Monday, February 09, 2009

Twenty Quid.

Now that she has finally left me to be, I can tell you about Twenty Quid.

In the dating spree of 2006, during the World Cup, I got in contact with a girl from County Kildare.

She was good craic.

OK, scratch that, she was a nurse, a lover of shit music and a chickenhead clucking about Home And Away, but she was friendly and a bit of a looker on her profile.

We swapped numbers and texts, she an LOLer, me frowning at the beep. Still, still, she was persistent and wanted to meet me. After watching one of the England games in County Lucan, I grabbed a lift from Owen into town.

I was already a bit drunk, I'd call it 'tipsy' if that was suitable to a man of my drinkage. She was on time. She was chatty. We got on well, went to The Bank, had some food, a kiss and a taxi back to mine. So far, so 'I can't wait to text the lads.'

We clicked well in the morning time and agreed to meet again. She said she had no money to get home so I put my hand in my pocket and gave her twenty euro. In the passing of the cash it occurred to me that she hadn't paid for a thing the entire time, but she assured me she'd get me back. I told her it was grand, being a gentleman, and we did seem to hit it off.

She went on her way.

= =

I was excited about this one, my earlier impressions had been shot by her winning personality. I texted her the next day, feeling I'd played the politics and the odds perfectly, but got nothing back.

"She probably has no credit." The rationale of a horny man.

I left it another couple of days and texted her again. I suggested doing something that weekend, a week after our initial date.

Nothing again.

I left it there, I was never one to scurry.

= =

Months passed, a few more bad dates, but nothing to match the buzz of our meeting.

Still, I put her down for a loss and went about days unencumbered. That was until she popped up on my MSN one random afternoon in October.

Remember, it had been June since I'd heard a peep, and she'd had the cheek to invade my wallet without so much as an apology in the meantime. Twenty quid is twenty quid, like, I was never over-monied.

Anyway, she popped up with something like 'Aw honey, so sorry I never got back to you. Have had a really hard time.' A quick 'Go fuck yourself' would have been called for, but I was a sad, soft bastard back then and started my textual counselling, saying I understood and hoped she was ok. She wanted to meet me again and I, like a fool, agreed. I was to go to Malahide that very night.

= =

I met her outside some pub or other, she was smoking on my arrival. I went inside to get a couple of drinks in and she started wittering on about her life's woes.

Without the tankful of booze in me, without the post-coital giddiness of the previous summer, with utmost sense of my surroundings I judged her to be a proper fucking twat.

Three rounds, again all me. No mention of the score she owed me. Then she came out with...

"So where are you bringing me for dinner?"

What did I do? I fucking went. I walked with her to the nearby Italian restaurant. I went like a... I went.

Three courses, she'd cost me well over a tonne at this stage. She was shiteing on about coming back to mine, how she was going to "rock my world." She spoke about her ex and how I was a proper man compared to him, how he'd treated her like shit. I thought of how I'd like to get his number, buy the man a pint for his troubles.

= =

We left the restaurant. I told her it was nice to see her again but that I was going to get a taxi back to my sister's (where I was staying at the time).

"I'm giving you a lift," she said.

"No you're grand, I'll just..."

"JUST GET IN THE FUCKING CAR."

I got in. I formulated a plan. Even though Anne was living in Baldoyle, I'd get her to drive me elsewhere and I'd get a taxi back.

No fucking way was I going to sleep with her. Pride was a long time coming, but it came.

We got to Fairview and I told her she could drop me at the park. I'd walk the rest of the way. She was not having this at all. The girl was out for rode, no mistaking it. She was not having this.

I confessed that my sister lived in Baldoyle but that I'd forgotten the directions, but that I'd be grand in a taxi and she should be on her way.

"I'M FUCKING DROPPING YOU HOME."

Oh Jesus.

She was driving faster and faster, talking wildly and loudly, like a plump Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky, and I was shit scared, cursing myself for ever being such a fucking chump.

After an hour we found the house. She asked to come in for coffee. I ran. I just ran. No explanation. I ran inside, turned off the lights, and prayed for the psychotic wonderslag to finally give up and drive off, and she did.

= =

Two years passed, two years of ribbing by the lads. There were many more dates and a four-month romance, but still Twenty Quid remained the stuff of lore.

One drunken evening Johnny promised me 500 euro and a crate of Stella if he could hide in the wardrobe while I sired her, one more time. The next day he told me he was serious, that if the chance ever came he'd give me five-fold what I'd spent on her, and some lovely beer into the bargain.

This was all moot, I didn't have her number anyway, long since deleted. Then, a couple of months ago, she popped up on my screen once more. She said I'd treated her so well, how she understood why I'd run screaming from her terror-car, how she was newly single and how she wanted to meet me.

"Oh right, well, let me think," I responded. "OK, well, do one."

And that was the last of Twenty Quid, reminder of my greatest shame as a man. Happily for Johnny, there isn't enough money in the world...

25 comments:

RedLeeroy said...

Radge, Brilliant Stuff. Had me sitting in college sniggering like a schoolgirl. I feel I have an affinity for this mentaler bird, go on, you have her number somewhere. Your entire blog readership can book out a restaurant as you rekindle the passion, and we shall all cheer as you pay the bill.

Susan said...

It should be a song. It'd be top of the charts, a Eurovision winner.

God, honey, you can really pick 'em.

Twenty Major said...

Johnny just wanted to watch, did he?

Radge said...

Red - I nearly would. Nearly. Oh she was a nutjob.

Susan - I can't pick them, Susan. That's my problem!

Twenty (Major) - He did. For kicks.

Meadow said...

Brilliant.

I have an ex who I call '5K'. Maybe he'll hook up with Twenty Quid.

That'll learn her.

adogwoof said...

Torres would never treat you like that!

Terence McDanger said...

I can never quite decide if I prefer the Twenty Quid back catalogue or the Good Doctor's 'Scratchy Bitey' bird stories.

Ah fuck it, they're both class!

Conan Drumm said...

Radge, you gave yourself too cheaply that first date and because of that she didn't respect your wallet in the morning. Plus 50:1 she was married at the time and working an extra 'night shift'.

Gypseysdog said...

A woman's "I'll get you back" isn't worth the spittle it's hissed with.

There I said it.

Radge said...

Meadow - She needs a good learning.

AG - No. No he wouldn't. He'd pay for his own tagliatelle.

Terence - You hear so many scare stories, God love you.

Conan - Didn't you know I was a cheap slut?

5X - You did tell me so, in fairness to you.

Holemaster said...

Oh Radge, you was played like a spanish guitar. I have too been played but like George Formby's banjo.

Radge said...

I'd prefer to be played like a...

No no...

Too drunk. Analogy breakdown.

Kath Lockett said...

Had me laughing so hard I inhaled my muesli!

the broken down barman said...

that really is your best one yet ma man. beats my one of the "girl that followed me home"
one shag and i got txt for weeks telling me she loved me and was gonna kill herself if i didnt go out with her again!!! felt so low for minutes after that.
just not fair.

Radge said...

Kath - That was the plan!

Barman - You're a divil.

narocroc said...

Maybe leave the wallet at home for your next dating adventure. It's bound to work out. Women love that shit. Bring her to a documentary about American gun culture. She'll be putty in your hands I guarantee* it. Then let her buy you pints afterwards and she'll be on the express train to Radge heaven. *This is not a valid guarantee. Terms and conditions apply. She will probably not return your texts.

Radge said...

Narocroc - I hate when guarantees are invalid. I've put down my phone.

Sarah Gostrangely said...

Ha! Chumptastic.

I was cringing at the dinner part.

Radge said...

Cheers Sarah, I was King Chump.

hope said...

Sir, you make me glad I'm married and removed from that kind of nonsense!

Then again, if you get married too soon, what kind of stories will you be sharing? ;)

B said...

was she really the nutter? or were you for going out with her in ther first place?


...nah, it was definitely her

EW said...

I was reading from behind my sofa by the end, scary stuff, but a great story! Please, please tell us it's all true.

EW

Radge said...

EW - All too sadly true.

waxydan said...

I think I went out with her on and off for a year or two... All sounds horrifically familiar.

She still pops up through phone, web, or wandering postcard every 18 months or so.

Radge said...

Waxydan - Looks like I owe you a pint.