My Date with a Director

A long distance fling with a 40 year old crackhead, being savagely ghosted by a posh boy and being condemned for addressing a dwarf as a “midget”. No, this isn’t a game of would you rather, it was the state of my dating life. After a tub or two of Half Baked and Cookie Dough I felt bloated, pathetic and HSBC was on the blower telling me I had entered an “un arranged overdraft.” So I switched to smoking cigarettes and re downloaded Hinge. For the third time.

Things started off rough.

I was biting off more than I could chew- tossing likes around, (reaching the like limit) and not getting much back. Dudes liking me had answers on their profile such as “Probably won’t reply to U”, or “First round’s on me if you…just show up.” As I was about to delete the app again, I stopped in my tracks. There was a like from a director I was obsessed with. Drake’s “God’s Plan” never resonated with me more.

Another After Party…

Timothée Chalamet, a monk and an after party.

Surviving a Shit Show: Pt 2

Needless to say I wasn’t killed in a satanic ritual. (read pt 2 here)

Instead, Black Hair and I were kissing on the stairwell outside his grandparent’s flat.
Each kiss left me dizzy and I was waiting for it to get boring but it never did, so I reached for his belt to unbuckle but he swatted me away.

At 6am, as I was leaving, he remarked:

“I have blue balls.”
On the Uber ride home I wondered if he was gay, or if he wanted to take things “slow” which is pretty much the same thing.

After Party / Fat White Family

Fat White Family is a band like no other.
With album “Serfs Up” about to drop, I set out to secure an interview.
I slid into Lead Singer’s DMs and hopes were raised when I got a swift response. But as the days went by, it was clear I was being ghosted.
Domino Records must have them flat out with promo, but give me a break!
If only there was a way to speak face to face …
Then I saw an event online:

“Club Serf”.

Fat White Family, confirmed, were playing.

Well in!

Here’s what happened on the night.

Surviving a Shit Show

We’re on a cobbled, narrow street in the 6th arrondissement, and either he’s trying to race me, or lose me.

In any case, he looks like a fucking show off.

He finally clocks I’m not beside him and turns around, only to locate me four feet behind, wedged between a pram and a man with a walking stick.