Croydon Crush

Right, gather round, you lot — I’ve got a tale. It’s got passion, pints, public snogging, and a painful punchline. If you’ve ever ruined something just as it was getting good (and let’s face it, we’ve all been that idiot at least once), then this one’s for you.

So, picture it: Thursday evening, local pub. I strut in like I own the joint (it’s three minutes from my flat and they know my order — I might as well have shares in it). There at the bar is him — the guy I’d been chatting to on Hinge. And oh my days, when I say gorgeous, I mean Greek statue with better eyebrows level fit. Smiling, pint in hand, giving off that effortless cool. Except… he looked about five years younger than his profile pics. Cheeky catfish, but in a complimentary lighting and good genes kind of way.

We clicked instantly. Think sparks. Fireworks. One of those rare dates where conversation flows, the drinks keep coming, and there’s actual chemistry. Like, real-life chemistry. Not just a polite chat about Netflix and weekend plans — we were flirting. He tells me to come sit next to him and before I know it, we’re sat side by side like naughty school kids, giggling into our beers and throwing looks that say you are definitely getting a kiss later.

We didn’t wait for later.

A few pints in and we’re full-on snogging in the pub. I’m talking PDA central. Didn’t even care who saw — could’ve been my boss at the next table and I still would've gone in for another. He was just that good a kisser. Proper knee-weakening, grab-the-table-for-support levels of snog.

And okay, yes, he still lived with his mum. But honestly, in this economy? I’m not judging. I would’ve overlooked a whole lot that night.

He was from Croydon, which — if you know, you know — sometimes comes with a bit of an accent. Not posh, not polished, but who cares when someone’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear over a pint? Well… apparently, I cared a bit too loudly.

Now here’s where it all goes spectacularly downhill.

I’m known to be a tad blunt. Some call it brutal honesty, I call it top-tier banter. Unfortunately, not everyone agrees — and my date? Definitely didn’t.

At some point (I blame the pints), I jokingly said, “You know, the more you drink, the dumber you sound.” Cue record scratch.

His face dropped. Like full-on, pub-goes-silent, tumbleweed-blows-past level awkwardness. I knew instantly I’d messed up.

Turns out he’s had grief about his accent his whole life — been called stupid, underestimated, even lost out on jobs because of it. And here I was, throwing in a careless comment like it was just cheeky pub banter. Oof.

Tried to fix it. Apologised. Backtracked. Even managed to get one last kiss in before we called it a night, which felt like a bit of a win. And he did message after the date, so I dared to hope.

We chatted for a few days. He even said he wanted to meet again. And then I sent a sweet little message saying I had a great time. His reply? “Did you also enjoy the moment you called me dumb?”

Oh.

He had not let it go. And fair enough.

And then… silence. Ghosted. Vanished like my willpower near a cheeseboard. I reckon he had a little debrief with Mum or mates and they gave him the classic, “You deserve better” pep talk. Can’t say I blame them. I would’ve binned me too.

I kicked myself for ages after that. Honestly, still do when I pass that pub and think of what could’ve been. He was a good one — funny, fit, kissed like he meant it. But I went and tripped over my own tongue. Classic.

So what’s the moral of this tale? If someone’s accent makes them sound different, maybe don’t weaponise it for a cheap laugh. Or at the very least, wait until they’ve moved out of their mum’s before roasting them.

Live and learn, eh?