I woke up week ago to read some retweets from one of my all-time favourite tweeps, the Independent’s Rhodri Marsden. He had mentioned a disastrous first date in 2002 (I’ve just walked past the Firefly, where I went on a date in 2002 that was so bad I heard myself say “So, what’s Wigan like, then?”) and his followers had started to respond with their own. This 140-character courtship summaries were cringe-worthy, hilarious, offensive and extraordinary. As I read over them before work I was literally crying with laughter.
It got me thinking about my own horrendous dating experiences — the German who took two of the cans of beer that he had brought to my flat the previous night but not drunk home with him in the morning; the one whose black satin sheets made me attempt a getaway while he was in the bathroom — only for me to discover that I needed his special key fob to get out and sheepishly return, and the tall guy I used to send “did you get my text?” texts to. Despite all of these excruciating moments, there is one dalliance that stands out. It’s the one I tell at dinner parties, and I summed it up in a tweet to Rhodri thusly:
“@rhodri A date met me with a mix cassette tape (in 2005) of him MC-ing to hard house. He did observational “freestyle” rap all evening”
Here are some of my faves: