Peter the Poker Player

Lesson one: Alliteration of the prospective date’s name isn’t a good enough motive for going on a date.

Lesson two: Poker players are very odd. And not in a fun way. At least not this one anyway.

“Are you going to be hungry soon?” he asks, anxiously, “I had it all planned out, where we would go next, if we liked each other.”
“Well don’t tell me, keep it a surprise.” By this point, I’m wondering how best to leave, although he goes on to tell me the name of a pretty cool bar that I make a mental note to check out in future, when next asked to recommend a date venue.

But let me tell you how we got this far.


Peter the Poker Player
Employment – Professional Poker Player who claims “I couldn’t work hard”
Age – early thirties
Nationality – British – midlands
Interests – Video games, avoiding adult responsibilities
Source – Happn
Anatomy – Needs a haircut. Doesn’t look like his online pictures
The Story – Peter the Poker Player and I matched on Happn, which is an app based on crossing paths and being in the same location. We chatted only very briefly before he asked me to go for a drink that evening. I agreed. Wish I hadn’t.


screen-shot-2016-12-03-at-10-33-54

The Date
Venue –
Nola
Location –
Rivington Street, Shoreditch
Eating/Drinking
– Cocktail bar
Atmosphere
– Good, relaxed
Service –
Staff were friendly, arguably would of rather spent the time talking to them.

I have two options for a date on this particular Friday night, and after showing the pictures to a couple of colleagues, we all agree that Peter the Poker Player seems like the more interesting option. We agree to meet at Nola at 7pm.

Nola is upstairs, you go through the doors to Bedroom Bar, turn right, and then head up some concealed stairs to this great speakeasy style bar. When I arrive, he has messaged me to say that he has a table. When I get there, I think I see him, but he doesn’t look anything like the picture I have on my phone, so it’s a bit awkward as I’m looking for him to give me some kind of indication that it’s him. He doesn’t help me out at all. Horrible way to start.

So once, with the help of the waiting staff, and a very awkward 30 seconds later, I have established that this is indeed the right guy, I sit down at a bar stool on our own little table. The venue is perfect! The date is not. He tries to impress me with stories of how disinterested he is in getting a real job. How I could make money from property. He actually gives me advice on what mortgages I should get.

Jeez.

Well everyone knows it’s impolite to stay less than two drinks, so I do. But I down the second one and ask for the bill just as he’s asking me if I’m hungry. I explain to him, relatively briskly, that I’m going to go home. When he asks, I say:

Well, you either feel it, or you don’t.

We split the bill and it’s an awkward walk outside, but moments after we’ve parted, I know I’ve done the right thing. Eating dinner with him would of been torture.

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