Do you come here often?

This is how it should be done

So out I went into the dark and dangerous world of York, ready to force myself on the unsuspecting women of this great city in order to prove to my friends that a decent line could indeed get me some loving. I did not go out unprepared. Knowing that any aspiring ‘playboy’ needs to know his stuff before embarking on a quest, I went to the font of all knowledge (Google) to fill my head full of the biggest, best and most bizarre chat up lines the world has ever known. And off I went. Wary. Scared. Sweating.

Thursday. Lowther. I started with flattery. All girls like flattery. A good-looking brunette stood alone in the corner of the room, waiting for her friend at the bar. Perfect target. I stroll over, lean against the wall against her, and quietly say: “You’re so hot you would make the devil sweat”. Her expression was initially of surprise, but this was short-lived. “You must be the devil then” she said, noting my excessive perspiration, and with that she was gone.

My confidence shattered, I retired to the bar, where a couple of trebles soothed my bruised ego. Entering the debauched cesspit of Gallery, where the dark would hide my nervousness. I resolved to try again, spying a likely candidate on the dance floor. Ditching flattery, I turned to the cheesiest chat up line I could think of.

Dancing towards her to the dulcet tones of Avril Lavigne and resting my arm on her bare shoulder I shouted in her ear: “You must be tired, because you’ve been running through my mind all night”. I’m certain that I spat on her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Either her friend had just told her a literally brilliant joke, or she found my approaches vastly amusing.

I retired home, but after a pep talk from my housemates, who I’m sure were tired of my moping, I was back out on the firing line the next night. It was Friday: Fibbers time. A different sort of girl; a different sort of night. A girl on the fringes of the dance floor who looked particularly sordid caught my eye: this called for a certain type of line. I dug deep in my repertoire. “Sex is evil; Evil is sin; Sin is forgiven; so let's begin” I sang tunefully. The response was stunning. Mesmerising. Sensational. The girl went ballistic. Her friends had to drag her back, and mine had to whisk me away.

My evening cut so brutally short, I slouched in my seat at the bus stop waiting to go home. A girl sat next to me, and actually started making conversation. Hallelujah! But I remembered my pledge; it would be sacrilege not to wheel out a decent line now. I returned her niceties, and thought of what I could say. Then it came to me, the perfect line.

I leaned over, tapped her on the shoulder and whispered gently: “If you were a duck and I were a moose, and we had sex, we'd make a duck-moose, and it would sound like this...” And with that I let out a deep-throated moan that sounded like a cross between a man going through his death throes and an elephant being shot by a rifle. The poor girl jumped out of her skin, looked at me like I was the devil incarnate, and ran for her life. My bus arrived, and I made the solitary journey home to my lonely bed.

Any sane man would have quit by now. But I’m no quitter. After a three days of recuperation, I was out again on Monday, determined to prove to my friends once and for all (as if I hadn’t tried hard enough already) that I was right. I arrived at the Charles at around 9.30pm, my true playboy friends informing me that this was the ideal time to catch some ‘lady action’. I went into the garden, and took a seat next to a young lady who looked lonely.

This was the moment. She seemed susceptible. It was time to give the cheese another go. “If I could rearrange the alphabet,” I told her, “I’d put U and I together”. She stared blankly at me, and then calmly informed me that she for one was bloody relieved that I wasn’t in a position to rearrange the alphabet. She had a boyfriend. I was desperate. “Do you want another one?” I cried. Not biting.

I gave up on my plan to take my reckless womanising to Toffs. I watched ‘Without a Trace’ in the safety of my own living room. I wearily informed my friends that they were right and I was wrong. I was hated by the women of York, or at least some of them. I was a broken man.

My girlfriend will kill me when she reads this.

Add Comment

You must log in to submit a comment.