Home > Adventures in Dating > Guinness is good for you

Guinness is good for you


After being comprehensively chatted up by a pretty Irish girl last week (and cunningly persuaded to take her home) we met up again on an official  date.

Because we had become rather familiar last time, we opted  for a cozy pub visit so we could talk without shouting over thumping. thumping music. I arranged to meet her in the only cozy pub in central that I can reliably find, which is where I was introduced to The Virginian and where I last met Noir.

I arrived almost on time, which is a definite improvement for me. Walking in I scanned the pub looking for a my date and to see if there was somewhere to perch. For a moment I thought I had spied a cozy corner by the bar until, annoyingly,  I spotted a rather pretty woman standing there so kept scanning past.

Then she waved and I realised it was my date. Blimes! She’d had a haircut with a great fringe and looked particularly fantastic. Good fringes win me over. Now I think of it, brightly coloured hair, great fringes and bunches are all hair centric features that make me swoon a little.

After a peck on the cheek and snuggling into a couple of chairs, we started chatting very comfortably. She’d made the traditional Irish claim that the Guinness in England isn’t nearly as good as back home, only it emerged that she’s never actually drunk Guinness! Since this was the very pub where Toast had downed a pint of the black stuff in about 5 seconds, amazing both me and The Virginian, it seemed only fitting that I should celebrate this most heralded of stout with her. Even though she’d never had it, or even drunk pints, she particularly enjoyed it and one followed another and another. In the spirit of a proper cultural exchange, I also fed her pork scratchings, England’s finest bar snack. FACT!

There was some knee touching. There was quite a lot of knee touching really. It was very exciting.

I finally found out how old she is as I previously had NO idea. For about 5 minutes I misinterpreted the timeline and thought she was 21, but thankfully discovered she was actually 29.

The amusing epilogue to the story of the last time I saw here is that she went off to meet her aunt who is a nun, and one of her nun friends to go to the memorial service of another nun. I had been blithely unaware of the obvious fact that she was off to a memorial, surrouded by nuns, in the same clothes that she had been wearing the previous night.

I think nuns must have some kind of special ‘sin-dar’ because they figured out what she had been up to!  Although we hadn’t done anything expressly naughty, we had kissed a LOT but essential clothes had remained on, I still took a certain wicked pleasure in being complicit in leading her astray (even though she had pulled me!).  One nun, who knew her dad said:

“Now you have your fun and enjoy yourself but don’t you be taking an English boy home to your father”


She fessed up that she had forgotten my name the night we first met and had to check it. I fessed up that I had got Toast to ask her name when I went to the toilet as I wasn’t sure I had it right either (that is a killer move by the way and REALLY useful to stop you looking unattentative).

We even covered some of the ‘god’ stuff. It’s difficult to ask ‘so then… “GOD”… where’d you stand on that then?’, but I probing conversation revealed that she didn’t really do church except for the usual weddings, funerals, bar-mitzvahs. Well, maybe not the last one. This was a MASSIVE relief and, although still not resolved, put me rather more at ease.

The date was going very well, knee touching, cheeky grins, light ribbing. It was going well right up until the socially challenged man decided to insert himself into the date. In a move identical to the one pulled by the strange man when I was on my date with Indy, only minus the tiny dog, he struck up banal conversation and then sat down.

It’s my fault, I should have asked him to leave at that point. Lesson learned, my stifling English politeness stopped me from telling him to bugger off. This squat, nasally voiced man with receding hair and black goatee then proceeded with banal conversation.

“Are you together?”
“You look very much in love”
“Oh.. are you Irish?”
“so are you on a date then?”

It was painful. He told us about how he was gonna make his fortune because he had invested all his money in some up and coming white rapper. My date left to go to the toilet and I resolved that I was going to get rid of him. Then his phone rang…

“Yep… yeah… yeah I know… yeah I’ve sorted it. No… yeah… I’m on top of it… Look, I told you… MUM… I SAID I’ve SORTED it”

At that point his entertainment value soared! Finishing his phone call he nodded to where my date had escaped to (I just hoped she wasn’t climbing out of the toilet window at this point).

“Cor, she’s lovely isn’t she! I’ve got three women on the go”

I seriously hoped he didn’t count his mum in that list.

“yeah, I’m off to see one now. She’s a dancer… really fit.”~
“…………I think she’s a prostitute.”

Stifling  my stomach shuddering laughter, I saw my date returning and so announced, “right, we’ve got to go and meet Tim”, necked my drink, thrust out my hand to shake his and we made our exit, stage left.

Finding another pub we grabbed our last Guinness of the night. We had been talking about dating and she said that I was the first boy she’d kissed or been on a date with since she had arrived in the country a few months ago. She asked me when the last time I had been on a date was.

I’m not naturally duplicitous by nature but I suddenly panicked. The last date had been only 4 days earlier and I sensed this might be a bad thing to admit so I fibbed: “about two weeks ago”. I’m not proud of fibbing, I pride myself on being straight with people  but it was out there. Not a big fib but I don’t like to even start that slippery slope.

The pub called time and we walked back to the tube, stopping outside for a kiss. It was quite a long kiss. I had forgotten quite how good a kisser she is and we may have been there, on the pavement, for a few minutes. We even got heckled. This is the third time I have been heckled kissing. Once with Fuckwittery, and once with the IT Girl a few days earlier before.

Having cleared up some of the god stuff and being able to actually talk for a while, her marriage percentage has definitely improved.

Marriage percentage: 35%

I left with a promise to see her after I got back from New York. Damn… Once again I’ve got myself into a situation with two girls I like at the same time.  Well, I can’t imagine that going to New York will complicate things any further, what with the dates, parties and fiesty American women with bangs and delicious accents.


  1. February 17, 2011 at 3:30 am

    Biscuit, if we used the same currency, I’d bet that you couldn’t make it a week without kissing someone.

    Although that bet would be rather counterproductive to your blog and current wager.

    • February 18, 2011 at 1:35 am

      Well, it’s not the kissing wager so I’m sure a week wouldn’t harm my chances too much. I would agree a mutual chocolate currency but I do REALLY like kissing… in case no one has noticed. *nonchalantly whistles*

      • L.A.
        February 19, 2011 at 4:00 pm

        Even if I hadn’t noticed, I believe Toast VERY ELOQUENTLY pointed it out for you.


        Chocolate is a fabulous currency. I just procured some peanut butter chocolate fudge. It will be my lunch.

  2. eyebrowsofdoom
    February 17, 2011 at 7:01 pm

    Er… Wasn’t there supposed to be something about a marriage proposal?

    • February 17, 2011 at 7:21 pm

      Next write-up. Will be done by tomorrow night (I Keep doing things that require writing u[p when I should be writing up. It’s a vicious circle!)

  3. February 17, 2011 at 11:58 pm

    You’re just now finding out Guinness is good for you? Where have you been :)

    • February 18, 2011 at 1:37 am

      Oh I’ve been drinking the stuff for years when the mood strikes, it was the first time for the lady… so I sort of popped her black, frothy cherry.

      …ok, that sounded WRONG.

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