Oh my effing god people, BLIND DATE ALERT.
Remember how Blondie met the love of her life on a reality TV show? Well, under the influence of much alcohol, I was convinced that I could do the same, so I (rather drunkenly) filled in my application and sent it off into the ether, completely not expecting to hear (a mere 5 days later)…
Congratulations Ritzi! We’ve found you a perfect match!
Scathing as I was at the time, I accepted the date because, well, I was a bit drunk. Earlier yesterday I chickened out, only to be reprimanded by CTS and Blondie.
‘What have you got to lose???’
‘Worst comes to worst, you’ll have a hilarious blog out of it!’
Well, that part was right, I guess.
I filled in this ‘perfect partner’ questionnaire quite specifically. You know I’m not the type to scrimp on vitals such as ‘must be taller than 6ft’ and ‘must get a Shakespearean reference if I make one’. Apparently, this TV show though that anyone above 6ft making above £30k a year was fair game to be the love of Ritzi’s life.
Oh lord no.
Essentially, I found myself on a date with Eton Boy. Well, not actual Eton Boy, who is awesome and lovely and hilarious despite not being in any way sexually compatible with me, but the kind of low rent, less intelligent, CAMBRIDGE version.
He came out with such gems as…
‘Oh yes, I went to St blah blah blah’s, you’ve probably not heard of it. It’s a boys’ school.’
‘Yes, I have two people working under me now, which is rather satisfying,’
‘Danny Devito? The name sounds familiar…’
Oh. Dear. God.
I should have just called ‘LEMON LAW!’ and ran, because I knew in the first five minutes that I was on a date with George Osborne.
Honestly, of all the fuck ups any dating service could possibly make, twinning the working class career gal from the local comprehensive who left home at fifteen to run away to drama school, never actually going to Uni and surviving, to this day, on a diet of red wine, name dropping and coffee alone with a twenty two year old (YES. TWENTY FUCKING TWO) Cambridge boy with six unpaid internships under his belt and a country house in fucking Scotland, is one of the worst.
I found myself floundering for topics of conversation… ‘What’s your favourite TV show?’ He doesn’t watch TV. ‘What are you reading right now?’ Something heavy by somebody Marx. It’s a classic. You wouldn’t know it. And my absolute favourite of the evening…
‘Clearly we’re not compatible. So tell me, what kind of girl do you see yourself with in the end?’
‘Some one intelligent, who would accept an open relationship.’
…Wait. Someone who would let you stick your dick wherever you pleased? I defended my belief in the true monogamous relationship and asked if he would be okay with her shagging around at the same time. His answer?
Cough. Splutter. Die in the corner.
I suppose the highlight of the evening was my telling him, in no fewer words, that he was the absolute epitome of UN-ideal man for me. I asked his honest opinion of me, are you ready?
‘You’re clearly attractive. You’re also intelligent, though I’m not sure how au fait you’d be at ‘abstract thought’, which is different to common sense. Mind you, you don’t really need that in your world, common sense is enough to get by. I have more respect for you and your opinions that most of the girls at Cambridge. At least you have them.’
Wow. I mean… Wow.
So what do we reckon? Date number two???
This is what happens when you put yourself back out there. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
PS – best part of my entire night? As I was regaling this entire tale to Blondie on the phone (while a bit drunk, en route from Brixton to home) a man tapped me on the shoulder, three stops before mine and said;
‘Thank you for the most amusing and informative bus journey of my life!’
You are welcome my friend!
PPS – no, he was not cute.