I randomly met Politics Guy on Facebook, he added me as a friend and started to message me. Despite the fact he had be-friended a perfect stranger, with whom he had 1 mutual friend, on a social media platform, he appeared to be relatively normal so I thought that I would at least give him a chance.

One of my pet hates is meeting a guy online and becoming his penpal for weeks and months afterwards. Look mate; I have a life, I have friends, I have people to see and places to be. I really can’t be doing with inane conversations about your day. If you’re hot I might tolerate your behaviour for a tad longer than I probably should. But, after a few days you really should be asking me out on a date or swerving the messages.

The politics guy was very direct and I like that. Direct, to the point. You know where you stand.

He seemed to be my type: tall, intelligent, the posh boy accent I like, a few rugby pictures- legs looked decent. And after a day or so, he asked me for drinks and dinner.

“Alicia. I’m unexpectedly at a loose end this evening. If you are too, would you like to join me for some food or drinks?”

“Sure. Why not Politics Guy, I’m at a loose end as well. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I’m a member of the RAC club in Pall Mall. Do you know it? We could head there for around 7.30?”

Half an hour later I received another phonecall.

“Alicia I think I should just explain how you should be dressed this evening.”

Oh bloody hell, I thought. It’s either fancy dress or some swingers’ party were I need to be dressed in Latex or Leather. Typical bloody politician. The dirty dog, my grandma always said the guys at Westminster were kinky. I don’t even mind, he doesn’t even know me and I don’t own any latex outfits…

“The RAC club is very conservative and you need to dress appropriately. What did you have in mind to wear?”

“Well I was thinking Black latex catsuit 30 seconds ago until you told me that it was conservative. Guess I’ll just go with a pencil dress.” I joked.

Him, completely missing any humour: “I think the pencil dress would be suitable.” Wear that.

After hanging up, I fumed for a little while about the audacity of him telling me how to dress for a date. Like I was some sort of idiot. I always dress well for dinner dates and felt quite patronised that he would feel the need to double check on my attire for the evening.

I arrived at Green Park tube station, ravenous, having missed lunch. A little Marks and Spencers trip was in order so I didn’t make the same mistake I did with the Trader and eat half my body weight in food at dinner.

So I bought myself, a sandwich, some Percy Pigs and was going to go for a can of coke until I spied some Mojitos in cans. Can of coke or a mojito for Dutch courage? Mojito it was…

By the time I arrived at the RAC club, I had finished the sandwich and was happily munching on my Percies and finishing off my Mojito. I stuffed a couple (six) more sweets in my mouth whilst I delved into my bag to send a message telling Politics Guy I was there. When I heard…

‘Alicia?’

‘wweloo’,  I tried to say with a mouth full of Percies, cocktail can in hand (pure class me). He laughed and I attempted to make the situation better with offerings of jelly sweets, ‘wanfpt a Wercy Wig?’ Gulp. Swallow. Whilst I stuffed the remainder of the packet along with my empty can of mojito into my Chanel. (I’d never normally do this with a nice handbag, but the mortification made me panic and I didn’t know what else to do with them). He looked at me like I was simple and asked, “Shall I dispose of the rubbish properly rather than you having to put it in your handbag?”

I nodded and reluctantly handed over the Percies and mojito can (which had drenched my handbag). Oh I am so special needs at times.

“Shall we go inside? I should warn you my friend has unexpectedly turned up with a date. So there are four of us eating. Is that ok?”

I thought, ‘it’ll have to be wont it’. But after the Percy Pig/Cocktail Can introduction I thought I had better be more polite and told him, ‘of course’.

My Chanel continued to leak mojito as we as we traversed through the numerous grand, empty rooms in the RAC club; It was like a little alcoholic Hansel and Gretel trail. “There’s lots of rooms, what are at they all used for?” I asked as we wandered.

“Well, this is the drawing room and over there is the knitting room.” He explained.

“Pardon. The what room?”

“Knitting room”, he said for a second time.

“Knitting room?” I screeched back in a very loud, very scouse voice.

I tend to get more Scouse if I am angry, surprised or have had a drink. The disbelief of institutions still having knitting rooms in 2015 took me by such surprise that I sounded much like a female Jamie Carragher.  “Well if you’d let me know I would have brought my yarn. Is that even legal nowadays. Knitting rooms?” I asked as a very large painting of Winston Churchill gazed down on me menacingly and disapprovingly from the wall.

“Well of course. Where are the ladies going to congregate to do their girl talk? There’s also bedrooms upstairs for the guests to use if they wish.” And he gave me a sly little wink. Urghhh. Pervert, I’d just met him. Just my luck to find a sexist pervert.

I didn’t reply. What was there to say? I just gave him a foul look and hoped he’d got the message.

We arrived in the lounge bar and Politics Guy introduced me to his friend and his friend’s date. Politics Guys’ friend was a drunker, posher version of him. His friends’ ‘date’ was a very pretty, 19 year old, 6 foot, Eastern European girl who couldn’t speak English. Whom the friend claimed was ‘a student’. (blatantly an escort).

Champagne and food was ordered. Yay! I have to say I was disappointed that they ordered ‘nibbles’ opposed to proper food. Thank God, I’d got that sandwich and Percy Pigs. Politics Guys’ friend, who worked in The City (Natch!), had finished work at 3.30 and was already off his barnet and it definitely wasn’t just alcohol from which he was intoxicated.

Checklist for City Workers

1. Be a wanker or dickhead.
2. Be arrogant.
3. Think you’re much smarter/better looking than you actually are.
4. Flash cash about distastefully, it has to be salmons though. No 20s or 10s and definitely and certainly no 5s.
5. Be Loud, Be Brash.
6. Have a 22 year old, blonde PA from Essex who doesn’t mind her bottom being groped on a daily basis.
7. Generally be off your barnet for at least 12 hours of every day.

Conversation throughout the evening was mainly had between the two men: the Eastern European girl gazed on mutely whilst pushing a lettuce leaf and a tomato around her plate. And about an hour or so into the date, I became the focus of the conversation, to which there was a distinct mocking tone.

The two public schoolboys were most certainly bullies. I am not the type of person to freely allow myself to be bullied by anyone. I was given a tongue in my mouth and a brain in my head and I was not going to let these two talk to me like I was inferior.

“Oh Liverpool, how unfortunate.”  Declared the friend.

“What do you know of Liverpool? When was the last time you visited?” I asked.

“Oh I’ve never been North of Oxford unless you count Edinburgh.” he proudly declared.

“That’s the type of thing I find unfortunate, you’re missing so much of our beautiful country by being so narrow minded about ‘up North’. I pity you.” I snidely said.

To this comment, politics guy scoffed. “ ‘Tis rather grim up North though. I lived there for a few years when I was at Durham Uni.”

Now I know Durham, I lived there myself for years, the place is absolutely beautiful. It has centuries of history, beautiful countryside and the most magnificent architecture that people across the world go to visit. So I felt I had to defend my little, old Duzza and put Politics Guy in his place.

“Oh, Durham isn’t that the OxBridge rejects university? And you’re in Politics. Sad how that someone who is a representative for the political party in control of the country feels that way. What policies does your party how in place to distribute wealth in the UK, lower unemployment levels ‘up north’  and make life generally ‘less grim’ for us?’

Politics Guys’ face was most unhappy and I knew I was NOT impressing at the RAC club. Presumably going to an all boys’ boarding school, working in Westminster (ladies only make up 29% of parliament) and socialising in clubs were woman were sent to a ‘knitting room’ had left him unable to converse with the fairer sex.

I thought it was time that I made my excuses and tried to leave, “I’m awfully tired Politics Guy and I’m up terribly early tomorrow. I’m afraid I’m going to have to go home.”

“How about instead we get one of those bedrooms upstairs?” he ventured with a sleezeball stroke of my arm.

“We shan’t be doing that. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” And with that, I waved goodbye to my escort friend, picked up my drippy Chanel handbag, blew a kiss to Winston as I walked passed the knitting room and searched for my Hansel and Gretel mojito trail out of the building.

When I got off the tube, I had a message awaiting from Politics Guy.

“I want to get you naked.”

Wow. What a gentleman he was. He was promptly blocked on everything and I was left shouting

‘Next…’