One of the worst dates I've ever been on...

(Get ready)

Was with a comedian.

Writing this with my emotional support animal.

But not for the reasons you would expect. (Narcissism, insecurity, smelly blah blah…)

He was actually great. Hilarious, kind and confident.

His opening line to me on our first date was to take one long look at me, lean in, and whisper,

“Hey, I don’t care what anyone says, I like that dress…”

Just the right amount of rude. I fucking adored him instantly.

This night was to be our third night out. He’d blown me away with his planning for the first two. (He had a fucking famous museum opened for me and him privately, at night, so I could see an exhibition I had failed to secure tickets for….!!!!) This was my chance to impress him back. I thought it would be fun to go to a restaurant called Dinner in The Dark. A clever premise of a restaurant in pitch black, you literally cannot see a thing, where the waiters are blind, and the food is unconventional. The point being that when you lose one of your major senses, the others become heightened to compensate. So without your sight, your smell and taste are far more sensitive. You can really get lost in the flavors.

We arrive and the date has already started badly. My bag of date-clothes has been stolen while I was out filming a video for charity in the street, dressed as a chicken. The reservations are tight for this place, as it’s in huge demand… so I don’t have a chance to buy other clothes. I just have to go dressed as a giant bird. I also now have no money, and no phone. Thankfully, I’m easy to spot in a room, due to the yellow feathers and my big fuck off WINGS.

I can tell immediately he thinks I’m trying to do a lame bit...a huge boner kill. And I’m not like a sexy chicken. I’m a fluffy, malting chicken-chicken. Plus, it’s not ideal, because he’s a national treasure, and this is of course going to make it harder for us to fly under the radar on our date. Everyone clocks us as soon as we walk in. He’s instantly very shy. I reassure him that soon we will be in the dark and can have some privacy… at which point I’m promptly interrupted by the hostess…

“So sorry to ask, but one of our waiters has turned up for a meal and we have nowhere to put him, other than at your table as there is space for an extra seat. Would that be ok…?”

Fuck.

This is let me remind you… a blind man… a hungry blind man. Everyone in the line stops talking to look at both of us. We both look at each other and accept with our eyes in a split second that it will be career ending to say no. You can already hear the Daily Mail headlines…

“Oh my god OF COURSE! That would be BRILLIANT! We would LOVE that. Way better than just the two of us! Yuck!” We dazzle the crowd with our performance of sainthood. Everyone is very pleased. Apart from this blind man. Who doesn’t seem to give a shit that he’s crashing our entire date, on a tiny table for two. Let’s call him Steve.

So my date and I take a deep breath, and are lead into the dark by our waiter. We are instructed to put our hands on each other’s shoulders and form a sort of Choo Choo train as we are seamlessly guided through the pitch black restaurant.

We are seated.

We immediately start remarking on how mental it is, to not be able to see anything… and how discombobulating it is. Guess who doesn’t find that amusing because that is his fucking lived reality…? Steve, who is sat so close to us that all three of us have our knees touching under the table. Who now rightfully thinks we are a pair of stupid cunts. Immediate, unacceptable fail. We start desperately trying to win him back, and include him in all of our date banter but he wants nothing to do with us. It’s monosyllabic snark coming right back at us, which is tense to say the least.

We had pre ordered our meal before being sat. Both of us opting to be as fun and kooky as possible, and choosing something called ‘Chef’s Surprise!” Which I’m secretly terrified is going to be the chef coming up to you in the dark and putting his cock in your mouth and shouting “Surprise!” I go ahead with it anyway. We both felt so adventurous.

Before the food even arrives I realize that they were right, when one sense is lost, the others really do sharpen and heighten immediately. It had not occurred to me until now how this would impact people’s hearing. This man was beloved on English TV and had an unmistakable voice. Within minutes of us being sat, I could hear the previously fervent chatter surrounding us, slow to a near halt, because people wanted to listen to what he was saying.

This was a disastrous place to bring a famous person, it turns out.

He and I don’t know each other well. We haven’t been intimate yet (I move slow.) It’s the third time we are ever meeting, so there is so much to discuss and learn about one another, but it’s become patently obvious.. that we can’t really say much. We try to ask each other questions, but the answers have to be dishonest/vague/monosyllabic to preserve privacy with such a captive audience.

Fuck.

The food arrives quickly. The plate is fucking burning hot. We both scream upon touching it. The game of the chef’s surprise is to try to work out what you’re eating. Every time we start working up a funny banter about what it could be, Steve bloody jumps in and ruins it by telling us exactly what we are eating, to kill the vibe and conversation dead. I know we had a rough start, and I know he’s blind, but Steve is frankly, a bit of a cock. I hate Steve.

Steve informs us that we are eating Shark Cheek and Zebra Arse with some sort of Pigeon Porridge and potatoes soaked in the cheese of a giraffe or cat or something equally upsetting. They’ve decided to really get weird with this menu, to enhance their position as a niche, quirky experience. We tuck in enthusiastically, thinking that if they know our taste buds are going to be super sensitive, this food must really be delicious… as this is the ultimate taste test.

It’s not.

The food is FOUL. The worst I’ve ever had. I’m far from a food snob. (I once filmed in a prison and managed to quite enjoy the lunch.) I’m widely ridiculed by everyone I know for my notoriously low bar. My favorite coffee has always been… Nescafe Gold.

These people have not even bothered to season this rhino taint, or kangaroo clit, or whatever nightmare I’m chewing (and chewing and chewing) on. It’s dry, it’s multiple different temperatures as you get to the middle of the meat… (which always feels like you’re playing Russian roulette with your arsehole,) even the potatoes are bad. Which is a near impossibility. I am fuming. (Cooked potato is like sex, when it’s good, it’s very good, and when it’s bad, it’s still…pretty good?)

We don’t want to offend already-salty Steve, as this is his place of work, a place he enjoys so much, he has turned up on a day off, to indulge… so we sort of remark on how “interesting” the food and all it’s textures and temperatures are. It’s the most British critique you’ve ever heard. “Wow, I had no idea an armadillo’s bollocks were so tangy…” and “This beaver’s anus needs a touch more salt don’t you think? Really fun though!”

FUCK THIS DATE MY GOD.

I’ve turned up dressed as a chicken. We have been lumped with a very anti social stranger at our table. Everyone is listening to our chat AND the food is unbelievably gross. Just when I think things can’t get bloody worse…