Hundekacke*

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Thanks Tommy for sharing this story:

“I’d been messaging Jakob online for a few days. His messages were succinct – efficient to the German-engineered standards you’d expect – but I assumed he’d be less awkward in person.

Thirty seconds into the date, as his 6’4″ frame lurched over my mere 5’10”, I could tell he wasn’t my future gay husband.

Five minutes in, he’d slagged off my job. I’m an accountant. He’s an accountant.

Ten minutes in, he’d called me fat.

Fifteen minutes in, he’d started talking about his dog he’d had to give up. Who would’ve thought, London landlords not appreciating puppy mess on their sofas?

Forty-five minutes in, he was still talking about his dog. I’d tried looking bored, I’d tried changing the subject: ‘You know, I’m more of a cat person!’, I’d implored. The bastard still hadn’t bought me a pint back.

An hour in, he hit me. Playfully. But he hit me.

Four hours in – why was I still there? Because I’m British and he damn well owed me a pint – he tried to kiss me. I responded: ‘AAANNNNRRHHHGGH!’

‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’

Facepalm.”
Thanks Tommy! If you’ve got a dating disaster to share, then please click here.

*a German friend assures me that this means “dog poo”.

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