Picture the scene, girls. You meet a lad on Tinder (I know, I've only myself to blame) and you are inboxin eachother. Ya avin a boss chat, an ya seem to be getting on quite well. You go on a date in the cool & trendy East End....you show him round Bethnal Green, Shoreditch, an "grab" a bagel on Brick Lane. You're getting on, and neither of you are in a rush to go home. You stop off at a pub filled with Hipsters, City folk and all that malarkey. An then, when ya thinkin "maybe they're not all dick'eads", he takes one look at the 5ft10 barmaid with the tattoos and Dr Martins. An is onto her.
Boss.
Yes, this was me, tonight.
Now what I will say is, on this occasion, I dressed down. Usually I would turn up in something that shows off me "hourglass figure" as me mate Kirsty calls it. I call it too much Cadburys, greed, and lack of self control on the arl chicken nuggets. But that attracts the wrong attention. Hence the cazzies. Turns out this makes me look quite butch. Amay. Not that I'm justifying his obvious lack of both perfect 20/20 vision and decent taste, but maybe I could have glammed up a bit more.....saying that, an I'm not bein funny or anything, but she did look like Adam Rickitt at a Sum 41 gig.
Now as soon as I clocked this bang on behaviour, I suggested we end the date due to time. On the way to the Tube, I decided to give him a taste of his own medicine. However, the lad I clocked was half cut, staggerin about an sportin a proper sorry Martina Navaratilova barnet. Unlucky. An he didn't even get on to it anyway. So now I'm sat 'ere with Post Datal Depression, questioning whether it is just better to throw in the towel an go on the arl muff. This will all disappear though when I go on Google later to perve at Beckham to cheer meself up.
Then ya start asking yourself if the world is just filled with nob'ed fellas, and romance has popped its clogs. Destined to be alone forever, with only the internet, a giant bar of Galaxy and feet that deffo look like spatulas, no matter what your mates tell you. This, ladies, and gents alike, is Post Datal Depression. You put on a romantic film, stare at Hugh Grant or Jude Law, an ponder "Why can't all fellas just be nice?" Sayin that, Grant shagged a prozzy behind Liz's back, and Law was at it with the nannie whilst he was with our Sienna!
"But nice men are out there somewhere....aren't they?" Ya desperately shovelling chocolate into ya grid, slatin the pair of them to all ya mates on Whatsapp, "Pair of fuckin beauts eeeeeee shoulda seen her!!!" Feeeewwwwmin, for abar an hour, then ya phone beeps. It's a message off another gorj fella on Tinder. "Oh some proper fitty has just sent me a message yano" an the whole friggin process starts again! Me mates say I'm too fussy. Well shouldn't I be? Why deny yourself the best ay girls? It's what we all deserve. Alls I want is someone to at least fancy me, get me loadsa food and spoon the shit out of me. Whilst thinkin I'm the best thing since Soccer AM.
I reckon it's cos I'm ginger. It's gorrabee. I know I'm a firecracker and a bit quirky, but I'm not a complete bell end. I act like a bit of a divvy sometimes, but c'mon, I'm no Solange Knowles. (Satirical).
Anyway, I'm off to bed now, goodnight babes,
luv yew
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Funny
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