Really bad date stories

I was thinking about this as I happened into a clip of one of them confused, self-entitled day time TV shows for women, where they're never quite sure what they're melodramatically aghast about, except that it violated the belief that they're the most important person in the world. That allows you to bypass consistency and alleviates hypocrisy, if your guiding principle is that your whims should be catered to at all times, on a changing minute by minute basis, because you are quite literally, the centre of the universe.It's also germane to my lastpost.Do I have any bad date stories? Of the kind that could be showcased to some permanently faux-outraged self-centred audience, miming shock as they not so much sympathise with another human being, but imagine how terrible it would be if the non-event being discussed happened to them.No, I don't have any bad date stories worthy of gasps of incredulity at the perfectly everyday situations they relate, but I do have one really bad personal date story worthy of retelling, and one horrific short-lived "relationship" that deserves committed to cyber posterity (or for as long as I maintain this this domain anyway).Have that man horse whipped!My bad date occurred years ago. It was off the original DatingDirect site. I know, I know, but this was my pre-Game days, when as for so many men, if it wasn't online dating then it was nothing. Back when this took place online dating wasn't even that prolific so the pool of candidates was even smaller... actually I was about to say "and even more depressing" but that's not quite true. Whilst there's more people doing online dating these days, I think the quality's actually went down. You may not think that's possible, but it seems that way to me. I'm not saying the quality was everhigh, but I don't remember it as being quite as dreg-filled as it is today. But I am thinking of PlentyOfFish when I say that so perhaps the comparison isn't entirely fair.Anyway, I spotted very attractive 24-year-old Latvian chick, who, with her unusual plethora of pictures for the time, looked the proverbial blonde bombshell. Petite, feminine, she looked perfect. Perfect to my thirsty online dating eyes at least, if not God's ultimate design of womanhood, but you know what I mean.We messaged - she actually replied - and we eventually exchanged numbers and set up a date. Her name was Olga. Sounded like a Russian shot puttress but she was built more like a gymnast as I say. One thing I took note of in our messages was that she said hated town and the nightlife culture. At the time, I was naive enough to think this meant she disapproved of the booze-fuelled meat-markets, and was a cerebral woman who appreciated the nobler aspects of the mating game... as opposed to just the usual, stock claim more meant to elevate herself as saying these places weren't good enough for her, than any criticism of hook-up culture itself.As an aside, once again,women just love not to be impressed. Out of the arse end of eastern Europe or hometown UK, living in the next step up from a squat, women will always play Queen of fucking Sheba given any opportunity. I can't count the number of times I've sat opposite some chick at some restaurant, thinking "this is nice, I like this place" and their insecurity has to let me know it's not nice as . It's not even a case of trying to impress, it's just simply a choice of going somewhere nice, or wanted to try, and enjoy it, but women love to slap that one back by letting you know they've had "better." Actually, this is pertinent to my bad relationship story too, but that's for another post.So, I took the bait with Olga, and instead of keeping it simple, going for a drink on the town, I suggested we went ice skating. She'd said she loved to skate, and I'd went and looked up the local ice skating rink - thinking I was being the great date innovator and this display of sensitivity and mindfulness of her wants and desires would reap rewards.When you stop snorting with laughter, read on.Not my LatvianShe was up for the skating bit, and in my imagination we were going to go skating like something out of a Christmas movie on a frozen park pond, have fun and laughter, "accidentally" grabbing each other as we fell, holding hands, and bonding over a bag of shared roast chestnuts given to us for free by a kindly old vendor who recognised our young love and was christening it with this beautiful gesture. Years from now we'd look back on the photo taken of us by the rink-side photographer, already mistaking us for a couple on a first date, and smile as our grandchildren played on the carpet before us.Or it could be a comedy of errors worthy of an Ealing farce, which if you'd any sense of humour could've still been a good date, but which if you were a humourless cunt, wouldn't.First off, the Friday night we were meeting, wasn't a regular skating night, it was a "disco" night. That didn't set off alarm bells for me, I thought that might be quite good. However, it was a teen disco, and that meant a hoard of pissed-up and rowdy teenage kids. As they were too young for real nightlife, this was their version of it.So, when we met, it wasn't outside some winter wonderland with other young couples entering, it was outside a council ice rink with a queue of boozing kids waiting in a line that extended round the block.We weren't waiting in that, it looked like an hour's standing time, so I suggested a coffee. It was all the same to me anyway, the point was we spent together. So, we go up to the main coffee shop - and it was closed. No biggie, we'll just go to the nearby entertainment park that housed restaurants and cinemas etc. It was literally a five minutes drive, and I had my car with me.My new car. As per myBondpost, it was first Lotus Esprit. Which I had driven down in for just such an opportunity! I was planning to use it to go for a drink in later. I'd park up at home and we'd walk over to what is my now favourite Day2 venue. So 1) she could get to see my ace car and 2) that not only had I a flash car, but lived in a flash area. I fully expected that to seal what a great prospect I obviously was, and get her knickers soaking at my soaring beta provider status. I mean, what attractive woman from an impoverished eastern European country could resist?Thus, it was with barely disguised pride as I led her to my car and opened the door for her.Nothing. Okay, I didn't expect her knickers to go flying off in that moment, but I was hoping forsomesign of acknowledgement, some comment. Alas no. Fair enough. Even I was aware it could be construed as crass, but I only had the one car, this was it, so if I was going to drive anywhere it would be in this vehicle, so if you're going to label it as "show off" then fine, but I only had one house too, and it was all the same measure if you were going to apply it, so gimme a little break. Plus the car was only a few weeks old (to me) and I was still hyper about having got myself the car I'd wanted since I was a kid.Pretty muchWe go off to the entertainment park, and I didn't know they were digging up the fucking road to it, so it takes fucking ages to get there, crawling along, and in tail to tail traffic as well. Olga then starts telling me about some singer she heard recently, that she loved, and I should get that CD - as the CD I had on wasn't up to snuff apparently. Actually, that's a whole other topic, but the music snob is the most insufferable wanker on the planet. The barrier to entry is so low, that even if you're self-consciously Philistine on every other topic, you can always play the aristocrat when it comes to Oasis vs Blur, or whatever. On this occasion, I hadn't heard of the group/singer she was talking about, and the look on her face was akin to saying I'd never heard of Jesus. I've long forgotten the name, but even at the time with extensive Googling (or Yahoo-ing at the time), I still couldn't find any bloody mention of them!Her reaction was like I'd just insulted her parents, or maybe let off a sneaky fart bomb and she was was being polite and not mentioning it. I think, there and then, she decided I was not her sort of guy. The sort of guy who gets caught in traffic, plays the latest "best of charts" CD (thinking that was safe ground) and doesn't read the NME and order obscure band compilations.Whatever, when we get to the park, the usually enormous carpark is rammed, and all the traffic we're in, seems to be going there too! We crawl round and round and round looking for a space, with Olga getting more and more pissed off. Not taking the whole thing as a jolly jape, but acting like she was on a schedule, and she was getting held up. You know, from an important appointment on her sofa in front ofFriendsand stuffing Doritos in her mouth.Then she spots a space. It's right up against a wall and shrub, in the worst possible place. But what option do I have? I must've forwarded and reversed, lining up a dozen times, to avoid the car on the left, and the wall and lovely branches eager to scratch my paint work on the right. Plus the cars behind me who edged forward each time I manoeuvred, leaving me with even less space.But I got there. Eventually. Now, the Esprit is a wide car. Wider than normal, because it's a supercar designed for high speed, and you need that low slung wideness for aerodynamics and road holding. So, normally, I'd park in a quiet part of a carpark with free space on either side, as you need it to get the doors open. Which we could barely do, opening them a crack and trying to squeeze/limbo out.Then we had to walk over to the coffee place, and did I mention the night was howling a freezing wind? Yup. That was pleasant, and by now Olga was muttering under her breath and I was already in "appeasement" mode.But the Gods of Dating were only getting started with me. Once I got her seated in the nearest cafe, I went to get the cappuccino she wanted. I left her sitting out of sight, as the main bar was up some stairs and kind of hidden by a wall/partition. The two baristas were obviously more concerned with flirting with each other than serving me, because they took a fucking age to make them two coffees. I checked my watch. It was a full twenty minutes. They ran out of bloody milk as well. I'm aware Olga is left sat on her own all during this, and with no idea what the fuck I'm getting to piss around at... so when I get back with them two coffees she is sitting there with a face like thunder.Me, I just felt like this was all against me, even by then. I couldn't relax in the cafe as all that was on my mind was getting that car out of that spot, in the dark, without damaging it. I was ready to call quits on the night then and there.But Olga had come out to go ice skating, and by Christ and Sonny Jesus, that's what we were going to do!By the time we got back to the car, the traffic had all disappeared. That made extracting the car a lot easier, and the road was now clear to the ice rink too.No, problems this time, get there, get parked easily, and straight in. Despite this date fast spiralling down the toilet, Olga is still good enough to stand aside and allow me to pay for her skate hire and price of entry. Naturally.Thinking ahead, I'd dressed up for a Friday night post-drink on the town, but was aware a stumble on the ice would soak my clothes if I fell, so I brought along a pair of sweat bottoms to pull on over the top of my trousers. Seemed sensible to me.Except, when I put them on they just looked like a giant nappy on me. Ordinarily, I'd see the funny side, and with any other half-decent date, so would she, but for Olga, it was another massive black mark against me.I could tell she was a bit embarrassed. She was walking with me, but not with me, if you know what I mean. We tip-toe in our skates to the rink edge, I had my own boots as I'd played a little ice hockey years earlier, I was okay at skating, no expert, but I didn't know when Olga said she could skate, she meant she couldskate.When she touched that ice, whoosh, she was off, turning moves I'd only ever seen on TV! Then I spent the rest of the short-lived night chasing her round the rink, pretending to be with her, whilst she avoided me.I did pass her, and it was the final straw: I fell, legs up, ass down, on my back knocking the air out me, and what with going full pelt trying to keep up with her, I slid like a puck right by her, right into the barrier. She did glance down as I shot by, but didn't stop or enquire if I was all right.Nothing like this happenedI pulled myself up, trying to pretend that didn't hurt, and waited for her to come round again. She did, pulled up expertly, and announced, "I want to go home."We departed in silence and un-booted in silence. We'd been there maybe twenty minutes. As we headed to my car, my magic talisman of pussy (or so I was hoping), I had the cheek to ask if she wanted to go for a drink. Just in case, I'd you know, misread the shit sandwich of a date up till then.Unsurprisingly, she didn't want to spend any further time with me. I should've pissed off and left her standing, but the decent human in me, offered her a ride home, which again she took.That drive was awkward to say the least. She sat in the passenger seat, turned away from me and scrunched up against the door. We were like a couple that'd just had a blazing row. I think we drove in silence. I was a mixture of emotions: disappointment, feeling unfairly blamed, angry. Anyway, we got to her area and I let her off: "Here's close enough." Just in case I began stalking her by taking her right to her door.I was home early then, and I was steamed. I hadn't done anything wrong! I was a victim of circumstance! But that's how it goes with chicks on dates. If you get hit by lightening it's your fault, and maybe it is a sign from the Gods. A woman just has to turn up and breathe and spend your money: you're expected to be the dancing monkey for her "interview."However, I may have been steamed but I was still desperate, she was hot (for online dating) and I had no other prospects. So, I emailed her again on the following Wednesday.I can't remember what I said now. I suspect I decided to assume full responsibility in typical chode fashion, and joked about getting a second chance. Something cringe-worthy like that.She did reply, and I remember one portion of it: "I guess you take things more seriously than I do."(!) LIke... WTF?! After all that, she was trying to play it off in her head likeIwas the one who didn't see any of the funny side of it? I was the one sitting with a face like thunder and called the night short? What a bloody cheek! At the time, I couldn't get my head round it, it was one of those stepping into another dimension things that chick's transport you into with their bullshit, and I was less experienced and full blue pill.That was that then.For about eight years or so. Then I ran into her again in town. Wrote about it in a Field Report onscotlairat the time as I recall.I opened her friend. I was chatting away when she appeared, back from wherever, and she said "hello" addressing me by name. I didn't click and then she said she was Olga and we'd dated. I wasn't faking it, I exclaimed, "dated?!" because I was thinking recently, and I think I would've remembered (maybe). Then the "Olga" part clicked. She was smiling, friendly, in a way she certainly hadn't been the night of the date.Of course, she was in her early thirties now, and had put on weight in the interim. She wasn't fat but she'd become chubby certainly. That date still rankled enough that I wasn't prepared to play along as the butt of the joke now, during her recounting of it. I wasn't pissed off, but I corrected her perceptions of it, and happily said in front of her friend that I hadn't enjoyed it and she'd been quite obnoxious.That was okay, though, all was forgiven apparently, becausenowshe wanted to talk. She decided she needed to powder her nose, and asked if I'd wait with her friend until she came back. I smiled and calmly said, "No." And walked off there and then.Nicholas Cage said it best in 'Lord of War.'To paraphrase Nicholas Cage, "Go with your first instinct. I'm the same man. I wasn't good enough for you then, I'm not good enough for you now."