Read Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Online
Authors: Nick Spalding
The front wheel starts to wobble.
My feet slide off the pedals.
My bum cheeks grip the saddle as hard as possible.
My hair whips into my face.
I’m concentrating so hard on not letting the bike fall over that I’m unaware of cycling straight towards the local branch of Burger King before it’s too late. One of the spotty teenage staff is cleaning the windows and the door is propped open with a bucket.
I hadn’t intended to visit Burger King that evening. Especially not on a bright orange mountain bike.
It’s funny how your plans can change, isn’t it?
‘Oh fuck!’ I wail as I cross the threshold.
In my terror I forget I have brakes.
Two girls - the only customers at this time of night - watch in disbelief as a freezing cold skinny blonde in high heels rides right up to the counter, gets her wits together enough to brake before she flies into the chip fryer, and slowly topples sideways onto the freshly washed floor with a plaintive squawk.
Graham’s penis enters in front of the rest of him.
‘My bike!’ he wails.
I disentangle myself from the flaming thing, knowing that I’m going to have a large, healthy bruise on my right hip come morning.
Graham picks the bike up and starts checking it for damage.
I see red. ‘Oh thanks very much, you lycra wearing
tosser
! I could have been killed and all you care about is your bright orange girlfriend!’
‘This thing cost me three grand,’ he argues.
‘Really? How much did the costume cost? How much is it exactly these days to make yourself look a complete
wank stick
?’
‘Now, now. Calm down there Laura.’ He actually contrives to look hurt.
‘No, I don’t think so,
Graham
. All I wanted to do was have a cup of coffee with a guy and see where it might lead… and I end up nearly mounting a Burger King cash till!’
‘Are either of you going to order?’ says the teenager behind the counter.
‘No!’ I shout.
‘Do you have any salads left?’ Graham asks.
Throwing my hands in the air in disgust I storm out of Burger King, leaving the walking dildo to order his evening snack.
Stephanie rang the next day to ask me how the date had gone.
I started by telling her what Graham had been wearing.
‘Oh… that’s unfortunate,’ she said. ‘That’s why everyone calls him Crotch Goblin.’
So there you go, Mum.
Is it any wonder I’m single when people actively think it’s a good idea to set me up with somebody called
Crotch Goblin
?
Love and miss you,
Your bruised daughter Laura,
xx
Thursday 21 April
I’ve always thought the phrase ‘speed dating’ was something of an oxymoron.
When I do get lucky enough to score a night out with a woman I take an inordinate amount of time a) worrying about where to take her b) deciding what to wear c) trying to think of something witty and charming to say during the date itself, and d) worrying if she wants to see me again or not.
The concept of getting all this over and done with in mere minutes sounds completely counter intuitive.
Besides, finding the love of your life is surely something to take your time over, isn’t it?
This is a pretty serious life decision we’re talking about here, not what take-away food to order on a Saturday night.
…come to think of it, I take ages deciding whether I fancy a Chinese, Indian or a kebab, so even that’s not an appropriate analogy.
Nevertheless I’m desperate (as we know all too well) and will try anything once.
My sister saw an advert in the paper for ‘One-To-One Speed Dating in your area!’ and tore it out to show me. When your loved ones think you’re so pathetic that they have to scan the back pages of the local rag to find you a partner, you know you’re in trouble.
‘Go on, give it a go,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to. It’s stupid.’
‘Good grief Jamie, stop being so stubborn. You never know… you might have fun!’
‘I very much doubt it,’ I predicted with a scowl on my face.
What did I have to lose though, eh?
…other than what was left of my self respect, anyway.
The event is held at The Cheetah Lounge – a nightclub in the heart of town known for its relaxed approach to licensing laws and casual violence.
I arrive at the front door dressed in what I think approximates ‘smart casual’ and am ushered in by a large bald security guard, who can’t quite suppress the smile on his face as he looks into the eyes of yet another loser who can’t get laid.
That’s what his expression says to me anyway… but I admit I may be a bit paranoid at this point.
Following some barely legible handmade signs, I wend my way to the rear of the nightclub, into a Latin themed area called ‘El
Cheetos
’.
As I enter I’m greeted by an excitable stick-thin woman, who introduces herself as Natasha from One-To-One Dating.
‘And what’s your name?’ she asks.
‘Glen Artichoke,’ I reply.
Now, you may be wondering why I’m giving a false name.
If you’re thinking it’s because I’m embarrassed by this whole enterprise you’re only half right.
The other reason is because I watch far too many shows on the Crime Channel (which you’ll find way up in the thousands on your Sky box if you can be bothered to look for it).
I’ve recently been watching a fascinating series called Killer Broads, about women who murder - and why. There are many reasons why these ladies choose to take a life, but every victim has one thing in common: they’re all men.
One particular woman would stalk her victims via various dating services until she found one she liked the look of - and then she’d burn his house to the ground with him in it. The lunatic managed to cook six unfortunate blokes extra crispy before the law finally caught up with her.
I wasn’t taking any chances…
If there was a murderous nutcase here tonight then she’d have a bloody hard time tracking down Glen Artichoke afterwards for some light murder.
‘Here you go, Glen,’ Natasha says, handing me a badge with my fake name written on it in permanent marker, just below a large number 13. ‘We’ll be kicking things off shortly, but if you’d like to go in and order yourself a drink we’ll let everyone know when we’re starting.’
I pin the badge to my jacket, give Natasha a weak smile and walk into the bar area.
There are roughly two dozen men and women standing around, all looking as apprehensive as I feel. I order a drink and stand at the bar trying to look inconspicuous.
I spend more time checking out the competition than eyeing up the ladies if I’m honest.
There’s one guy in a white cotton suit who looks like he’s no stranger to the gym, but he’s the only stand-out in a group of unspectacular looking individuals.
This makes me feel terrible, as chances are I look as unspectacular as they do.
I’m amazed to discover that none of the women look like they’re on day release, or the backside of an angry cow, so my spirits rise somewhat. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all…
Five minutes pass and I nervously sip my Diet Coke until Natasha bids us follow her into the large dance floor area through a set of heavy blue curtains.
Inside is a selection of small tables and chairs, laid out in a ring around the edge of the dance floor.
There are sixteen men and sixteen women altogether, so we’ll get a chance to spend a whole
five minutes
with each member of the opposite sex before moving on to the next. The women stay seated while the men move one place to the left.
There will be a break after the first eight dates, giving us chance to wet our whistles and pop to the loo.
We’re given forms that we’re supposed to fill out afterwards, indicating whether we’d like to see any of the dates again - and those that match are put together by the company in a subsequent ‘proper’ date.
It’s a masterpiece of efficiency, and I can’t help wondering if a German originally invented speed dating.
I go over to table thirteen and sit down opposite a wide-eyed red head with an angular nose.
A buzzer goes off and the speed dating begins!
I won’t recount every second of each date, but here are the highlights:
Date one is Carol.
Carol is forty, a mother of four and loves to tango.
I hate children, am not attracted to older women, and only dance when stupid drunk.
Carol’s husband left her for his masseuse, taking their dog
Wuffly
Frank with him.
I’m fairly sure this is too much information for a five minute date.
I tell Carol I’m a national yo-yo
champion,
can speak fluent Swahili and work part-time as an Elvis impersonator – figuring that I’m never going to see the woman again, so why not have a little fun?
I’m telling her the Swahili for testicles when the buzzer sounds and I move on.
Date two is Angela.
Angela is thirty, has no children and permanently looks off to the left.
It’s highly disconcerting.
The slightly worried look on her face doesn’t help either.
I keep thinking there’s some mad axe-man or rabid Yeti standing behind me, about to attack at any moment.
I tell Angela I used to be a roadie for The
Wurzels
, have French kissed Sinead O’Connor and can whistle through my eyeballs.
Thankfully the buzzer goes before I am called upon to prove this.
Date three is Bryce.
Bryce is an American living in the
UK
, and working for Nintendo.
Much like the games she sells, Bryce is colourful, irritating, hard to understand and loud.
Unlike the games she sells she doesn’t have an off switch.