It was a few years ago when almost every Saturday night started out the same. We’d meet at the same bar in Soho, order the same drinks, see the same people; in fact the only thing that changed each week were our outfits (obviously).

This one weekend, I was distracted from our usual slamming of Apple Sourz by some hunk in a suit (for a change). He was taller than The Shard and had thick sandy blonde hair. Even my crotch stirred a little when he smiled. Either that or I needed to book an appointment at the GUM clinic. I stared at him like he was chocolate cake and I was on Atkins – and at the time I totally was on Atkins – but like ogling might somehow make him attracted to me. I told myself to stop before he thought I was ‘special’.


Half a dozen shots of apple juice later and we’re both in the smoking area. And if you’re thinking I’d spotted his cigarettes on the table and waited ’til he’d gone outside before following him, you’d be right.

I didn’t get chatted up much – and dressed as a reject from Fame, I can’t imagine why – so I nearly had a seizure when he checked out of his friend’s endless blabber to send a cheeky grin in my direction.

Naturally I ditched my friends to have a one-on-one flirt with him, because as every horny teenager knows, dates trump mates. Or was it fucks before friends? I forget. But regardless, it didn’t take me long to realise that his personality wasn’t up the same calibre as his looks. He may have been born in to the gene pool of beauty, but he’d definitely fallen out of the douche bag tree and hit every wanky branch on the way down. But at the tender age of 19, it hadn’t really struck me that some guys thought it was acceptable to behave like total cum rags just because they were blessed with good looks. Or if it had, I’d forgotten it the second he flashed those beautiful white teeth.

So naturally when he briefly (yet embarrassingly obviously) touched on the “few” properties he had around the country, I was salivating like Tulisa when she see a sale on at Lipsy. So much so, that it hadn’t even deterred me when he dubbed my accent “common”. Or when he asked me if I was wearing fake tan. Or even when he pointed out the near-invisible drink stain on the hem of my shirt. Was it normal for your date (or guy you’d just met in a bar) to nitpick at almost everything about you? Who cares when he has a car, right? People don’t teach you that when a guy does this he’s usually over-compensating for one thing or another.

We proceeded to exchange texts until things fizzled out and never spoke again. Well, until fairly recently anyway. What with the beauty of social media’s invasion of privacy – he found me through a couple mutual friends. Facebook likes to have fun like that; just when you think life’s bordering on undramatic, it throws you the friend request of an old flame just to shake things up a bit. Cunt.

Obviously, I looked through all of his public photos and I’d forgotten just how hot he was; so when he asked about that drink we never went for, I disobeyed my better judgement and agreed. Because when an attractive dickhead asks you out, you need to go just to make sure right?

And it had been a few years – I’d certainly changed, so maybe he had too. One of the vows I’d tried to make to myself as I matured was never to do anything I didn’t wanna do, never to waste my time on something – because life is short. And those two hours you spent listening to some twat talk about his “modelling career” (FYI a few thousand Instagram followers does count as modelling), just to be courteous, is precious time you’re not getting back. He still lived reasonably near me, so we stuck to our original plan of a few years back and he arranged to pick me up for drinks.

So the following week, I waited anxiously for him to arrive. Well-spoken accent, pristine clothes and pale skin prepared (just in case).

He pulled up in a Mercedes whiter than his teeth. With tinted windows. Shiny silver spoilers. Neon green under-lights. Over-the-top, tacky, loud; it was the Sophia Vergara of cars. My face dropped like Taylor Swift at this year’s Grammys. I wanted to die. I was actually on a date with one of those ‘Pimp My Ride’ tossers. Wow, and I thought his conversation was over-compensating for something.


I reluctantly stepped into the car as if it was Freddie Kruger sitting at the steering wheel. “You’re looking fit mate.”

I’m not sure what was worse, the skeeze-mobile we were cruising through south London in, or his remaining lack of social etiquette. Still, I told myself, just have one drink and then you can make your excuses and leave. So I was a little surprised when he pulled the car over in a quiet road nowhere near the pub we had planned to go to. Was this actually a serial killer situation? Oh, he definitely wanted to penetrate me – just not with a knife. Although that would have been preferable. He lunges across the car at me like some predator on the Discovery Channel; it was really unsavoury – I still had my chewing gum in.

Cut to me slamming the car door in his face and walking home. And by walking home I mean walking to my brother’s place near by and calling a taxi home. Urgh. What a waste of an evening, I was missing American Horror Story for this.

But I did learn two things:
a) Once a loser, always a loser.
b) Material possessions may seem cool at the time but when its got blacked out windows and shiny spoilers, you’re really just a knob.

By Anthony Gilét

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