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Mash Blind Date: No woman can withstand my pick-up artist techniques

RECRUITMENT consultant Dan, 31, has studied pick-up techniques, and attempts to use emotional manipulation to make women sleep with him. Teacher Holly, 28, is a normal human being. 

Dan on Holly 

First impression?

Holly was sort of alright. I’d have preferred a Eastern European model in just a bikini and high heels but Pizza Express probably wouldn’t allow that, the pussy-whipped cucks.

How was conversation? 

Obviously I wasn’t really chatting, I was stalking my prey, homing in with laser-like precision, looking for the chink in her psychological armour so I could go in for the kill like the sexual apex predator I am. 

Memorable moments?

She looked impressed when I said I’d got a Ferrari. Actually I’ve only got a knackered Vauxhall Astra, but it’s her fault for me blatantly lying to her. Women these days only care about money.

Favourite thing about Holly? 

Dunno, I was too busy planning my next pick-up tactic. Should I ‘accidentally’ brush her breasts to break down her personal boundaries or ‘neg’ her by saying they’re too small? It’s a lot to think about.

A capsule description? 

Holly thinks women should be allowed to vote and she’s not into choking. Typical modern feminazi who wants to cut your balls off. 

Was there a spark? 

Not really. My ideal woman would sit in silence while I explain current events and cars to her. Holly had an opinion on her quattro staggioni. I call that disrespectful.

What happened afterwards? 

I think I was too good at negging her. I’d criticised her hair, her job, her family and I was about to criticise her shoes when she said ‘You are a horrible person. Let’s get the bill then I’m going for a drink with friends. You’re not invited.’ How the fuck did that happen?

What would you change about the evening? 

I think to shag Holly I needed to have learnt mixed martial arts. Women want a man who can beat other men to a pulp outside kebab shops. It’s evolution.

Will you see each other again?  

Hopefully – only thanks to Hustlers University the next time I see Holly I’ll be driving past her in a real Ferrari with a model in the passenger seat giving me a blowjob. Then she’ll be sorry she missed out on dating an alpha male like the one I’ll be if I keep paying 40 quid a month.

Holly on Dan

First impression?

Obvious pick-up artist. Trying to dominate the conversation, gradually escalating physical contact. If I wanted to shag Andrew Tate I’d move to Romania.

How was conversation? 

Weird. He kept lying in the most obvious way and seemed to think that was okay if it meant getting his leg over. Sorry, but I don’t believe someone who’s into powerboat racing collects coupons for two-for-one pizza deals.

Memorable moments?

Dan has some interesting ideas about how men need to be dominant in a relationship. Also something about the ‘warrior spirit’ and ‘the matrix’, whatever that is. Oh, and leopards. Mustn’t forget them. I didn’t really pay attention because it was gibberish.

Favourite thing about Dan? 

He likes pizza and so do I but that’s not a particularly rare trait in a man and I don’t think it compensates for being an absolute wanker.

A capsule description? 

Knob? Is that encapsulated enough?

Was there a spark? 

Only of anger, when he kept challenging every minor thing I said in a transparent attempt to assert himself. Who the fuck starts an argument on a date about the best type of potato?

What happened afterwards? 

I went for a drink with friends and he went home to polish his samurai sword. That’s not a euphemism, he does actually own a samurai sword. Oh dear.

What would you change about the evening? 

I think I’d have had a gelato and sorbet instead of boring old cheesecake. Oh, you mean the actual date? Fuck that.

Will you see each other again?  

Only if Dan drastically revises his attitude towards women. And picks me up in his Ferrari. So I think we can safely say that won’t be happening.

Sandwiches with no bloody crusts and pensioners stinking of piss: The gammon food critic goes for high tea

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who won’t be around long enough for ‘global boiling’ to be his fucking problem.

I’M taking my mother out for the afternoon. Avoid her like the plague as a rule, all she does is gibber on about which of her friends have died recently. But she’s 87 and not in great health, so I need to keep in her good books. Don’t want her signing over my inheritance to some bloody cat sanctuary.

Anyway, she wants to go for ‘high tea’, whatever that’s supposed to mean. The only ‘high tea’ I’ve ever had was when one of my teenage mates made us a hash brew. I spent the next two hours throwing up, so at least it can’t be as bad as that. Plus, it’s meant to be a ‘great British tradition’, and I’m up for anything remotely patriotic.

We get there and everyone looks at least 90 and ready to drop. There’s an all-pervading stink of granny gas, perfume and stale urine. It’s like sitting in the waiting room for the morgue.

The first disappointment of the high tea is it’s exactly that – just cups of tea to drink, no proper booze on show, apart from gassy foreign Prosecco at nine quid a fucking glass. Sod that for a game of soldiers. My mouth’s dry as a badger’s arse, so I might as well get a brew in. It’s all poncey loose leaf rubbish too, not proper tea in bags from Yorkshire.

They’re all called different things as well, like they’ll taste any different. Darjeeling, Earl Grey, even those weird herbal ones, which look like they’ve stuck a couple of twigs from the garden in a teapot and chucked boiling water over them.

But the biggest bag of bollocks is the sandwiches. There’s only one proper sarnie in the world. Thick white bread, crispy bacon and red sauce. If this shite passes for sandwiches, I’m a bloody transsexual. They’ve cut the crusts off for a start. And the bread is sliced thinner than a fag paper. Tight bastards at these prices.

The fillings are no better. Coronation chicken? A cold curry sandwich, what the buggery is that about? And cucumber, which is basically suspended water in bread. The salmon sounds promising, until I realise it’s the slimy smoked shit, not John West out of a tin with loads of vinegar on. And no cheese and Branston either. Ham it is for me then.

Then there’s cake – so we’re eating fish, meat and cake all in one meal, are we? It’s probably a blessing everyone else here is too doolally to realise. I try some Victoria sponge and it’s passable. I’d have tried the lemon drizzle, but nowadays that just sounds like me going for a piss what with my bloody prostate. Puts me right off.

I’ve stuck it for an hour-and-a-half and that’s my limit, so I tell mother she’s looking tired and needs to get back home for a nap. She protests she’s fine, but I’m the one with the car keys, and she’s hardly going to walk three miles back, so she reluctantly agrees. I’m stood over her holding her coat by now anyway. Always the dutiful son.

Overall impression? Not an experience I’d care to repeat. When I’m in my dotage, I’ll insist on my kids sitting me in the corner of a nice warm pub with a pint of best and a copy of the Daily Mail.

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