The hopeful lovers on the Critic Blind Date are provided with a meal and a bar tab, thanks to the Dog With Two Tails.

If you’re looking for love and want to give the Blind Date a go, email critic@critic.co.nz

Meghan

It was 7pm. I’m sitting on the couch in my sweaty post-training gear, stuffing my face with pasta. I get a last minute message from Critic asking if I could still make it to the blind date. I get them to put it off an hour. A shower and too much of a wine bottle later, I’m ready.

I get there a few minutes before him, quickly explain the situation, and he admits he was ironing his shirt at 7:25, so we’re good. The start of our date went pretty well compared to the rest. Yelling into each other’s ears because we were right in front of the stage really set the mood. So did me accidentally hitting him in the face while gesturing five, maybe six times.  

He was an ‘information science’ major (which I had no idea existed and is apparently a “shitty version of IT”) from Invercargill. This was just the beginning of us having almost nothing in common. Nothing, that is, except the only people we both knew were friends of someone I had a bit of awkward (sexual) history with. And he wanted me to come to karaoke with them all after the date. To skip having to answer that one, I downed my sav and challenged him to do the same.

Despite the fact we drunk so much they gave us unrequested chips, the chemistry didn’t flow. It may’ve been the fact I was flirting with the waiter more than him, or that sitting one foot away from two sweet ladies my mum’s age didn’t set the most sensual atmosphere, but there was no tingling in the appropriate places. It became clear this was mutual when I went to the bathroom and came back to an empty table. I asked the cute waiter if he’d seen my date leave. He looked a bit awkward and said he wasn’t sure. I wasn't about to wait around for a guy with shit chat and no respect, so I walked home thankful I had better company: myself. As a revered philosopher once put it, “I don’t need your pussy, bitch, I’m on my own dick”.

Harry

I got the email from Critic asking if I was keen to go on the date causing me to stress out the entire day. I didn't want to make a fool of myself so I held off drinking till later on. When I eventually got round to it I drunk a slab only to find out the date had been delayed an hour which gave me more time to drink, not really what I needed. 

Eventually I made it to the restaurant and my date was seated right next to the live band. Not ideal considering the drunk state I was soon about to find myself in, as I was having a hard enough time understanding her when I was only tipsy. But we eventually managed to get the polite chat out of the way and found out had a few mutual friends.

I later found myself nearly pissing my pants waiting in line for the toilet, which wouldn't be the first time this year. 

Later in the night she went to the toilet and she took quite a while from memory, so I assumed she had either ditched me, was taking a huge poo or trying to climb out the window and escape, so I left and caught up with my friends at karaoke. I sang my heart out and had a few more beers, but despite my best efforts no love was found in the Baa Bar or The Dog with Tails [sic] that night. So it was back home to play the skin flute and smoke a few darts. 

I then received a message from my date in the morning with the single world “wow”, so she must have had a really nice time! But it could have also meant that I had not been ditched but had done the ditching. My bad. 

Cheers to Critic for the experience, I can’t wait to read her side of the story hopefully it fills in a few blanks and I would recommend it to anyone.