Celebrity date wreckage
When I was still (barely) a teenager the world was a very different place. For starters, Big Brother was only a concept in a fiction novel, while reality text-vote-televisual diarrhoea was still a twinkle in the eye of an arrogant fourth rate girl band producer.

My world of 1993 wasn’t quite a utopian delight though, mainly because I was single and admiring an unknowing fair maiden from afar during the long drag of our Saturday shifts at a popular chain of newsagents.

Over a number of weeks I gradually got to know her during our shared breaks. The willowy, pretty sixteen year old object of my affections began to warm to my humour. It took time, but Kate began to greet my shambling appearance on a Saturday morning with an awkward smile and would seemingly linger round the staff room as if to see what I had planned during lunchtimes. For my part, her dazzling white and welcoming smile seemed to take the edge of my Friday night hangovers far better than any post-binge fry up ever could.

And they said I was an unromantic bastard.

Amongst the other Saturday staffers, I had a largely deserved reputation of being the “nice guy”, so I played that card as often as I could to help slowly break down the walls of Kate’s innate shyness. Obviously she was inexperienced with the ways of men, but there was the unmistakeable sign of certain awkward flirtatiousness as her confidence with me grew. We laughed, joked and found a mutual escape from the drudgery of taking money from the public with a forced smile while wrapping their pulp, paper-backed purchases in flimsy carrier bags.

And then one afternoon the Saturday staff arranged an evening out for drinks. I sat there expectantly in the staff room when Kate emerged from the ladies’ locker room looking absolutely sensational. Her legs seemingly went on and on forever, her knitted top showed a glimpse of silky shoulders which begged to be held firmly by my hands. Her normally bare face was brought alive with a subtle touch of lipstick. The signals were far off the radar of my colleagues but I knew for sure that those gentle, hitherto untouched lips were demanding that I kiss them passionately.

Three hours later, while she was waiting for her father to pick her up I did just that.

As she scooted off in the direction of her father’s Ford Orion she called back to me.

“Can we meet for a drink in the week?”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Four days afterward, I was stood outside the smoky pub that was for a brief while the social epicentre for everyone who was anyone at my Sixth Form college. Kate appeared looking sensational yet again, so thanking my stars I escorted her inside under the dark oaken beams and ordered a round of drinks before heading to a corner table to chat.

We talked, Kate still slightly awkward and shy despite the intensity of the previous weekend’s kiss. Despite my intentionally gentle banter, my veins were flooded with those squirming hormones that marinade in your underpants. I was in dammit. Being a nice guy got me in for once. Only an utterly hideous and unforeseen event could ever prevent me from holding her close to me and kissing her passionately again later on.

A hand clapped on my shoulder shook me out of my erotic waking dream.

“Hello PJM!”

I turned my head to see who it was and was relieved when it turned out to be a casual college acquaintance of Irish extraction with neatly parted hair and twinkling blue eyes, whom I’d occasionally conversed with at this very pub over Friday night pints

“You don’t normally drink here on a Wednesday night!” he smiled, in his familiar and disarming way that screamed “nice” to anyone within forty miles.

And then it happened.

“Kate, this is…”

And at that moment I saw her eyes flicker. They were still full of the same desire and flirtatiousness, but they were no longer looking at me. They were pointed toward my cleanly cut friend.

And that was that. Kate and I dated briefly, but we never kissed passionately again. I never did hold those silken shoulders in my palms or pull her towards me with my arm around her waist. We remained friends of course, which is why several weeks later she asked if I had my friend’s phone number.

To this day I still feel a twinge of annoyance whenever I see his face on television and my teeth grind when I hear his disarmingly nice patter to disappointed contestants and radio listeners alike.

Damn you Dermot O’Leary. You utter cunt.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:07, 9 replies)

Oooo! Dermot.
I would.
( girlinthehole, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:21, closed)

Grrr....

(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:23, closed)

That was beautifully written...
Deserves a click alone for "pulp, paper-backed purchases."

Also deserves another click for the sharp observation that Dermot O'Leary is an annoying cunt.
(LongJohnBaldry, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:22, closed)

Is he actually alright in the flesh?
On TV/radio he comes across as having less personality than any other person in the world ever. A cardboard cutout would surely be more engaging.

Can't understand why he's considered a sex symbol!
(username1, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:42, closed)

Well I haven't spoken to him for fifteen years
But he was always amiable and well, nice. Even when he was nicking trays from the college refectory to sledge on, he was still nice

_{he's still a colossal cuntybollocks for gatecrashing my date though}

[edit]

He's short though. Much shorter than me

Trufax

<sub>And he has a smaller willy than me

also trufax</sub>

.

*snarls*
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:48, closed)

But that's what I mean!
The best thing anyone has to say about him is he's 'nice'. Like his compatriot Daniel O'Donnell.

Remember how much shit you used to get off your English teacher for that word? I'd consider it an insult if all they could think to put on my headstone was 'ooh, he was a nice chap'.

He's just so fucking boring!
(username1, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:51, closed)

Sublime...!

Brilliant!

Inspired!

Expertly written!

If I could write as well as you, I could possibly think of even more positive adjectives to describe this masterpiece.

But I can't so I'll just click.

and agree with you on the DOL front
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 17 Apr 2009, 14:48, closed)

Damn youse, O'Leary!
*shakes fist at the past*

Damn youse and your bloody cheeky faux-irish ways!

It all worked out for the best though, dinnit?
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 15:50, closed)

Great post!
Absolutely fucking great - cheers, mate
( SpankyHanky, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 16:42, closed)