Critic’s infamous blind-date column brings you weekly shutdowns, hilariously mis-matched pairs, and the occasional hookup. Each week, we lure two singletons to Dog With Two Tails, ply them with food and alcohol, then wait for their reports to arrive in our inbox. If this svounds like you, email critic@critic.co.nz. But be warned —if you dine on the free food and dash without sending us a writeup, a Critic writer will write one under your name. And that won’t end well for you.
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After gaining much amusement from reading the catastrophic blind dates which have occurred over the years, I figured it was only fair to throw myself into the breach. Turning up on time and sufficiently under liquored I looked around for my potential date. For a split second I thought that due to some massive error the guy next to me, also looking around awkwardly, was the date. But then in she walked, I have to say that she was well worth the wait.
Any awkwardness that I felt as a British man evaporated pretty quickly when she mentioned that she was obsessed with England. Since the Critic was footing the bill (thanks by the way) we picked up some fancy drinks and food and got on with the date. She was by no means a basic bitch or “beige” and at moments I was really struggling to keep up my end of the conversation and sound like anything other than a moron.
We skipped most of the basics and delved into politics and economic theory (Thank you for the education West Wing) but it was some of the most enjoyable conversations I’ve had in a very long time.
As the evening went on the bar tab dried out but the company didn’t. We carried on chatting away for hours until she was starting to look a little worse off in the alcohol department.
So in good spirits we left and I escorted her home. However, for all of you that read these columns for this last bit I leave you disappointed as I grabbed her number and bid her farewell, anticipating the next date. So thanks Critic for a surprisingly enjoyable evening.
Hers
Like most students from generation Y, I came to university to please my parents. Unfortunately, it’s not good grades that my mother wants but grandchildren and lots of them. I’ve tried everything, Tinder, Yik Yak, Sugardaddy.com but alas, to no avail. My mother’s disappointment keeps me up on the long, lonely Dunedin nights. So, with my biological clock ticking and at least five standard drinks down I set off to make my mother proud.
I arrived fashionably late to find a well-dressed and nicely mannered British gentleman (I do love a bit of culture). After finding out he studies medicine, I felt like he could support at least 5 children. Very soon, the Sangria was poured and the conversation was flowing. The chat was interesting, talking about politics, travel, the meaning of life and I think a cheeky ex girlfriend came up at some point…
His IQ seemed higher than his sperm count, and I was scoping out the potential. Suddenly, almost too good to be true he brought up having kids! No way I thought, ‘are you the one my mother dreams of’ I whispered into my drink. However, he didn’t seem too keen to name the children after the legendary UK TV presenter Jeremy Kyle, but I can work with this.
The food and atmosphere was fantastic and I was having a blast with the bar tab. At one point I made friends with the table of ladies sitting beside us and woke up to a Facebook friend request from one of them. After the tab dried up, my date brought another bottle of wine and eventually we decided to leave.
This is where things start to get blurry. The worst part is, I don’t think my date was that drunk but I was gone. It’s safe to say that no grandchildren were made that night but I did wake up with a splitting hangover. All in all, I had a great night; my date was fabulous and slightly sassy. I’ll invite the Critic to the wedding and of course, the baby shower(s).
Cheers to the good night Critic!