When is a date not a date?
I think we are all getting to that age where being a sla(aaa)g is not just highly amusing in terms of next-day banter; it is also insanely necessary as a physical balance in life. Our brains work hard during the day, so once the curtain is drawn on these precious daylight hours, it’s only right that our bits get a work out too. I like a rumble in the jungle as much as the next guy.
But, investigative and morally attuned journalist that I am, I feel it is imperative to draw your collective attention to every sla(aaa)g’s nemesis, the ying to that whore’s yang; yes that’s right, I’m talking about your friend and mine, The Date. Or, to be more precise, the date that no one’s really sure whether it is actually a date or not. This little conundrum is what I like to call, although not experience: ‘The Date/Not Date (?)’.
You know the one. You’ve been sitting opposite that hottie in the library all week, pacing your reading to her breathing, pretending not to notice it’s her leg and not the table’s that you’ve been tickling with your newly trimmed and still slightly jagged toenails all afternoon. You suggest swapping numbers so you can text her when you’re done with that book she’s been gagging to snatch off you (and then, no doubt, analyse more astutely in her essay, the bitch).
So when you finally get in touch to relinquish that bad-ass piece of literature, you decide to posit a little question of your own: ‘Fancy a drink sometime? (I think we need it after all this work lol) Xx’
Getting a sense of déjà-vu, dear reader? Well you should be. We’ve all done it. We’ve all cringed when we’ve done it. We’ve all then got slightly sweaty in the pit whilst waiting for the reply, which, of course, won’t come until your mum has created a false alarm by texting you her reaction to Simon Cowell’s latest death-defying put down. We’ve all then been slightly perplexed by the response: ‘Yeah that’d be nice : – ) next weekend? x’
Nice? It won’t be nice love. Cold and hard and over before Eastenders? Yes. But nice?! And what’s with the colon in that smiley? Is there a cheeky suggestion of a phallus in there, or is she still mentally only old enough to think John Major’s still in charge? And don’t let’s get started on the single kiss (uncapitalised). What the fuck is this sla(aaa)g playing at?
‘Great. Saturday at five. X’ is usually your response. And until that time comes, nobody knows what’s going on. It’s anyone’s guess. Why she couldn’t just suck you off in North Front 6 is a fair question, but one just not worth asking.
And once you get on the date things don’t get much clearer. Her hair says “friendly drink”, her cleavage begs to differ. I mean, it’s bad enough having to pay for her drinks before hopefully getting a piece of that booty, without the added worry of whether or not that sla(aaa)g realised ‘drinks’ was the euphemism for sex that we all know it to be. Call me a homosexual, but that’s just the way it is, isn’t it?
Unfortunately, friends, more often than not it isn’t. There are a lot of narrow minded people out there still prepared to swear by the OED that a drink is nothing more than a liquid consumed as refreshment or nourishment. That the liquid remains unspecified is neither here nor there to these fundamentalist literalists. To them, ‘Go forth and multiply’ is a mathematical call to arms, not the divine ordination of sexual licentiousness it undoubtedly is. What a slAAAg.