The G.F. List Addendum

The date that started it all

The G.F. List Addendum

If you’re like most people, you’re probably wondering what made me write about my dating experiences. Well, this is the date that started it all. It’s the date that tipped the scales for my sister to say ‘you should really write some of these down. You never know you might need them for something one day.’ So, I took her advice and wrote down a few highlights of the dates I had been on and put them in a box.

I added to the box over time, using post-it notes, scraps of paper, old note books… anything that was handy for me to jot down a few notes. I looked through my box of tricks the other day, and this the date-of-all-dates. It is not in my book, and I never wanted it in there. But since I’ve been asked so many times why I started writing about the men I had been out with, I think it’s highly appropriate that I share my inspirational dating experience with you.

Mr. Inspirational

This guy wasn’t my type from the minute he started talking to me. I wasn’t attracted to him at all, but I appreciated that he abandoned his friends and spent over an hour asking me out while I worked behind the bar. One of my many part-time jobs as a university student was working in a bar, so I was happy to talk to him in case he gave me tip. I can still whip up a mean cocktail by the way.


Eventually, I was beaten into submission and I decided that it wouldn’t kill me to go out with him. He was going to take me to an Italian restaurant for dinner, and picked me up from my parent’s house a few days later. He didn’t come to the door though. He beeped his car horn when he pulled up in the drive way and I remember my sister laughing and saying “That’ll be for you.”

“Yeah great. I think I’ll be back soon.”

We both laughed and I left the house to go on my dinner date. Just quietly, I don’t think I would be too keen on Italian anymore. There are way too many carbs, but they were socially acceptable in 1995 so big whooptie-do!

The dinner part of the night was actually fine, and to my surprise we actually got along pretty well. We chatted over dinner for ages, and we didn’t even seem to notice that the staff had packed up and were waiting for us to leave. So at this point, I thought that I was glad that I decided that it wouldn’t kill me to go out with him. He was actually pretty nice and we laughed a lot. Then things got a little interesting when he told me that I would look amazing if I was pregnant.

Being a teenager at the time, I was shocked that someone would mention in conversation that they wanted to impregnate me- especially on a first date. And to be honest, I still find that comment really weird. Then he told me that he was twenty-four, had two little girls aged four and two, and he thought that pregnant women were hot because they were so turned on all the time. I didn’t know what to say to that, and I changed the subject.

From there, the date got worse. I was happy to go home, and he was happy to drop me off after he visited a friend of his at a sports bar. It was on the way, so I didn’t think it was a big deal at the time. I could handle one little stop and no one getting pregnant so that I could be sound asleep in an hour. No problem at all. I had no plans to see him again by this stage so the least I could do was manage a quick stop at bar so he could see his friend.

When the pit stop was over, he wanted to pop in to see a different friend of his who worked at the strip club next door. I refused to go inside, and said that I would happily wait out the front for him. Then I decided that wasn’t a great option because patrons might assume that I was working there. So under sufferance I went inside.

He got me a drink and I drank it like a shot. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was more than uncomfortable and I got annoyed when he started checking out the half naked women walking around. I didn’t say anything, I just looked at him, with my arms crossed like I had been tasered and the only parts of me that could move were my eyes. Thankfully he knew that meant I wasn’t very impressed and we left about two minutes later. I was relieved to get out of there and I thought that he was finally going to drive me home, but I was wrong. 

He wanted to see another friend of his in; you guessed it, a bar. I remember thinking to myself ‘are we on a drug run or something?’ I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to ask, but there was definitely something bizarre going on. Why would anyone need to pop in to see ‘friends’ for five minutes at different bars all over Melbourne? We ended up going to the third and final bar where I decided I would shake things up a little on my own.

He was busy talking to people he knew, and didn’t say one word to me during an hour other than asking me what I wanted to drink. I wasn’t too keen on being his handbag for the night so I started chatting to some other guy who was having a quite drink with his friend. I filled him in on my strange date, which we laughed about.

I introduced him to my date as a friend that I hadn’t seen for a long time, and he seemed to believe me. He even bought us a round of drinks that we escorted onto the dance floor where we shared a little disco pash. Then about five minutes later my date started walking over not looking very happy.

“Hey, are you having fun?” he asked

“Yeah, you know, it’s ok. It’s not really my kind of place but the music is all right. How ‘bout you? Are you having fun?”

He looked a little confused. I seem to have a knack for confusing people to weasel my way out of awkward moments.

“My mate Rob was saying that he saw you kissing your friend.”

“What? Kissing him?”

“Yeah that’s what he said.”

I laughed in that cool, calm, collected way you do when you find something so unbelievable. I was surprised, that part is true. Surprised I got busted when we tried to have a sneaky kiss on the dance floor. It was unbelievable! How could his friend have seen that? I rolled my eyes, tilted my head and with mischief written all over my face, said with sweet conviction “As if I would do that to you.”

He believed me and went to the bar to buy me another drink. I felt a little bit mean at that point. I had no intention of seeing him again, and he was too busy chatting to his friends to pay any attention to me on his drug run anyway, but I thought I had better wrap up my mischief making for the night and behave. Right after I gave this new guy I met my phone number. I still had to get home don’t forget. 

We finally left the bar in the early hours of the morning and within about ten minutes into our trip home, he got a flat tyre. So there we were, by the side of the road at the beach, in the dark, with a flat tyre. Thankfully, he had a spare tyre and that seemed to impress me at the time.


It only takes five minutes to change a tyre, so I was pretty sure that he could sort that out while I had a cigarette. It turns out that I was pretty wrong. Actually, it turned out I was very wrong. Technically, I’m correct, it takes five seconds to change a tyre and it’s no big deal. I asked my Dad to teach me how to change a tyre when I got my licence, so I know what I’m talking about here. I don’t know the technical names of the various car parts or anything because I don’t need to, and I don’t really care. I’m happy knowing a few little tips and tricks to at least make it to garage or a pay phone.  At the time it was 1995, and I didn’t have a mobile phone. They were still a little rare, so pay phones it was.

So, armed with my automotive mechanical know-how, you can imagine how annoyed I was when he said that he couldn’t change the tyre. I asked him if he wanted me to do it, which he seemed to find hilarious. I probably don’t look like I know how to change a tyre, but I do. Getting those bolty-screw things off is a different story though. Especially when I’m wearing heels because I can’t stand on the jack to loosen the bolts.

Apparently he knew how to change a tyre too, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was his rusted Holden P.O.S. The car had rusted underneath and the jack wouldn’t stay in place for him to actually get the tyre off. I asked him where his mobile phone was so that I could call a taxi and he gave it to me.

“Do you know what street we’re on?” I asked


“Really? Is it Beaconsfield Parade?”

“Yeah something like that.”

I was annoyed. How could he be driving home and not know what street he was on? I was trying to explain to the operator which part of the beach we were stranded on, but she didn’t understand what I was talking about.

“I don’t have a Beaconsfield Parade in St Kilda.”

“Well if you drive along Beaconsfield Parade from Port Melbourne, into St Kilda that’s where I am.”

“What’s the address?”

“I don’t know the address. He said Beaconsfield Parade in St Kilda.”

“I don’t have a Beaconsfield Parade in St Kilda. I need an address.”

“I would love to give you an address, but I don’t know where I am. Can a taxi drive along Beaconsfield Parade until he finds me?”

“I’ll have to get my supervisor.”

She put me on hold and when she came back, I repeated the street name, suburb and problem to her supervisor and before I knew it, the battery on his phone died.

I was devastated. What the hell was I going to do now? I suggested we start walking and find a pay phone so that I could call a taxi, but he refused. He had it under control allegedly. He had a charger for his phone in the car. So we would just wait a little while, the phone would be charged and then I could get the hell out of there.

Wrong. After an hour, his phone was still flat. He checked to make sure it was plugged in properly, it was, but it was still flat. How could we be charging his mobile phone for an hour and the battery still is flat? Then he tried turning the key in the ignition. We had a flat battery for his car too. Trying to charge his mobile phone had given him a flat battery apparently. So now, there was no way of charging his phone, or changing the tyre, so I was stranded with someone I didn’t like, who was not interested in taking me home at all.

He wanted to sleep in the car and try to change his tyre when it was light in the morning. Following that, he decided that someone would probably drive past and be able to jump start the car. He had some jumper-cables in the back, so he had it under control. If he had cables, I was pretty sure that this happened quite frequently. But I didn’t believe the rusty car story any more.

“Is your car going un-rust by the morning? Seriously, if you’re telling me that it has rusted, not a lot is going to change between now and daylight. I just want to go home.”

“Well maybe it’s not rusted, I will have a look in the morning.”

“Can’t you just have a look again now? I will hold my lighter so you can have a look under the car.”

“I’m going to have a sleep on the back seat. You can stretch out too if you want.”

“I don’t think so.”

I got out of the car, slammed the door and had a cigarette, hoping that a taxi would drive past. One did, and the people in it looked like they were having a very comfortable trip with four operational tyres. Why were there no taxis on a Thursday night? I got back in the front seat while brainiac slept in the back.

A few cigarettes and hours later, a police car stopped and I was so excited. Maybe they would give me a lift to a phone booth. They didn’t. They just wanted to know if everything was ok.

“No, everything is not OK. I’m stuck on this date, he’s asleep, he can’t change the flat tyre, the car battery is flat, his phone is flat and I just want to make a phone call so I can home. Do you know if there is a public phone around here?” I asked.

“Oh, not really. I think there’s one in the park but you probably should wait until its light before you head down there. Sometimes there are a few homeless people sleeping there. So wait until it’s light and get him to go with you.”

I remember saying OK and being shocked that they wouldn’t be more helpful other than give me half-arsed directions of where there might be pay phone. I didn’t want “mights” I wanted specifics on my never-ending-date-from-hell.

The minute there was vague daylight, I got out of car and walked up the esplanade, looking for a phone. The police were right, there was a phone in the park along with a couple of homeless people drinking out of brown paper bags.

I woke up my date. I don’t think he was really asleep to begin with by the way. He probably had a criminal record as a drug dealer and thought it would be safer to pretend to be asleep on the back seat when the police showed up and decided to stay there.

We walked to the pay phone, and I called my sister to come and get me. By this stage he was freaking me out. I didn’t want cuddles in a phone booth from him. Why try to hug me? Was it because I was having so much fun maybe? Or was it the mountains of chemistry between us that made him think I would like to snuggle up to him?

He called a friend of his to come and rescue him. And this was part of his conversation that I still remember:

“Yeah mate, yeah. St Kilda. Yeah she’s here. We just slept in the car. I wasn’t going to call you at four in the morning and wake you up. Yeah, thanks mate. She looks good in the morning too if you know what I mean.”

I rolled my eyes and pushed his hand away from me as he was trying to touch my arm, and started walking back to the car. I’d rather risk it with the homeless people in the park than listen to him make out that he got lucky or try to hug me, or touch my arm. 

When we got back to his car, he jumped in the back seat again to sleep. Thankfully my sister understood my directions a lot better than the taxi operator and picked me straight away. I didn’t even say goodbye. What was the point? He was pretending to be asleep anyway and I wanted to go home. My sister and I made a pit stop at MacDonalds on the way and I fill in her in on the whole date where everything was literally a disaster.

She couldn’t stop laughing. To top it off, when I eventually woke up later that afternoon and was making myself something to eat, my date called. I assumed that he wouldn’t bother calling me at all, and I was really hoping he didn’t. But he did. He called to say that he had a great time and he would love to take me out again.


“We can go to the movies or something next time if you like.”

“No. I’ll give it a miss.”

“OK, well give me a call sometime and we’ll catch up.”

“Oh yeah, that’s a great idea…”

If that was a good date for him, I don’t even want to imagine what a bad date looks like. Seriously! Come on! How is wanting to get me pregnant, taking me on a drug run, not talking to me, being stranded at the beach with him for four hours because he has a rusty P.O.S and can’t change a flat tyre, no mobile phone, a flat car battery and sleeping on the back seat rather than taking me home, a good night out for anyone? Seriously! Not to mention, that I hooked up with someone else on the dance floor. Seriously? That’s a good date for you buddy?

So that was the date that started a chain reaction. It didn’t kill me to go out with him, I was right about that. It was just a nightmare. I have to be honest, it does make me giggle now because it was so bad. I can’t believe that I ‘picked up’ a guy when I was on a date with someone. Who even does that? And eats carbs? The eighteen year old me, that’s who. It’s pretty funny. Overall, I like the memory of unbelievable-ness that going out with him has given me. So much so that I still live by my mantra “It won’t kill me to go out with him.” After all, how bad could it be?


Posted 308 weeks ago