Hello dear friends!
I apologise for my absence of late. I’ve been in Ibiza, you see. On a hen party.
Did you hear me? I went to Ibiza! Where, like, trendy people go? They like get villas n shit? And they go to sunset bars and look good after a day at the beach? Yuh?
That was me for the last four days. Me! Smelly old Robinson! I stayed in a beautiful villa with a load of beautiful women and had a properly brilliant time! Who knew?
I think the experience probably deserves a blog in itself but for now I wanted to share some truly amazing stories I heard. I think you will like them. They are pure genius of the very worst sort: eye-watering in their awful marvellousness.
So. One of the games we played on the hen night proper (dressing up, plastic willies, screaming etc) was a “guess whose embarrassing story this is” type affair. Mine was shamefully embarrassing; I’ll share it with you another time. But one girl came out with the best story I have ever heard. And when I quizzed her afterwards, marvelling at her quite extraordinary approach to dating, it turned out that this was not her only tale.
I shall call the girl Emma.
It’s early morning. Emma has just had a one-night stand. One night stands are not normal for her and she has woken up feeling quite repulsed by the entire situation. She tries for a while to cope with this alien man being in her bed but after a short while she cracks and asks him to leave. The man starts putting his clothes on while Emma takes a swig of water. She feels dreadful, physically and mentally. It does not help, therefore, that the water she is swigging has some sort of gunk in it. A piece of rubber or similar. Miserably, she chews on whatever it is.
“Where’s my contact lenses,” the man mutters, keen to get away from Emma now she has shattered any hopes of a morning glory. He looks around irritably; hampered obviously by the fact that he can’t see.
“What did you do with them last night?” Emma asks.
“Put them in a glass of water I think,” he replies testily. He doesn’t really remember.
Emma realises that she is chewing on his contact lens. She is horrified. She decides not to tell him.
The man’s eyes fall on the glass of water from which she was swigging. “Oh, that was it,” he says, unable to see that it’s now empty. “Can you pass it over please?”
Emma freezes. The man holds out his hand. He wants his contacts. He wants to get out.
There is a stand-off. “Um, can you pass me that glass please?” he repeats, now cross.
Emma remains frozen.
“WTF?” the guy asks. “If you want me to go, I need my contacts. Pass me the glass.”
And so – hungover, stressed, possibly lacking in judgement – Emma spits out his half-chewed contact lenses.
“Here you go,” she mumbles. “I was just . . . er . . .”
There are more.
Emma has just come out of an eight year relationship and is new to the dating scene. She meets a man she likes. He has a girlfriend, which is disappointing, but they’re having a lovely chat nonetheless. He walks her home from the bar where they’re chatting because he is a nice man and can see that she is wasted. But Emma is drunk now. And predatory. She wants to pash this man. “Would you like to borrow a jumper?” she asks. He is preparing to leave her now they’re at her flat and he is clearly cold.
“Um, I’m not sure I’d get into one of yours,” he replies confusedly.
“No, I’ve got loads of jumpers in the basement. They belong to my ex. You can drop it round tomorrow.”
The man says this sounds like a good plan. He must be freezing.
Emma starts to go down to the basement. What can she do? She wants to pash him. But he’s leaving. She’s now forgotten about the girlfriend. Or doesn’t care. She’s drunk, give her a break.
She has a brainwave.
“Do you mind coming down with me?” she simpers. “It’s really dark and cold and stuff. I’m slightly scared.”
The man consents. He sounds like quite a heroic chap I think.
Emma sets off down the stairs, the man behind her. I would not put it past her to be clutching a candle in a candlestick for full dramatic effect. Half way down the stairs into the basement, she stops and puts her plan into action.
“I lied to you,” she says, in a new, sexy voice. It is low and seductive and she looks up at him through her eyelashes. “There are no jumpers. There’s just me. And you . . . ”
The man is terrified. He reiterates that he has a girlfriend and leaves the house at a sprint.
Emma wakes up the next day and is mortified. Beyond words. What was she going to do? Lock him in the cellar and whip him until he agreed to pash her? Thank God she will never have to see him again!
But what’s this? He is on the same tube carriage as her as she drags herself off to work? SURELY NOT! That would be impossibly cruel! And yet there he is, accompanied by none other than his girlfriend. Who looks probably a lot fresher than Emma.
Emma skulks off towards the end of the carriage, hoping he will not see her. But she has not bargained for her newspaper exploding, sending internal sections skidding off down the carriage towards the man and his girlfriend. Emma panics and goes after it. But people are in her way and the tube is jolting. And so she somehow finds herself scuttling around his feet, arse in the air, clutching at bits of newspaper that keep flying off. He and his girlfriend have to actually step over her to exit the tube at the next stop.
The horror. The horror.
But my favourite is yet to come.
Emma has been dragged out by her friends. “It’s time to get over your ex!” they tell her. They take her to a bar and challenge her to kiss a boy. Ideally one who doesn’t have a girlfriend and ideally in the bar, rather than in her cellar. They point out a suitable victim and Emma goes along with it, largely to get them off her back. She approaches the man and they start chatting.
Things go well. They start dancing. But something is wrong, and the man in question – let’s call him Matt – can see that there’s a problem. “Are you ok?” he asks nervously. Emma is looking stranger by the minute.
“Yes,” she squeaks. “I just need the loo.”
“Well then go to the loo!” Matt exclaims.
Emma shakes her head mutinously. “No. If I do you won’t be here when I get back.”
Matt is at a loss. “Er, I will,” he says.
But Emma will not believe him. “You won’t,” she says. “You’ll sneak off.”
She feels sad for a moment but then has a brainwave. “I tell you what,” she says, delving into her handbag. “Here’s a fiver. If I give this to you will you promise to stay here until I get back?”
Matt stares at her, open-mouthed.
The good news is that Emma and Matt got married last summer, and he didn’t accept her fiver. She actually has even more stories; I am enthralled and looking forward to more. But listening to her has sparked off an amazing series of shameful memories of my own attempts at pulling men in the past. Such as, aged 20, saying to Tom who lived next door to me at university, “Tom, how would you feel if I put my finger over your lips to stop you talking, and then leaned in slowly and kissed you so gently you could barely feel it? Would you like that, Tom? Because that’s what I’m going to do, right now.”
I actually said that.
(Tom declined and went home next door. I got drunk and threw forks at my bedroom wall in the hope that he’d hear.)
We’re relying on you.