At the weekend I went for a date with a mystery man. Susan had arranged it and it didn’t go well. I was told it was to be a football type who wears red. Well I turned up and unfortunately so did he. His name was Reggie, he was all in red and much as I like a hirsute gentleman, he was a bit too furry for my liking. Not to mention horny. Anyway, the meal (at the local kebab shop) was a disaster, the conversation was hellishly dull and I wanted to go home to see my Creatures.
However, Reggie convinced me that perhaps we’d got off on the wrong foot and offered to take me clubbing. Now, as I am a demon on the dance floor I couldn’t decline. I was expecting him to take me to ‘Liquid’ as it sounded like my sort of place, but no. Apparently ‘clubbing’ to Reggie meant Crawley Town Football Club. I’m just glad he didn’t offer to take me to a country cottage.
Needless to say peasants, the whole date was looking like a complete disaster until eleven men turned up on the pitch and started playing with their balls. I left Reggie dancing around like an idiot and got their numbers. Most of them were looking for a WAG anyway. They’re coming to Shocktober Fest tonight so that I can choose which one I want. If they’re lucky.
If it doesn’t work out there’s Zombie Speed Dating on Tuesday, which the silly PR woman’s organised. She didn’t understand when I said Zombie Speed Dating is a contradiction in terms. Well, at least they won’t move fast enough to get away from Susan. He’s a like a budget version of Tom Jones these days. Without the good looks or the eager women, obviously. I think the only pants he’s had thrown at him lately are mine, when he’s doing my washing. Speaking of which, must dash, I need clean ones if I’m meeting the boys from the football club this evening.
Until the next time peasants…