'I was ghosted after the perfect date. When I ran into him years later, he didn't recognise me.'

“Hello Jelly,” was his opening line as he slid deftly into my Tinder DMs, soon after matching. Without giving me time to respond, he quickly followed it up with, “Oh god, I’m sorry, I’ve gone and called you Jelly instead of Kelly, apologies fair lady, autocorrect is trying to ruin my chances with you.”

I think I’m pretty easy to please because this made me lol and we began some truly terrific banter. Some people roll their eyes at the importance of banter us ‘more lowbrow folk’ put a focus on. They’d rather a highly intellectual conversation, to which I say… you’re boring and on the wrong app, so scram.

Anywho, so we were enjoying some brilliant banter for a good few weeks, consistently chatting most days with just the right amount of flirting; no ‘SEND NUDES’ appearing after he’d had a few beers which seemed to be a popular practice amongst his peers.

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We eventually agreed to meet in real life, so a time and place were confirmed, anticipations brewing. And it was a PHENOMENAL first date, the sort of first date that belongs in a cheesy rom-com.

We met in a popular bar in Sydney’s Surry Hills and being a weeknight, easily got a good table tucked in a quiet corner.

We didn’t stop laughing and flirting, it was SUCH GOOD CHAT. We were having such a lovely time that they actually closed the bar and we were forced outside, where he grabbed me by the back of my head, looked intently into my eyes and said (in his beautiful British accent), “you really are the most beautiful girl”, and kissed me.

Kissed me on a public street with his hands in my hair, holding my face in that sexy way that’s so darn delicious. We had a proper 20-30 minute public pash sesh, where I could feel things getting rather.. ‘excited’ below his waist as he continued to press into me. Then, like the English gentleman he was, he popped me into an Uber and bade me goodnight, telling me profusely that he couldn’t wait to see me again.

In the morning, I awoke to a message from the chap, telling me he hadn’t stopped smiling all night and that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I sent something cheeky and cute back and went to work, a big grin on my face, excited to tell my all-female co-workers about my evening, boners and all.


I never heard from him again. Nada. Actually, I lie; after I’d sent a few (yes I realise I should have given up after 1 in hindsight) casual messages with zero replies I sent one that said “You’re a poo head” because yes, I’m very clever and mature.

To that, he responded with oohhh” and a sad face. A FLIPPING SAD FACE.

And that was that. I went on other lovely (and not-so-lovely) dates and sort of forgot about this noob, he became a tale I’d tell over drinks because although I’d heard of being ‘ghosted’, it wasn’t something I thought actually happened!

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Years passed and then, one day, out of the blue, there he was at a pub I was enjoying myself at with friends. Lurking in front of me in line for a bev.

He looked at me and…





There wasn’t even a HINT of recognition in his face like ‘hey you look familiar where do I know you from’.

DESPITE having spent a solid six hours together once upon a time and not THAT inebriated that you just wouldn’t remember.

I mean let’s be realistic, there’s probably a few people lurking in the world that we’ve had a drunken pash with and would not recognise in a line-up. But this wasn’t just one lone pash, this was weeks of chatting and a brilliant date that ended with a brilliant pash sesh.

Oh, but what happened next made the entire ghosting experience completely worth it… the idiot HIT ON ME.

As in drunkenly swaggered up to me with his now VERY receding hairline (yes, I’m petty AF) and gave it a crack. Did I play it cool and move on with my life? Absolutely not.

I told him that we already knew each other and exactly how we knew each other. He looked at me dumbfoundedly and then his friend came over to see who he was ‘chatting up’ so I informed him of his friend’s faux-pas.

Then, in absolute superficial victory, the friend looked me up and down (and damn did I look fire), looked at old mate ghoster, and deadpan told him he’d made a ‘cracker of a mistake’.

Yes, I informed them both, he had. And with that I flounced off, very aware for the rest of the evening that I had a group of boys ogling me and nudging the ghoster, while he hung his head and drowned his (I like to think) mass regrets in beer.

In summary, sometimes revenge in the form of ‘HA’ is satisfying AF.