Over drinks with friends tonight, I stumbled into a conversation about our relative ability to talk to strange women. When I say ‘strange’, I don’t mean strange as in mad (never been any problem there) but strange as in stranger. And when I say ‘talk to’ I obviously mean ‘chat up.’
My own spectacular ability to go to pieces when confronted with an attractive female is reasonably well documented. Indeed my dating misadventures are sustaining the traditional skills of oral storytelling among some of the more remote tribes along the Congo river. I understand that a whole generation of Kisangani males have been taught how not to find a mate with the sobering tale of ‘C and the Two Scoops of Ice Cream.’
So, tonight, it was reassuring to hear that I am not entirely alone in my abject failure to woo women. He said:
‘I was in the park with some mates one night and there were some girls there playing a ball game. One of them was really gorgeous. Really good looking. You know pretty face, long hair, great figure. But the really mesmerising thing about her was she could throw the ball further than anyone else I’ve ever seen. It was amazing. I fell in love with her at first sight. No, really.
‘I really wanted to talk to her but couldn’t think of anything to say. All I could come up with was “Do you play cricket?” But I didn’t want to ask her that in case she thought I was calling her a lesbian. So I didn’t say anything at all.’
He never saw her again. Now, there’s a lesson for us all - if a girl's got balls that you want to play with, don’t stand Silly Mid-On.
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