In this weekly feature, Her.ie goes behind enemy lines to see what it’s really like to be single in Ireland.
From speed dating to making speedy escapes, our no-holds-barred blog will follow our attempts to venture into the dating jungle, play the field and share any wisdom that we finds along the way.
Week Twenty-Nine: Lovely Hurling
You’ve heard us talk a lot here about Tinder but months of the same conversations and a series of lacklustre dates have left us thinking that perhaps, the old fashioned methods aren’t so bad.
With this in mind, we’ve been leaving our phones in our pockets and concentrating on hitting the pubs and clubs of Ireland instead to chat to the fairer sex.
The new approach has led to mixed fortunes so far but we have gotten several laughs and there’s one story in particular that we wanted to share with you…
Right, so it was a normal Sunday night in the bowels of the midlands. We’d glammed ourselves up and were raring to go, looking forward to a night of fun and dancing.
We went for a few in the local pubs before hitting the nightclub and I was standing at the bar when I was grabbed on the arm by a leering, beer-bellied man. Dressed in his Offaly club t-shirt (nothing wrong with it, I love a bit of GAA myself) and balancing his pint on the top of his belly, he grinned at me.
“Well, aren’t you the finest bit of stuff?” he beamed. “We should go dancing later to celebrate X’s win today.”
Now, polite I may be, but appreciative of having saliva spat in my face while someone, scratches himself I am not!
The fact that he was still balancing the pint was quite an achievement but still, I refused as nicely as I could.
However, this did not deter our lothario. In fact, it seemed to provoke him. The thrill of the chase and all that jazz.
He pulled himself up off the bar stool, with nice flash of builder’s bum for all the girls before pursuing (and I don’t use that word lightly) me around the bar.
Leaning on the wall beside me, I was trapped.
“We should get together and make some lovely hurling,” he laughed (I shit you not). “D’ya fancy going down the bog with me in the morning?”
To say I’ve never been asked on a date to the bog might seem surprising to many but seriously, this was my first time.
Speechless is not the word. Still maintaining politeness (because I’m well brought up, thanks Ma), I managed to dip under his arm and disappear (or so I thought) out into the throngs on the dance floor.
But no, alas the poor man was not finished yet.
A break in the music was met with complaints around the bar until suddenly, the opening strains of Enrique Iglesias’ hit Hero started to play.
Everyone looked at each other wondering when, if ever, exactly the slow dance section of nights out had made a reappearance.
Suddenly it all became crystal clear. My knight in shining armour was down, on bended knee – in the middle of the dance floor – lip synching the words to me as his team mates cheered him on.
Absolutely. Mortified.
Couple this with an over enthusiastic DJ who thought he was playing matchmaker, and you can imagine how the next few minutes played out for me.
Free from him at last at the end of the night, I vowed never to go back to that town again.
The resilient chap has since managed to find me on Facebook (stalker much? I never even told him my name) and has since private messaged me to ask me to a family event in two weeks.
Hmmm, let me think about that one….
