“The Scot”

When setting up your online dating profile, which photos do you choose? You on a night out, where the light is bad but you think you look great? A selfie that’s just the right angle? A full photo so someone can see your figure? You with friends to prove you have them? One with your best smile to show you have nice teeth? A photo with an animal or child to portray your caring nature? The list goes on, more often than not it’s not necessarily the best photos you see, just an amalgamation that shows something about you.

However, when the date shows up and they don’t really look like their photos or they look worse – there’s not much you can do.

The Scot, is Scottish. Obviously. I don’t feel mean enough to call him something else, there also wasn’t much else to go on.

The Scot and I met in an empty bar. There was nobody in there apart from the staff. The Scot walked in, found me at the bar as it wasn’t hard and all I could think was that this guy definitely didn’t look 33. He had a massive dad-like belly. I’m not a small person, I’ve put on a fair bit of weight, I don’t want a skinny man. But this was ridiculous. He’d worn a shirt and was dressed well, but he just looked old and I decided I didn’t fancy him.

I thought to myself, I shouldn’t be horrible, The Scot could be really nice, but then I also thought to myself – I shouldn’t need to try. I’ve tried this trying lark and it’s very trying and hasn’t got me that far. Also, when you know, you know.

In the bar there was a giant screen set for Russia versus Egypt, we sat so neither of us could see it which meant there was no distraction (ok so that’s not always a good thing to want on a date, but as the bar was empty it was devoid of atmosphere). The Scot made a joke about hiring it out, which I did think was quite funny.

I’d had a few drinks at lunchtime celebrating a project ending, and the lack of atmosphere meant we drank three drinks pretty quickly. After 90 mins, I had crashed, my six drink stupor and tiredness kicked in. The time had passed without watching the World Cup, I didn’t even know the score. It felt a bit like an interview and I didn’t want the job. All I could think about was the McDonald’s I was going to get and being home in time for Love Island.

I was successful in calling it a night, trundled off after the awkward “it was nice to meet you” (aka I am never seeing you again). I got McDonald’s (chicken nuggets, fries and water, FYI) and made it back for Love Island and received an out of the blue message from Paddy McPasta (this is a guy I dated twice about a year and a half ago! Paddy McPasta asked “how is the female Indiana Jones doing” and I can’t really work out why he asked this. I’ve even read that blog post myself to refresh my memory and find myself not really remembering much about him at all. I declined his invitation for going to his house post Love Island, because I am better than that.

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