When man chooses four legs over two; Houston, we have a problem.

Here I just thought this was because men could be bitches (and I’d definitely met a few pussies).  While sitting on the bus recently, (while holding down my own vomit of being surrounded by the poverty that is the 176) listening to her bitch about her cheating boyfriend, men really can be dogs…


So I’d been on a couple dates with, as he’s now referred to as Doggy Dan. (Nope, I WISH that’s why we called him that). So far it wasn’t an absolute disaster, and therefore a total success compared to previous dates. On our third date when I looked like i’d been dressed by Wilhelmina Slater, with more fur and more bling than ever be found on a human being.
“You look nice…” Really?! Lol, to be fair;
“I could look fresh in a potato sack” – Natalia Kills. The heavens above had taken a diaretic, opened its legs and well and truly pissed it down. I was dry because I was early, which speaks volumes for punctuality. *Shakes head and taps watch* He was late, a therefore drenched, leaving the faint smell of wet dog to linger (No, that’s not why we call him doggy dan either).

Two bottles of wine and half a salad that I’d pushed around a plate later, we sashayed into a taxi and back to his. In his hallway, fuck me, it was dark. This is what it’s like to be blind, i thought. So anyway, his great dane starts howling like a banshee in labour, I start screaming the roof off his shitty little council house. So I’m sitting there with my respirator and asthma pump after THE most traumatic experience of my life, before I can even catch my breath, he starts barking at me too! He said he lived with an old dog, I just thought he meant his overbaring mother (that i’d heard swarking down the phone to him like Iago from Aladdin).

I’ve heard of dog being a man’s best friend but as if he’s standing up for that four legged bitch over me? LATER. “You enjoy that tail, cos you’ll be getting none of mine” – Will & Grace. So North London in the pitch black after my date quite literally chased me out of his crack den cottage, left to wander around the Bronx with my tail between my legs. Still totally raging I hoped that someday his slobbering mongrel would meet the same beautiful fate as Old Yeller. Dick.

* * *


I’ve also heard the expression that ‘You are what you eat’ – well this guy must’ve been eating whole loada mephedrone (meow meow) cos he was purring like a car that wouldn’t start. After he’d cooked me dinner, that was fairly tastier than he was, we smoked weed and watched Family Guy on beanbag chairs. It was so cheech and chong I couldn’t even see my own feet from the smoke.

Curled up on his two for £10 furniture, he yawned and stretched like a whiskers kitten and before waking him up uncontrollable laughter at the cartoon on his big screen, he’d fallen asleep on my stomach. I just hoped this feline was house trained before I had to get my claws out!
Needless to say we fell asleep in a room where clouds of smoke filled the air and not sexual tension. Although we did have hazy, mellow sex, like hippies in the sixties had. Leaving his place I stopped to wonder why there was no cat flap on his door, strange.