My 10 worst dates from hell

Every girl (and guy) has been on one ... the really really bad date. Which is why programmes like Sex and the City hit the spot. Those girls went on some of the worst dates possible, even though they were gorgeous, accomplished, successful and intelligent women! From bad kissers to men who break up with you on a Post-It, there was just no getting off the bad dating game carousel for Carrie, Sam, Miranda and Charlotte.

Even though my bad dates were hardly in the region of the Fab Four, I think, after a lifetime of dignified silence, it's time to name and shame ten of the worst dates I have ever been on.

My teens and early 20s were a dating desert, probably due to extreme inexperience and natural nerdiness. I never got any useful information about dating, except when my older sister who was much wiser in the ways of the world said to me: "Men are rats."

My worst blind date at school was with a Bishops boy who was part of a visiting rugby team. The school organised some of us girls to accompany them to a dance and I was teamed up with a "gentleman" called Peter. We did not like each other and he promptly ran off with the Biology teacher, who was engaged, but turned out to be nothing but a cheatin' old cougar. Her sex education lesson to us all in class consisted of one word: "Don't". She obviously wanted to impart some biology lessons to him, though, and I was left with some nerd who played in the brass band! Peter was not finished behaving badly, however, and distinguished himself by writing in the vistors' book at school: "Sit on your face". He was a real charmer.

Then there was Juan or Jose or something like that. I (all 17 years of me) met him at a dance on my first day at university. He had flat bright predatory eyes like a ferret or a small weasel. He took one look at me and said: "You are so preeeetty and so eeeenocent." Although we kissed like crazy (he was a very bad kisser, later years would teach me. Slimy-tongued! He also put me off Latin men for life), I wasn't dumb. He did not get what he was after ("You are so cold!" he accused me). I tortured him. He was forced to date the campus mattress subsequently (more his speed). He now lives in New Zealand. The really bad thing about Jose/Juan was the boy that I did like saw me with him, and wouldn't speak to me for years.

Then there was the dreaded Lurgy. Oh lordy. My mother pushed me into this one. The dreaded Lurgy was much older than me. Again we went to a dance. My so called friends were rightly horrified by him and kept at a distance, whispering in the corner about us. Only 18, I just about died of embarrassment. Then he took me to an establishment called Charlie Bambi's which was a right dive and served chicken pies probably made from old horse. I could not wait to get home. The dreaded L tormented me for years afterwards though, with bad bagpipe playing outside my window.

A vast men-free void of studying followed at varsity. After I left home for the big bad world dating picked up considerably. I went on a date practically every night and not all of them were bad. But then there was Dominic, who was my age instead of the slightly older man which I preferred. He asked me out and arrived late, in an un-ironed shirt. He took me off somewhere (the Hard Rock Cafe?) and spent the night flirting with the various waitresses (my worst, gameplaying). Contrary to his expectations I was not prepared to be dessert so he dumped me off at home at around 9.30pm (I thought this was a world record, but it was beaten by one of my sister's dates, who was called Milton. Milton was told by my father he had to have her back at the house at 7.30pm!!).

Then there was some dude, whose name I can't even remember now. I think it was Oswald, but we will call him Date no 5. A friend rustled the whiffle-bearded Ozzy up as a plus-one for, ironically, Dominic's sister's wedding. My date was married but still considered himself in the game (as I recall, he was reading Salman Rushdie's Satanic Verses at the time, in a brown paper bag, as it was banned). We sat at the same table as the best man, who was cute and dark. I took a huge shine to the best man and we flirted up a storm. Then my dodgy date suggested that we all go out on the town. I had to go home to feed the dogs and when I came back cute, dark boy had disappeared completely (suspect to this day that Oswald got rid of the other guy). I was forced to go out with my date instead, who turned out to be tighter than a duck's ass. After our meal he patted himself down and said: "Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten my wallet". Then he made me pay for his parking!!!!

I also met "Hannibal", who was probably a bit mad. I met Hannibal at a rose nursery when I was with my sister and brother-in-law. He gave us a phenomenal discount on all the plants we bought. "Oh, how kind!" I said and my sister and bro-in-law gave each other a significant look. Surprise, surprise Hannibal (not his real name) phoned me at work and proceeded to take me out. He got very insistent in his bakkie ("kiss me, kiss me"), after bringing me love gifts of compost, manure and about a million rose bushes. After a while I couldn't take his calls any more. He seemed a bit disturbed (he had been in one of the bush wars) and it had finally dawned on me that he was in earnest.

Friends introduced me to Munich-born Michael, who worked for BMW. Michael was much older but fun, especially when he was drunk, which he seemed to be most of the time. We played Trivial Pursuit together and he liked my killer instinct. We were friends for a while and then he asked me out on a date. Big mistake. We were supposed to be going to a Police Ball but it turned out (very coincidentally) that his PA had messed up the dates. Instead he took me to a Japanese restaurant called Osho in Rosebank where he proceeded to behave like a prize idiot. "Do you know who I am?" he asked all the restaurant staff, demanding that someone be at his elbow 24/7 to refill his glass. I was mortified and we had a ding-dong fight in the car on the way home. We had another date for the next weekend but he got his secretary to phone me and cancel, saying he had to PLAY GOLF THAT SATURDAY NIGHT!! Turns out he was having an affair with a married German lady, hence the golf.

Who could forget Psycho Steve? By this time I was having serious relationships, followed by painful break-ups. It was after one of these that a friend introduced me to PS, who was going through a divorce (I am not surprised). He seemed very nice at first meeting and we went to a ball, organised by Edith Venter. I liked the way it went and thought he could be useful as a partner. So I invited him to my next function, the Viennese Ball. He accepted but on the morning of the ball sent me an SMS saying "uuurgh he had gastric flu and was in bed so he couldn't come". I told him I was upset by the short notice, and got hit by an SMS from hell. NOW I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE REALLY LIKE. I AM GLAD I FOUND OUT NOW. I AM REALLY SICK. GO TO HELL YOU BITCH. Right. I was told later by other people who knew him that Psycho Steve was one sick puppy.

My friends all know about The Skidder by now. I met him on a wine tasting course where he eyeballed me boldly across the room. For six weeks we worked very hard at our course and finally when it was finished everyone went out for dinner together. The Skidder who was from Glascow was terribly proud of his Audi TT. He honestly thought I had never seen anything quite like it and asked me if I was impressed. He lived in a house which used to belong to an old school fellow of mine, a grand mansion which he had done out with fake Scottish coats of arms. He thought I would be impressed by that too. He told me how much everything in the house cost (there were huge boom boxes everywhere, such class) but then sat and farted into his expensive couch at top volume. I went to the loo, which is how the Skidder earned his nickname. I was brought up in a house where you had to leave the loo bowl as you would wish to find it. Obviously the Skidder grew up in the Gorbils and left the loo, well, with skidmarks. I never saw him again.

I then dated seriously again, or so I thought (this is actually getting to be like an episode of Sex and the City, by the way. Who knew I could compete with those New York glamazons?). This guy Andrew took the cake. Turned out he got married six months after he met me and lied like his feet stank about it. He worked in a bookstore and fed me big lines about how he had bipolar disorder and couldn't go out at night as he had to go to sleep. And I bought it. Well, the day that I found out about him and DUMPED his ass I immediately phoned Fergus, who my friend had been trying to hook me up with. Fergus was 27, younger than me, and worked for a security company, and I thought the date would make me feel better. We agreed to meet at the Westcliff Polo Lounge. When I arrived, I found that Fergus had brought all his friends along with him and that he was actually in love with the friend who set us up!

My ten dates from hell were probably the opposite to a date with Tad Hamilton (fortunately I have had lovely dates as well in my life, so what's ten bad evenings?) I am sure there are people out there with far worse stories to tell, so please feel free to leave your comments!!