In my last blog, I mentioned that I’ve been dating in Lisbon. I also mentioned that I’d been on a date with an Italian guy. Since then, we’ve had a second date and it’s all gone to shit. Obviously. Let’s discuss…
My Worst Date Ever?
So, Italy (I’ll be calling him Italy to avoid exposing this dude on the internet) and I met on Tinder. He’s a hipster tattoo artist so naturally, I was instantly excited about him. Two days later we arranged to meet for a glass of wine at a little local bar on my street. We met at 9 pm, and by 9.01 pm things were already very strange.
When I arrived there was a fight happening in the doorway between the female cook and a very drunk man. The cook was swinging a knife at the drunk man and the police were doing their best to separate them. I wasn’t really sure what to do so I stood outside until the fight spilled onto the street. Once the doorway was blade-free I slipped myself inside and instantly spotted the total babe I was there to meet. I proper fancied him with all his shit tattoos (his words, not mine) and his IDGAF attitude.
The knife fight (which was still happening just outside the bar) made for a great topic of conversation and we were immediately at ease with one another. Italy told me about growing up in Napoli and how he makes money travelling as a tattoo artist. I told him about my work and my semi-nomadic life and it was all lovely and great and fun. We were drinking cold red wine (don’t hate, it’s actually delicious once you get used to it) and this dude had a full glass in front of him when he leaned across to get a closer look at one of my tattoos. Can you guess what happened next?
YEP, HE THREW THE ENTIRE GLASS OF RED WINE AT ME.
And when I say threw, I mean threw. It wasn’t knocked over, it was launched into the air like a fucking projectile. The initial impact occurred on my face and hair, then my entire top half, and finally my favourite white tote bag which happened to be on the table at the time of the red wine massacre.
For three or four seconds after the incident, he and I sat there in shock. Now, I don’t know what dating in Italy is like, but where I come from, soaking your date with vino in the first hour of knowing her is perhaps the very worst faux pas imaginable. After time stood still for a bit, I burst out laughing and he flew into a massive apology as I set about trying to wring out my dripping wet hair.
The elderly waiter, who must have been at least 1,000 years old, looked over with obvious disinterest and offered no assistance whatsoever as my poor date ran around searching for napkins for me to dry off with. In fact, nobody batted an eyelid at the catastrophe that was unfolding all over my face/body/belongings. I guess red wine spillage isn’t particularly interesting when a knife fight has also happened that night.
After I was as dry as I could be (not very dry at all) we continued with our date because I am chill AF and not even an impromptu red wine bath can throw me off my grade-A first date game. We ordered a round of a super-potent Portuguese spirit which we agreed reminded us of nail varnish remover and talked about other ridiculous dates we’d been on until it was time to go home.
More Weird Dating in Lisbon
Apart from the red wine accident the date actually was lovely, so I asked for a second. I had also asked him to tattoo me (loyal readers, we’ve been here before, if you recall). So we combined a date with tattooing and threw in some wine (not literally this time). We met at his studio which is a 20-minute walk away from my house. Sadly, the entirety of those 20 minutes consisted of one giant hill. When I arrived at the studio I was sweating and panting, which is hardly the sexiest way to enter a building.
While he got set up we made small talk and I subtly tried to dry off my underboob area (where I was getting the tattoo) by flapping my dress about whenever he wasn’t looking in my direction. When the time came to apply the stencil I was perhaps even more hot and bothered because of the energetic flapping. But he was a total professional as he cleaned my damp, salty skin for me. Oh, and FYI – I was a real tough broad as I sat through my first proper handpoke tattoo. It all went well and I love my new artwork. Then, we drank wine and chatted and kissed and it was fun and lovely.
Then, he ghosted me. It was probably the sweaty tits that did it. Ah well.
Here’s my sweary tattoo (sorry about the F word, mum).
The tattoo was inspired in equal parts by my favourite comedian and fat slut (her words, not mine) @justaboutglad, and this rad song that a journalist sent me after I posted this blog about a fuckwit dating coach in Colombia.
Has anyone else in the history of time had a tattoo on a second date TWICE? Let me know in the comments.
Wanna read more silly dating stories?