lifestyle

Memo to men. Doing this on a date is not an acceptable life choice.

Ever been on a bad date? These are worse.

By KIRSTY PETRIDES

My blog Letters To Losers eventuated on a Friday evening with friends, when after a few glasses (ok I’m lying, bottles) of wine we began to reflect on the worst dates we’d been on.

We soon realised that between us we had quite the collection of ridiculous and hilarious tales. Yes, everyone claims that theirs is ‘the worst date of all time’ but you’re wrong. These dates are.

And so Letters To Losers was born. A compilation of short (imaginary) letters to the males who have provided my friends and I with dating comedy gold. Comedy that’s simply too good not to share.

Enjoy.

Dear Bear Grylls,

Yes, during our time together, I referred to you not by your actual name, but by Bear Grylls. Now don’t get ahead of yourself – this has nothing to do with you being ruggedly handsome or being able to survive weeks in the wild with nothing but a pack of Tic Tacs and some sticky tape. This nickname originated due to your ridiculous reasons for cancelling dates.

Including, having to fly out to the Amazon rainforest to hang out with giant snakes for a month; going to Bangladesh to camp in the middle of nowhere for ‘research’; or going to Singapore/Indonesia/various other Asian countries at the drop of a hat for undisclosed “work stuff”.

I am sure you understand that the plethora of trips to other continents where you indicated you would be spending most of your time outdoors with not much more than a swag and bottle of Mount Franklin, caused me to aptly nickname you Bear Grylls. (Quite the stroke of genius by me, really. Coming up with nicknames is a skill of mine, along with the ability to develop stress acne and sing the entire rap sequence of Five’s ‘When The Lights Go Out’. )

Sorry, can’t make it tonight, gotta fly to Africa!

I am sure you also understand that it’s rather annoying to have a text sent 30 minutes before a date saying ‘Hey, totes sorry but can’t make it tonight, had to fly to Africa today where I won’t have reception for a while and will be sleeping in the desert with a bunch of strangers checking out the soil and drinking my own pee. ’ (I may have paraphrased there but only slightly.)

When you start making these last-minute cancellations a regular occurrence, “Hey, soz heaps” doesn’t cut it, and is the reason I inevitably threw in the towel with you Mr. Grylls.

And as a side-note, texting a girl telling her she has regrowth is not a sure-fire way to impress her.

Actually now that I am compiling all this, it’s becoming apparent that you may in fact lack social skills. This may have something to do with all the time you spend alone in the Amazon jungle with no one but a bunch of snakes.

xx

P.S. It wasn’t regrowth, it’s called balayage. Look it up.

Dear Car-Bed,

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Where do I even begin. I suppose the fateful night we met would be an obvious choice.

It’s Saturday night in a local bar, and I come up with the brilliant idea that my friends and I should go speed dating. The idea is not well-received, with one pal saying it’s actually quite a stupid idea, and rips my notion to shreds.

Her argument is sound; we are young, smart, reasonably witty, pretty hot dames. Why would we need to go speed dating? The reason people would go speed dating is the same reason a group of girls or guys would go to a bar. Such as the one we are standing in at that very point.

So I make an agreement with her. If your theory is correct, I say, why don’t you saunter over to some fellas now and pick up some man-candy? *

So with her alcohol-induced swagger, she takes herself over to not just some fellas, but the most attractive fellas in the whole damn bar – you and your brother. (Yes, I’m putting it out there Car-Bed, you’re really hot. Like ridiculously hot. But that’s beside the point.)

She introduces herself, calls me over, we all talk, laugh, joke, drink, and before you know it, my ballsy friend is macking on your Jesus-esque brother, and I’m making out with you and apparently coming back to your place.

I am pretty happy with myself Car-Bed. As touched on before, you too, like your sibling, are very attractive. In the wise words of Wayne Campbell, if you were a president you’d be Baberaham Lincoln. But I will stop stroking your ego now, because when we get to your house, that’s where it all goes downhill.

There was a car-bed.

We walk into your bedroom, and the lights are flicked on to reveal….. that you, the 27-year old smoking hottie, are the owner of a car-bed.

A single, bright red, racing car bed. Ground level, not even elevated off the floor. It has pretend tyres. And a steering wheel. Essentially everything a 12 year-old boy could hope for.

I should have known it was too good to be true. No one can be that hot and not be bit weird. But you know what Car-Bed? You are so hot that I don’t care. We jump in to that single racing car bed and I stay the night.

And now, I am known as the girl who slept with a guy in a racing car bed.

Thanks, and all the best with your Peter Pan syndrome.

xx

Dear Stripper,

It is not often one goes on a date and chokes mid-meal when discovering the occupation of their date. But I can now say that this wonderful experience was bestowed to me, and for that I am forever grateful.

After meeting on the dancefloor of a local club (like all great romances begin) you text the next day to suggest dinner. Oh how excited I am. This handsome, muscular, small-business owner with fantastic dance moves wants to take me out.

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You don’t pick a location, you just tell me to meet you on a fairly busy corner in an inner-city area known for its many eateries, and then we’ll decide. I am a bit perturbed, Stripper, however just chalk it up to the fact that you’re a carefree kind of guy and it will all be fine.

It will not be fine. I find you at the designated meeting spot. Given that the suburb you’ve chosen could be deemed as ‘sophisticated’ or ‘high socio-economic’, I’m shocked to find that your chosen attire for the evening is a hoodie, boardshorts and thongs. I should also note that it’s July. In Australia. Not Guatemala. Board shorts and thongs are hardly weather-appropriate. Furthermore, boardshorts, thongs and a hoodie are certainly not date-appropriate. I am looking suitably adorable in my Sportsgirl ensemble, which was picked out days prior. So you understand my disappointment at your lack of effort.

Magic Mike.

But it gets better. Thinking you may suggest one of the many restaurants available to us, you go ahead and utter the words every girl dreams of hearing on a first date….

“So, do you want to get Nandos?”

I beg your pardon? Do I want to get Nandos? No. I don’t want to get Nandos.

This is nothing personal I have against Nandos. I think Nandos is great. Their chips are amazing, their dip is phenomenal, and the things they do with peri peri sauce and chicken blows my mind. However this is a first date, Mr Stripper.

Not a hungover Sunday where I am dying for some greasy food to soak up all the tequila I slammed into my body the night prior. I am appalled that you think a first date with a dame such as myself involves grabbing some takeaway chicken and chips.

However, while I am in a state of shock and struggling to find words, you take this as tacit compliance and order me a Nandos chicken wrap, before suggesting we head to a nearby park to enjoy our delectable meal.

Talk turns to occupations, and I recall that on the Saturday night we met, you told me that you owned your own business. What is this business, I ask. Tell me what you do, sir.

‘It’s male-strippers. I’m a male stripper, and I have a few other guys I employ who I send out to male-stripping jobs’.

The chicken that has only just entered my mouth is sucked down in to my throat as I laugh, assuming of course, that you are kidding. But you’re not.

Oh how it all makes so much sense now. The overly-ripped physique. The dance moves too good for a heterosexual male. The fixation on Portuguese chicken and the complete lack of fashion savvy are not explained, however. But all factors combined are enough to send this date right to the top of my Worst Dates Of All Time list.

Thanks Stripper. You can finish my chips. Xx

Kirsty is a 25-year old PR executive in Sydney who is addicted to coffee, porridge and correcting people’s grammar. Originally from sunny Perth, Kirsty has relocated to the harbour city to give life a crack in the big smoke. In between trying to wrap her head around NRL and window-shopping at The Intersection, Kirsty writes her blog, Letters To Losers, a collection of (hopefully) amusing dating disasters that are too good not to share. You can follow her ramblings on Twitter at @kirstypetrides.