My date said I had one drink to impress him – so I downed it

It was 2007 and Indie Sleaze was at its peak.  

I was 24 and living with my parents in a small town where everyone knew everyone. 

I had just sacked off an are-we-aren’t-we? situationship with Ronan*, one of my best boy mates that consisted largely of us sending each other deep-sounding Libertines lyrics and snogging in the pub during The Strokes tribute act.  

My only chance to find myself a hot, Indie-Sleaze boyfriend who would make Ronan jealous was online dating.  

So, I joined up to a site and typed in my requirements, which were essentially a trilby hat and slightly cleaner nails than Pete Doherty.   

Joel* got in touch after a few days. At 28 he was a few years older and looked like Luke out of the Kooks with his curly brown hair, band T-shirt and vintage denim jacket.  

We got to talking and had the same interests and tastes in music, so arranged to meet a week later at a gentrified, former-old-man-boozer one town over that played Up the Bracket on a loop.   

We got off to a bad start. 

He’d asked to meet outside the pub, rather than inside, and when I arrived five minutes late, having already warned him that my train had been stuck in a tunnel, Joel was checking his Nokia dramatically, clearly furious, arms folded and foot tapping in anger.  

‘I was literally about to leave. Being late’s disrespectful, don’t you think?’  

I stuttered an apology, because I hadn’t yet realised I didn’t owe this man anything, and we went inside to the bar.  

We were barely through the door before he started talking about Indie music. He was obsessed to the point where it was his entire personality.  

Within 30 seconds he’d asked me to name all the members of The Pigeon Detectives, and then their birthdays, to prove I was a ‘real fan’. And I hadn’t even had a drink yet.  

And as we propped ourselves up at the bar, he told me how he was in a band.  

Correction: He was the band. No gigs. No bandmates. Just him and his limitless artistic vision.  

‘I’ve not found anyone good enough to join yet,’ he said. ‘I’m not being arrogant, it’s just no one else gets it. I could be famous right now, but I’m waiting for the right moment.’ 

‘I’m a poet,’ he continued. ‘A proper one.’ And at this moment he proceeded to dig a battered notebook out of his pocket. And read to me, completely deadpan with unrelenting eye contact, his lyrics about skinny jeans and smoking cigarettes.  

‘Oh, very good,’ I said, trying to catch the bartender’s attention to get that drink I knew I was going to need.  

Up close, Joel smelled slightly musty, like an old Oxfam coat.  

‘You actually look like your photo,’ he said to me, happily. ‘That’s good. I was worried you’d be fat.’  

He followed that up with, ‘Because, you’re already too old for me. I never usually date women as old as you. Women peak at 25, scientifically.’  

I was four years younger than him. I was so gobsmacked at his arrogance that I stood there doing my best goldfish impression as he went on.  

‘I’m not sure if I fancy you yet. I’ll get you a drink, and decide while you’re drinking it.’  

I asked for a gin and tonic, which he ordered and handed over like he was doing me a massive favour, studying me as he did so.  

So, I did probably the only cool and quick-thinking thing I’ve done in my life: Took a breath, downed the whole thing in one, almost choked halfway through, slammed the glass down on the bar and said:  

‘I’ve decided that I don’t fancy you.’ 

It was as if I’d slapped him, or stood on the bar and weed in a pint glass.  

Then I walked out, without looking back, leaving him gaping behind me like someone had just unplugged his amp mid-solo.  

He messaged me constantly for the next few weeks. He told me he still wasn’t sure if he fancied me, but that he couldn’t stop thinking about me. And that maybe he was in love with me?  

Oh, and that he could write songs about me – I just had to meet up with him again so he could decide properly.  

And of course, he sent me more of his poetry about Morrissey, vinyl and my lateness.   

I never replied to any of it. 

But I like to think there’s now a Tinder bio of him out there, still looking for his perfect match, older, balding, with an aesthetically shot photo holding a guitar, and a bio that probably says: ’Poet. Visionary. Undiscovered genius. Looking for a girl who gets it.’  

If you see it, swipe left.  

*Names have been changed

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