I went on a ‘blind’ date a few nights ago. We met in a nice hotel bar (his suggestion) and shared a bottle of house wine, at £17 it was more expensive than Wetherspoons but not extortionate. We enjoyed each others company for a couple of hours and then called time at around 9.30pm what with him having to catch a train back to Brighton and me finding the idea of a hot bath and early night more enticing than anymore chit chat.
He was a nice enough chap, employed, a home owner and recent Audi purchaser (it’s all in the detail, read on if you will), he was easy to get on with but not somebody I could imagine sharing a passionate embrace with, least of all a life.
Sadly the evening ended on a rather more gruesome note than it began, just as I was about to offer up the standard ‘nice to meet you’ pleasantries a most unexpected thing happened, the bill was placed on the table, my date looking me directly in the eyes, not a quiver of shame about his person and uttered those fateful words -
‘Would you like to go Dutch?’
Would I like to go Dutch?
Yes why I’d love that! I can’t think of anything that would draw me further into your web of charm than getting £8.50 out of my purse to pay for half a bottle of house wine. Hang on there though I only had two and a half glasses shouldn’t that be more like £7.25. And I definitely saw you eat some of that Bombay mix and 6 more pistachios than me – you’re trying to rip me off!
Stunned into a state of shock I put my card down on the tray and waited for the waiter to return to swipe us both. The shame. The utter shame.
And before anyone jumps on their feminist bandwagon we’re not talking about a live-in couple with a CEO wife and recently redundant househusband we are talking about a 1st date and a £17 pound bill. In my opinion, one which I believe should be taken reasonably seriously bearing in mind the varied and quite frankly monumental amount of dates I have been on in my life, a woman should NEVER pay for a first date. (Regardless of whether you intend to see her again or not, – so she’s not as thin as she looked in her photo, tsk. Some manners please Gentleman)
This has little to do with money and more to do with you. Tight, squeaky, mean. A man who is perfectly comfortable seeing a girl who he’s supposedly wooing remove pound coins from her purse in the middle of a crowded bar will also be a bad kisser, a bad lover and probably have a tiny little mean penis too. Tight men will have a great deal of trouble locating a clitoris and once they do, will proceed to ‘stimulate’ it with irregular lizard like tongue flicks. (How do I know this? I just do now stop arguing, before you really give yourself away)
Of all the categories men fall into mean men are my most loathsome. That’s not to say further down the line the balance can’t be readdressed but sweet Jesus boys, if your going to go online with the intention of either marrying of shagging a girl, buy a frigging round for Christ’s sake.
I went out with a mean man once, we went on holiday together (a hideous week in the Canaries which, one day, I may relay for your pleasure and reassurance that no matter how bad your relationship is it isn’t as bad as that was) We pooled our spending money, a ritual you will be familiar with have you ever been on a school trip to La Rochelle aged 13 and three quarters (he was 44 at the time) and it was made sure that everything was split evenly. This was fair enough until we arrived at the Airporto to go home, and I had in my purse, being the allocated guardian of his sacred pennies, approximately 20 Euros to my name.
Now call me old fashioned, anti-feminist, stuck in the dark ages, an embarrassment to woman kind but surely the relaxed and gentlemanly thing to do in this situation would be to let me wander off and buy a bottle a fragrance or embroidered neck chief of some description (oh you know how us old fashioned girls like our accessories! Give us a floral bonnet and some Parma violets and we’ll sit happily in the corner for hours!) But no, Mr mean had to get his half back, had to scrape the euro barrel and make sure he was getting his share.
So mean was this man I had to buy a coffee to split the note. Enter quandary number 2, who ‘pays’ for the coffee, hang on a minute you get 10 Euros, I get 8.50, well, I’m not having that!
So desperate in fact was he to spend his money, he returned back from duty free with a tube of m&m’s and a set of miniature spirits (next time your wondering who the fuck buys that over priced chintzy crap let alone drinks it, you’ll know. Tight boyfriends wanting to get their Euros worth) anything to reclaim what was rightfully his!
When a man prioritizes novelty over priced chocolates and 50 ml of tequila over their self respect and dignity they’ve just got to go. And so it was, no sooner could you say I should have guessed from the size of his penis we were Blighty bound and he has last been seen cutting coupons out from the back of the Daily Mail and stealing petrol from his neighbours car.
So please, head my words, put your hand in your pocket and treat the lady, we’re not talking a fortnight at Sandy Lanes, just a token that you are open, fun and well mannered. You are on a date not calculating your annual tax return could I ask you to behave as such, after all what would you prefer, wild sex all night long with a hot babe who thinks you’re great or a packet of m&m’s and a miniature of sherry, You do the maths.