Now that I am becoming more transparent about my Bridget Jones life on here, it’s only appropriate that I tell you about my horrific Tinder date.

It was 2015. May – if you must know. 19 year old Sarah was fresh out of a break up from a two year relationship and was feeling a tad sorry for herself. After seeking the advice from my friends, I thought, “What better way to reaffirm my faith in romance and the male species than with the phenomena that is… Tinder!” What could possibly go wrong? Oh Sarah. Young, naïve Sarah – you have a lot to learn.

I’d been on a few dates as a single lady prior to this, but was a stranger to the whole dating scene and had no idea how to ‘play the game’ (newsflash: it’s 2017 and I still have no idea how to play the game). Personally, I’d like to meet someone the old fashioned and ridiculously clichéd way like on the train (although something tells me this won’t happen on London Midland). Then it’s easy. He asks me out, takes me for food and it all goes swimmingly from there. But apparently I’m stuck in the 20th century and that’s not a thing anymore. Yay.

Right, it’s story time. I’m not evil and of course I won’t expose Tinder boy’s true identity. So, for now, let’s call him Marvin. On Tinder, Marvin was quite the catch. Confident (a quiet confidence, not in your face or anything), good looking and … keen. Bang! The first warning sign that I ignored. He made the effort … I should have known something was fishy.

After a few weeks of chatting, we decided to meet on a Sunday at a stylish country pub by me that, without tooting my own horn, is the perfect location for a date. I can say it was roughly half way between both of us, but if I did I would be lying. I made him travel a teensy bit more, but hey – I wasn’t going to travel far to meet a random guy who could have been a creep. Girl gots to be careful, am I right?

I’m going to cut to the chase. I arrived at the pub and low and behold, he was not like how he was on Tinder. If we’re going to go in on a superficial level, all I’m going to say is I can see why he always kept his mouth shut when smiling on his Tinder photos. Those teeth really weren’t pretty. Yikes.

But let’s not be too much of a superficial bitch. Give the boy a chance, Sarah. So I did … and he was very odd to talk to. On Tinder, he was so outgoing, never short of conversation and things to ask me. Whereas conversation in real life was like pulling teeth (pun most definitely intended). He was boring af and, if I’m being honest, kind of reminded me of someone who would make the neighbours say “He was such a nice, quiet boy. Kept himself to himself – we never expected it of him.” You know, on one of those American mass murderer documentaries. But alas, we’ll give him hope. *Sighs*

Moving onto the conversation. Somehow, we started talking about horror films. I hate horror films because I’m a wimp and the trailers give me nightmares. There, I said it. I also said it to Marvin, and yet he kept talking about his favourite horror films. Boy, do you have ears? Then use them! Honestly, he kept telling me which ones I should watch, despite me saying that I hate them all and will never watch them. Oh well, can’t criticising him for trying to keep up the convo. Well, actually I can. Because it was shit.

The conversation moved forward to the standard ‘I am from’ blah. Marvin told me he lived on a farm. Ok. He started listening every single animal they had. Great … I think. I patiently listened and nodded along, until Old MacDonald himself said, “I used to have an aggressive cockerel.”

What. What?!

Exqueese me? Baking powder?

I don’t know if he realised things were going downhill and was trying to win me over with an anecdote about his penis, or if he did actually have a cockerel that had anger management issues. Either one isn’t good, to be honest – but it’d help if he’d have specified at least. I wouldn’t have minded if he’d have realised how dodgy it sounded and made a joke of it. Or specified “omg I am talking about a cockerel here, don’t worry!” Could have been the perfect opportunity for some flirty banter.

But no. He just kind of stared me out with these beady eyes that said “You think what you want to about my cockerel. Go on.” Fucks sake. I can’t remember what I said in response to this. I think I just humoured him with an awkward fake laugh and he moved onto the next animal. He told me he had a parrot that hated him. Or maybe a cow. I forget which one.

We then discussed our memories of secondary school. I had a post-16 careers style speech coming up very soon at my old school to the year 10s and 11s (I am still terrified of them to this day). It just so turned out that Marvin was also preparing to give a speech at his old school. Were we finding common ground outside of horror films and aggressive cockerels?

Not really. Bearing in mind I’d known him all of 5 minutes, the date was going positively shit and I was trying to politely give the whole “dude, she’s just not that into you” vibe, he then said, “I can bring a plus one to my speech. Do you want to come?”

For fucks sake. What do you say to that? A resounding no was what I would have liked to have said, but I didn’t know the bloody guy and didn’t want to hurt his feelings. You could cut the awkward with a knife. Racking my brains for an answer that wouldn’t make me look like a horrible human being, I gave what I thought was a nice enough response.

“Erm, well, I’ve only just met you,” so far so good Sarah, keep it together. “So … why don’t you take your mum instead?”

What a shit response. I know. I’m going straight to hell. But maybe amongst those fiery pits Satan will turn out to be my Prince Charming. He’s got to be better than this shitty Tinder date.

Needless to say, Marvin looked at me, awkwardly laughed and said “My mum?”

To which I dug myself further in the hole by saying “Yeah. I bet she’s really proud of you, you should take her instead. She’d really enjoy it.”

Once again the conversation dried up. Talk about awkward.

He went to the loo and I texted my friend, begging for her to somehow rescue me from this dating disaster.

Marvin came back. It was 4pm, I thought fuck this, let’s call it a day and run away back to the safety of my home. But Marvin wasn’t done. Marvin had other plans.

“Would you like to stay out for dinner?” Oh god, he thought it was going well! He wanted us to stay out! What could I say to that? “Not really – I’d rather use bleach for eye drops” – I don’t think so.

Me being me and forever being dominated by my overruling conscience, I thought “Oh no! I might hurt his feelings!” But I needed to get out. I couldn’t stay here a minute longer. It was too horrifically awkward.

So, I pulled my worst acting skills out of the bag, grabbed my phone and suddenly exclaimed “Oh, my mom’s just texted me. My tea’s ready – I’ve got to go!” Worst. Liar. Ever. It was 4pm. Of course my tea wasn’t fucking ready. Unless I was an 80 year old.

But by some miracle, he seemed to believe me! Oscar please?! He seemed surprised but told me not to worry and said he had a really nice time. Great, now I feel awful. I put on my best fake smile and said “Yeah. Me too.” We then did the most awkward of hugs (I want to say he gave me a really wet kiss on the cheek – but I full on block traumatic things like this out of my mind, so we’ll never know), parted ways, I got into my car and drove off into the … late afternoon.

When I returned home, I promptly told my family everything. They laughed. I Skyped my friend Chelsea (who I’d texted on the date begging for help) and told her everything. She also laughed. And cried a bit. And then laughed some more. *Sighs* Only me.

Are you shit at dating? Does your love life also resemble a shit rom com where there’s very little rom actually involved? Let me know, it’ll stop me from going insane.

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