station, I couldn't drive as I was going to be drinking, my parents were out and I didn't want to ask a friend as I would have had to explain that I was going on a date.
My friends rip the piss mercilessly out of each other, which is fine I like banter as much as the next guy, but I didn't want to give them any fresh material and as you may have gathered, not all my dates go that well. So I walked the two and a half miles on what was an unusually hot Summers day only to find that the trains were cancelled and a bus replacement service was in place. The Sun came streaming in through the Bus window and without air conditioning it was a pretty horrible journey.
Never mind though, I was on course to Guildford and would soon be drinking tall cocktails with a potential new lady friend.
So we meet and were going dutch on rounds. I offer to buy but she insists on paying her way which is cool - shows she's not after my money, which is good as I don't have any. Conversation is a bit stale, but hey we have only just met and these things can take time. I get the feeling I'm not the bad ass boyfriend she's after but it's too early to be making these kind of judgement calls.
I go to the toilet for a numero uno and on my return find that she is on the phone to her friend. Disaster, one of her best friends is distraught as she has literally 'just split up with her long term boyfriend'. I try to pretend that I care and she hints that in this time of need, she has to be with her friend to provide moral support.
I assume she is lying, but you can't be sure, so what can you do? I either say, 'Liar pants on fire and don't think your getting out of this date so quickly', or say 'of course, I completely understand'. After much soul searching I choose the latter and we part.
I then get the bus replacement service back to the nearest station and start the two and a half mile walk. At this point I make the executive decision to send her a text, something nice and simple that shows what a great guy I am. It read something along the lines of, 'hope your friends ok, sorry we had to cut the date off early and maybe we can meet up again some time'.
Unfortunately I accidentally sent this text to a good friend of mine. He quickly deduces that I had been on a date and that she had made some excuse to effectively run away. Within seconds, he had forwarded this text to all my other friends.
On my long walk home I am kept company from numerous texts from well wishers, such as 'Nice date Cornford!'.
To put this in perspective, accumulative transport time equals approximately three hours, actual duration of date one hour. In case your wondering, I never did hear back from her, maybe the text didn't deliver...
It was hot, very hot. I was off to Guildford to meet a girl who I had got talking to at a bar on a previous night out. It's two and a half miles to the nearest station, I couldn't drive as I was going to be drinking, my parents were out and I didn't want to ask a friend as I would have had to explain that I was going on a date.
My friends rip the piss mercilessly out of each other, which is fine I like banter as much as the next guy, but I didn't want to give them any fresh material and as you may have gathered, not all my dates go that well. So I walked the two and a half miles on what was an unusually hot Summers day only to find that the trains were cancelled and a bus replacement service was in place. The Sun came streaming in through the Bus window and without air conditioning it was a pretty horrible journey.
Never mind though, I was on course to Guildford and would soon be drinking tall cocktails with a potential new lady friend.
So we meet and were going dutch on rounds. I offer to buy but she insists on paying her way which is cool - shows she's not after my money, which is good as I don't have any. Conversation is a bit stale, but hey we have only just met and these things can take time. I get the feeling I'm not the bad ass boyfriend she's after but it's too early to be making these kind of judgement calls.
I go to the toilet for a numero uno and on my return find that she is on the phone to her friend. Disaster, one of her best friends is distraught as she has literally 'just split up with her long term boyfriend'. I try to pretend that I care and she hints that in this time of need, she has to be with her friend to provide moral support.
I assume she is lying, but you can't be sure, so what can you do? I either say, 'Liar pants on fire and don't think your getting out of this date so quickly', or say 'of course, I completely understand'. After much soul searching I choose the latter and we part.
I then get the bus replacement service back to the nearest station and start the two and a half mile walk. At this point I make the executive decision to send her a text, something nice and simple that shows what a great guy I am. It read something along the lines of, 'hope your friends ok, sorry we had to cut the date off early and maybe we can meet up again some time'.
Unfortunately I accidentally sent this text to a good friend of mine. He quickly deduces that I had been on a date and that she had made some excuse to effectively run away. Within seconds, he had forwarded this text to all my other friends.
On my long walk home I am kept company from numerous texts from well wishers, such as 'Nice date Cornford!'.
To put this in perspective, accumulative transport time equals approximately three hours, actual duration of date one hour. In case your wondering, I never did hear back from her, maybe the text didn't deliver...
Apparently it is meant to be good luck.
Don't be yourself, be someone better...
Another tale from the dating archive. At university I met a handsome young lady at a night club establishment and arranged to meet up with her later that week.
We agreed to met at the town square centre by the large monument, a popular meeting place. I wasn't a 100% sure what she looked like having drunk heavily at the aforementioned night club, so I got there nice and early so that she would have to pick me out.
A tip for anyone out there who finds themselves in a similar situation, always get to the meeting place ridiculously early (20 minutes will do, there is no need to camp overnight) and just stare directly at the ground and wait for them to approach you. The temptation will be there to look up,
'Oh is that her', you will think and panic will set in, DON'T LOOK UP!
So I was there early and staring intently at my shoes. For those of you that have read my flip flop related dating post, please note that I was wearing shoes to this date - this is standard practice. It was 7:30, the arranged meeting time, when all of a sudden a pigeon with sniper like accuracy shat furiously, leaving a streaked white terd down my jeans.
Decision Time, do I leave the agreed meeting place at the agreed meeting time to attend to my garment issue and risk antagonising the potential Mrs.Cornford, or do I stick put with shitty jeans.
I decided to attend to the jeans and dived into a near by Wetherspoons. Having doused my jeans in water, I had to perform hand stand acrobatics to waft them under the hand dryer - much to the amusement/bemusement of Wetherspoon patrons.
Luckily, my date arrived late so the original plan was back on. When she did arrive my jeans were sans shit, but they were evidently wet below the groin area. I didn't bring this up, she didn't bring it up and amazingly in this instance there was a second date.
Another tale from the dating archive. At university I met a handsome young lady at a night club establishment and arranged to meet up with her later that week.
We agreed to met at the town square centre by the large monument, a popular meeting place. I wasn't a 100% sure what she looked like having drunk heavily at the aforementioned night club, so I got there nice and early so that she would have to pick me out.
A tip for anyone out there who finds themselves in a similar situation, always get to the meeting place ridiculously early (20 minutes will do, there is no need to camp overnight) and just stare directly at the ground and wait for them to approach you. The temptation will be there to look up,
'Oh is that her', you will think and panic will set in, DON'T LOOK UP!
So I was there early and staring intently at my shoes. For those of you that have read my flip flop related dating post, please note that I was wearing shoes to this date - this is standard practice. It was 7:30, the arranged meeting time, when all of a sudden a pigeon with sniper like accuracy shat furiously, leaving a streaked white terd down my jeans.
Decision Time, do I leave the agreed meeting place at the agreed meeting time to attend to my garment issue and risk antagonising the potential Mrs.Cornford, or do I stick put with shitty jeans.
I decided to attend to the jeans and dived into a near by Wetherspoons. Having doused my jeans in water, I had to perform hand stand acrobatics to waft them under the hand dryer - much to the amusement/bemusement of Wetherspoon patrons.
Luckily, my date arrived late so the original plan was back on. When she did arrive my jeans were sans shit, but they were evidently wet below the groin area. I didn't bring this up, she didn't bring it up and amazingly in this instance there was a second date.
Note to self: Turning up to a date in a suit and flip flops is a bad idea.
I have been on a lot of first dates, I have been on very few second dates...
Twas a lovely balmy Summers day and my good friends Thomas and Penny kindly opened their house and garden for what was a great social event. Everyone bar myself was drinking socially and responsibly and although I was not a total mess, there is no question that I was heavily intoxicated.
I was staying in my old room at my Mums house and in my drunken stupor trying to put a DVD on in my room I twatted my head on the corner of a shelf. If that wasn't bad enough, in doing this I knocked an old money box off the shelf which then proceeded to land sweetly on my big toe.
This money box is made of what I believe to be led and was full of foreign coins (apologies for my crap childhood hobbies). Weighing a tonne it did a nice job of bludgeoning my toe and left my nail clinging on for dear life.
However being pissed I was impervious to pain, so went to the toilet and promptly went to bed. I woke in the morning to a throbbing pain, finding my mother (a lady in her 50's) down on her hands and knees on the upstairs landing scrubbing my blood out of the beige carpet.
'You're 24' she said, explaining that I was too old for this sort of tomfoolery.
'I'm sorry' was my only reply.
The nail came off completely with little persuasion, leaving my bloodied toe fully exposed. At this point I realised that my foot modelling career was over. In full throttle mothering mode, my mum swiftly produced one of those plastic thumb guards and instructed me that it was paramount that I wore it on my toe to prevent infection. I am old enough to know that Mother does know best, so followed her instructions.
I had to wear flip flops to work with my suit and the first colleague I came across enquired as to why I was wearing a condom on my toe. At this point I realised I needed to get it professionally dressed by someone with medical experience.
My job is predominantly desk based, so in all this scenario would not really have been too bad if it had not been for the fact that at this party it had been brought to my attention that an attractive lady had expressed some interest in me.
Being a real man, I cowardly got a friend to give me her e-mail address so that I could get in touch. How did people get laid before text and e-mail, can you even imagine going back to having to call a girl to set up the first date? God bless technology.
Anyway back to the matter in hand, we arranged to meet up near where she lived which is some way from London so I had to head there straight from work...in my suit and flip flops.
Looking like a Miami Vice reject, I made the decision to nip the situation in the bud and I explained my attire straight away which unfortunately meant going through the whole episode.
Already I could tell she was thinking, I'm on a date with a guy in flip flops and a suit and clearly he has the maturity of a six year old to have gotten into this situation in the first place. Being on the dating back foot it was paramount that I put in a Man of the Match performance.
Unfortunately having eaten the meal, which was very nice, the only options available was local pubs all of which are pretty horrible. I chose the best of a worse bunch, but it transpired that Liverpool were playing in Europe that day and the pub was screening the game. My desperate attempts to exude charm and wit, fell on a audible background of Chav football observations,
'That was never a foul you c*nt' and so on.
We parted with a kiss on the cheek and I have not heard from her since. I do however hear that she is dating a young gentleman with excellent taste in footwear.
Twas a lovely balmy Summers day and my good friends Thomas and Penny kindly opened their house and garden for what was a great social event. Everyone bar myself was drinking socially and responsibly and although I was not a total mess, there is no question that I was heavily intoxicated.
I was staying in my old room at my Mums house and in my drunken stupor trying to put a DVD on in my room I twatted my head on the corner of a shelf. If that wasn't bad enough, in doing this I knocked an old money box off the shelf which then proceeded to land sweetly on my big toe.
This money box is made of what I believe to be led and was full of foreign coins (apologies for my crap childhood hobbies). Weighing a tonne it did a nice job of bludgeoning my toe and left my nail clinging on for dear life.
However being pissed I was impervious to pain, so went to the toilet and promptly went to bed. I woke in the morning to a throbbing pain, finding my mother (a lady in her 50's) down on her hands and knees on the upstairs landing scrubbing my blood out of the beige carpet.
'You're 24' she said, explaining that I was too old for this sort of tomfoolery.
'I'm sorry' was my only reply.
The nail came off completely with little persuasion, leaving my bloodied toe fully exposed. At this point I realised that my foot modelling career was over. In full throttle mothering mode, my mum swiftly produced one of those plastic thumb guards and instructed me that it was paramount that I wore it on my toe to prevent infection. I am old enough to know that Mother does know best, so followed her instructions.
I had to wear flip flops to work with my suit and the first colleague I came across enquired as to why I was wearing a condom on my toe. At this point I realised I needed to get it professionally dressed by someone with medical experience.
My job is predominantly desk based, so in all this scenario would not really have been too bad if it had not been for the fact that at this party it had been brought to my attention that an attractive lady had expressed some interest in me.
Being a real man, I cowardly got a friend to give me her e-mail address so that I could get in touch. How did people get laid before text and e-mail, can you even imagine going back to having to call a girl to set up the first date? God bless technology.
Anyway back to the matter in hand, we arranged to meet up near where she lived which is some way from London so I had to head there straight from work...in my suit and flip flops.
Looking like a Miami Vice reject, I made the decision to nip the situation in the bud and I explained my attire straight away which unfortunately meant going through the whole episode.
Already I could tell she was thinking, I'm on a date with a guy in flip flops and a suit and clearly he has the maturity of a six year old to have gotten into this situation in the first place. Being on the dating back foot it was paramount that I put in a Man of the Match performance.
Unfortunately having eaten the meal, which was very nice, the only options available was local pubs all of which are pretty horrible. I chose the best of a worse bunch, but it transpired that Liverpool were playing in Europe that day and the pub was screening the game. My desperate attempts to exude charm and wit, fell on a audible background of Chav football observations,
'That was never a foul you c*nt' and so on.
We parted with a kiss on the cheek and I have not heard from her since. I do however hear that she is dating a young gentleman with excellent taste in footwear.
And on the Seventh day God ripped the piss out of Cornford...
My name is Alex Cornford, I'm a 24 year old guy living in rented accommodation in London and working in online advertising sales. I'm about 6 foot tall caucasian, with short (balding/greying) brown hair.
If your still reading this it is unlikely that the previous paragraph has 'wowed' you. All sounds pretty normal, why has this boring bastard set up a blog and more to the point why the hell should I continue to waste my time reading it?
Do you know how in every friendship group there is always the guy/girl who is the but of most, if not all of the jokes, even when they are in the room. Well, that is pretty much me. I am lucky to have a number of different social groups and consistently I seem to fill this role. Do I mind? Not really, and I guess I even play up to it to an extent. Part of it is my own dam fault (there is no doubt that I am an idiot), but mostly the majority of my misfortune and downfalls is down to God/Buddha/the universe/kabbalah whatever the hell your into (apologies for the contravening blasphemy in the previous sentence).
I have received a number of requests (2) to actually document the many trials and tribulations of my life. For those of you that know me I am sure that the 'hilarity factor' of the following posts will be significantly enhanced, for any unlucky random who has stumbled upon this site please read, learn and grow. Think of it as a Saved by the Bell style experience. Do as I don't and you can't go far wrong...
If your still reading this it is unlikely that the previous paragraph has 'wowed' you. All sounds pretty normal, why has this boring bastard set up a blog and more to the point why the hell should I continue to waste my time reading it?
Do you know how in every friendship group there is always the guy/girl who is the but of most, if not all of the jokes, even when they are in the room. Well, that is pretty much me. I am lucky to have a number of different social groups and consistently I seem to fill this role. Do I mind? Not really, and I guess I even play up to it to an extent. Part of it is my own dam fault (there is no doubt that I am an idiot), but mostly the majority of my misfortune and downfalls is down to God/Buddha/the universe/kabbalah whatever the hell your into (apologies for the contravening blasphemy in the previous sentence).
I have received a number of requests (2) to actually document the many trials and tribulations of my life. For those of you that know me I am sure that the 'hilarity factor' of the following posts will be significantly enhanced, for any unlucky random who has stumbled upon this site please read, learn and grow. Think of it as a Saved by the Bell style experience. Do as I don't and you can't go far wrong...
Dating Do's and Dont's
Why do your friends call you 'Prawnford'?
I am not the world's best dater, this will become painfully apparent over the following paragraphs and posts. Let's take the last example, I will leave out the real names of the poor, poor ladies who were involved in these social atrocities to protect the innocent.
It had been a while since my last attempt at 'courting', so I really wanted to make a good impression on what was to be the first date with this girl. I consulted with my good friend and resident Lothario Mr.X (apologies for the lack of legitimate names, but please appreciate that to name the Lothario would potentially damage future Lothario-ing possibly to libel extents) and explained my predicament/opportunity with this live, breathing girl.
He informed me of a lovely destination in London Bridge called Vinnopolis where I could take my lady friend on a wine tasting evening. Brilliant, I could get her pissed under the guise of culture, which ultimately will make me seem much more brilliant than I actually am.
So the date was set, I turned up in my work suit , looking sharp but not in a try hard way as this was the appropriate garments for my current employment function. I purchased two tickets for the middle option offering, not the lowest cost option so I didn't look like a cheap scape and not the most alcohol laden option so it didn't look like I was trying to date rape her the old fashioned way.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first when 'Bubbles' our tour guide gave us a crash course on wine tasting. She was one of these people that love life and as she was demonstrating how to slurp the wine I comforted myself in the knowledge that almost certainly this was just a facade for show and privately she self harms in her dimly lit bedroom whilst listening to the Cure.
However, all in all it went pretty well. It became very clear that I knew nothing about wine, mostly I drink Lambrini or Lambrusco and often I can be seen shamefully requesting the cheapest bottle of white wine and 1 glass in bars. Nevertheless this didn't seem to be too much of a stumbling block and I just asked for their recommendation when doing the tasting.
We were both getting merry and then we moved onto the whisky tasting. We both had a shot and she said 'down in one' so naturally I instantly downed the shot. I realised at this point that she still had her shot and she soon explained that she was joking - this was after all, meant to be about experiencing the flavor of these fine malts. Bollocks to that, who wants to bask in the taste sensation of whisky and absinthe, no one not even winos.
Any way this was still but a minor glitch and did not mar my overall 'dating performance'. Having completed the wine tasting she explained that she was hungry as we were passing a fish restaurant. Being the forced gentleman that I am I suggested dining in said restaurant. Now I don't really like seafood, but she was a vegetarian and it was 10 at night so it seemed like the sensible choice.
Another bottle of wine, brilliant maintain her level of intoxication and subsequently my level of interestingness and waitress I will have the prawns please.
Prawns, can't go far wrong, I have them sometimes in my Sainsbury's sandwiches not too offensive to my delicate taste buds. But no, these are the big bastard shrimp prawns with the sodding heads on them and everything. So here I am sitting opposite a vegetarian with my bloody foods eyes pretty much looking at her as I rip off their heads with my knife - excellent.
But ultimately this was not my biggest failing of the night, this was still to come. As explained I don't really eat sea food and therefore was a prawn novice. Trying to tackle them delicately I used my knife and fork to remove the head and tails and proceeded to consume.
It wasn't until about half way through that a thought came to me, I remembered my mum and sister eating prawns and I was pretty sure that they didn't eat the shell, which I had merrily been crunching through.
It was decision time, I had already eaten half of my prawns in their shelled entirety, did I now revert to de-shelling the remaining prawns? I made the executive decision that it would be even more embarrassing to do so and continued to eat what was left fully shelled.
Readers, it was not pleasant, it was not nutritionally sound and there was going to be repercussions. Instantly I did not feel well, but far worse for the next TWO weeks I had the worse gas situation of my life, with most making an exit via the back door. For any work colleagues reading this, I can only apologise for what was a trying time for us all.
Having regailed this tale to my friends they hilariously came up with the nickname 'Prawnford' (Cornford - Prawnford, see what they did there).
Having said all this, it was still one of my more successful dates as following posts will reveal.
I am not the world's best dater, this will become painfully apparent over the following paragraphs and posts. Let's take the last example, I will leave out the real names of the poor, poor ladies who were involved in these social atrocities to protect the innocent.
It had been a while since my last attempt at 'courting', so I really wanted to make a good impression on what was to be the first date with this girl. I consulted with my good friend and resident Lothario Mr.X (apologies for the lack of legitimate names, but please appreciate that to name the Lothario would potentially damage future Lothario-ing possibly to libel extents) and explained my predicament/opportunity with this live, breathing girl.
He informed me of a lovely destination in London Bridge called Vinnopolis where I could take my lady friend on a wine tasting evening. Brilliant, I could get her pissed under the guise of culture, which ultimately will make me seem much more brilliant than I actually am.
So the date was set, I turned up in my work suit , looking sharp but not in a try hard way as this was the appropriate garments for my current employment function. I purchased two tickets for the middle option offering, not the lowest cost option so I didn't look like a cheap scape and not the most alcohol laden option so it didn't look like I was trying to date rape her the old fashioned way.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first when 'Bubbles' our tour guide gave us a crash course on wine tasting. She was one of these people that love life and as she was demonstrating how to slurp the wine I comforted myself in the knowledge that almost certainly this was just a facade for show and privately she self harms in her dimly lit bedroom whilst listening to the Cure.
However, all in all it went pretty well. It became very clear that I knew nothing about wine, mostly I drink Lambrini or Lambrusco and often I can be seen shamefully requesting the cheapest bottle of white wine and 1 glass in bars. Nevertheless this didn't seem to be too much of a stumbling block and I just asked for their recommendation when doing the tasting.
We were both getting merry and then we moved onto the whisky tasting. We both had a shot and she said 'down in one' so naturally I instantly downed the shot. I realised at this point that she still had her shot and she soon explained that she was joking - this was after all, meant to be about experiencing the flavor of these fine malts. Bollocks to that, who wants to bask in the taste sensation of whisky and absinthe, no one not even winos.
Any way this was still but a minor glitch and did not mar my overall 'dating performance'. Having completed the wine tasting she explained that she was hungry as we were passing a fish restaurant. Being the forced gentleman that I am I suggested dining in said restaurant. Now I don't really like seafood, but she was a vegetarian and it was 10 at night so it seemed like the sensible choice.
Another bottle of wine, brilliant maintain her level of intoxication and subsequently my level of interestingness and waitress I will have the prawns please.
Prawns, can't go far wrong, I have them sometimes in my Sainsbury's sandwiches not too offensive to my delicate taste buds. But no, these are the big bastard shrimp prawns with the sodding heads on them and everything. So here I am sitting opposite a vegetarian with my bloody foods eyes pretty much looking at her as I rip off their heads with my knife - excellent.
But ultimately this was not my biggest failing of the night, this was still to come. As explained I don't really eat sea food and therefore was a prawn novice. Trying to tackle them delicately I used my knife and fork to remove the head and tails and proceeded to consume.
It wasn't until about half way through that a thought came to me, I remembered my mum and sister eating prawns and I was pretty sure that they didn't eat the shell, which I had merrily been crunching through.
It was decision time, I had already eaten half of my prawns in their shelled entirety, did I now revert to de-shelling the remaining prawns? I made the executive decision that it would be even more embarrassing to do so and continued to eat what was left fully shelled.
Readers, it was not pleasant, it was not nutritionally sound and there was going to be repercussions. Instantly I did not feel well, but far worse for the next TWO weeks I had the worse gas situation of my life, with most making an exit via the back door. For any work colleagues reading this, I can only apologise for what was a trying time for us all.
Having regailed this tale to my friends they hilariously came up with the nickname 'Prawnford' (Cornford - Prawnford, see what they did there).
Having said all this, it was still one of my more successful dates as following posts will reveal.
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