The John Motson Date

Meet this girl at a party. Arrange to go to the pictures:

Get a text 20 minutes before. Reckons she's wet and bedraggled because of the rain. Should have brought a brolly, like me.

Kiss her damp cheek as she removes her hat and runs five stumpy fingers through her hair. Doesn't look bedraggled – looks lovely.

Tell her I've already got the tickets, so she insists on buying the popcorn. Picks salted – ug. Give her a chance Fishy, give her a chance.

The film's called You, The Living. The review never said anything about Swedish subtitles.

She throws popcorn at me with a smile that reveals dimples. Think she's the one. Offer her some Orbit.

Five minutes later her head is resting on my shoulder. Sniff her hair - nothing. Tell her it smells nice anyway - brownie points.

Avoid talking about the film after - don't want to sound thick.

Find a bar. She picks a table with a candle. Blow it out on the way to the loo, challenging her to light it before I return. She succeeds. Is this what love feels like?

Tells me about her scrapbook – it's like a diary but with pictures and ticket stubs to boot. Feel myself going boss-eyed.

It's chucking it down outside. Think I'll kiss her in the rain - she'll love that.

Go in for the kill as we walk to the car but she retreats. She's not kissing me in the rain – says it's cheesy.

Oh well, five minutes later, outside her student house, our lips collide under the gaze of my rear view mirror. Catch a glimpse of myself and like what I see: I'm irresistible.

Her room is a pigsty: dirty bras hang from open drawers and there's plates on the floor.

She hands me the scrapbook on her way to the bathroom but as soon as the toilet door tells me it's safe, I'm off to investigate those open drawers.

As I do, a sharp whiff of body odour rises up my nostrils – I stink. Find some Dove deodorant and give myself a spray. Hope she doesn't notice I smell like her.

Scurry back to the scrapbook as her heavy feet lead her back from the bathroom. Turn to the penultimate page.

This is amazing, I say.

Sorry about the mess, she replies, then asks why my socks say Tuesday when it's Saturday.

I'm a rebel, I answer. Surely that deserves a laugh?

The theme to Match of the Day vibrates through paper-thin walls, and the disbelieving voice of John Motson soundtracks our descent under the sheets.

The game is Arsenal versus Bolton and Motty is explaining that Gretar Steinsson has gone down after a challenge from Abou Diaby. I can hear the crowd scream – as they often do in such circumstances – but it seems excessive. Doubt there was much contact.

Bolton go 2-0 up – the three points seem certain.

Or that's what I think. Before I know it Motson is describing a third goal for those in red and it's clear a remarkable turnaround has taken place. As the net ripples, my date - out of nowhere - pushes me away and asks me to leave. It just doesn't feel right, apparently.

But you're my one, I think to myself before looking down at those Tuesday socks covering my good foot and my bad.

A few days later she texts to apologise. Says we should have just gone out as friends – that she felt pressured into being a 'mega whore' because it was a date.

Reply telling her it's okay and asking if we're going to do it again.

Still waiting to hear back.


Banksy said...

Never mind her, how did the match finish?

You've got some seriously good blogs here! A pleasure to follow!

jackson madden, potlatch, idaho said...

I'd let you bowl your balls down my alley any day.

Anonymous said...

good to know that someone enjoyed that game even less than me. they were down to 10 men as well, nightmare...

Plentymorefishoutofwater said...

This is my new favourite comment of all time.

Chapters From My Life said...


MrsAlbrecht said...

Well written. Love the game metaphor. Keep it up. You do classy better than crude.

Best wishes,


(PS: Found you via comment on my How To Sleep Alone post @thedatingpapers)