The One With The Drunk

Until recently, I had three rules that anyone who wanted to have the pleasure of my company for the long term was expected to keep:

  • Don’t lie
  • Don’t cheat
  • Don’t hit me

Basic, simple, standard stuff.

Rules that you shouldn’t really have to remind people to follow because, lets be honest, they shouldn’t be dicks.

Those rules have done me well…. that was, until I went out with M at the beginning of this year.

M had real potential.

He had a good job, owned his own home, had no crazy ex on the scene and more importantly had the kind of sense of humour that didn’t just make me chuckle, it made me belly laugh.

M and I spent the best part of a month chatting online before I took the plunge and gave him my mobile number which came with the obvious caveat of ‘no dick pics please’ and ‘don’t drunk text me’.  We spent another few weeks texting and chatting on the phone before we set the date.

We decided to meet for a late lunch at 3:30pm.  He lived in Thatcham and I’m in Wantage – as the venue was ladies choice I decided to pick a pub that’s run by a very good friend of mine mid way between us.  Plus I figured I’d be close to a friendly face if things went tits up.

Sometimes my subconscious is on fire!

Date Day arrived and shortly after midday I got a text from M to say he was at the pub.  I explained that I wasn’t ready with some things to finish off and that I was still planning on getting there for 3:30 – I politely suggested perhaps he might like to head home and go back later but he insisted on waiting and watching the rugby… he said it’d be fine.

It wasn’t.

By the time I arrived M was as pissed as a newt.  He could just about walk to the bar and gleefully admitted he was on pint number 6.  Excellent.

I should have turned round and run for the fucking hills left but I put the overindulgence down to nerves: he’d been married for quite a long time, separated about 18 months and hadn’t really been out with anyone in that time so figured I’d give him the benefit of the doubt!

I’d arranged for us to have a table away from the main bar where we could sit and talk and get to know each other.  That’s what I’d planned on doing.

Not M though…

With food ordered (mine, not his… he declared that ‘eating’s cheating’ and ordered wine) I nipped to the loo quickly to find a window to jump out of to give myself a pep talk but on my return I found M sat with 6 strangers.  Men who’d come to the pub to watch the rugby and who were now, it would seem, sat with us on one big table!

Things really started to unravel when one of the guys – Russ – leaned over to me and said “I think you’re really brave”.  What? Brave? For what I wondered?  Not. A. Clue what he was on about.  Confused, I looked at M who whispered “check your phone”.  While I’d been away, M had taken the liberty of fabricating a whole new backstory for us and had regaled his new friends with tales that I was his probation officer and that against all advice we’d embarked on a love affair.

I was quick to put Russ right much to M’s disappointment.

I know.  I know.  Fucking weirdo.

By the end of the game M had lost all ability to walk or stand upright but he did retain his faculties enough to declare how much he cared about me and how he really wanted to see me again and began pushing for a second date.

Now, in my head I’m screaming ‘you’re having a fucking laugh sunshine, I can’t believe I stayed on this one let alone go for another!’ but opted instead to say that it wasn’t going to work and that perhaps things would be best left and said we’ll call it a day.

Judging by the reaction I may as well have told him his house had been burned to the ground and his dog was dead.  He was raging.

Giving him time to calm down I retreated back to the loo and told my friend I’d be back in a moment.  When I came out, M was waiting for me.  He’d calmed down and opted to change tact – he’d decided that the only way to change my mind and for me to see what a catch he really was, was to for me to kiss him.

Fuck that.

I declined.  Politely (at first).

His ‘request’ was a more forceful second time round and came with him grabbing my wrists and trying to shove his tongue down my throat. Grim.

I said no again and to emphasise my point I shoved my knee between his legs.  He soon moved.

Upset and angry he told me that if he’d known I was going to be a ‘pissy bitch’ he wouldn’t have stayed.  Charming.

With that he grabbed his coat and stormed out.

I returned to my table and ordered a bottle of wine with my friend where we sat and read, with equal parts horror and amusement, the flurry of messages he sent me from his cab telling me I was a disgrace, I was a tease, how he cared about me and I just ripped his heart out…. blah, blah, blah

I never heard from him again.

So now I have four rules:

  • Don’t lie
  • Don’t cheat
  • Don’t hit me
  • Don’t get pissed on your first date

You’re welcome, A x



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