Fridge Chicken Guy

Naturally, when a Spanish guy popped up on Hinge—complete with only one good picture and eyes that screamed “I may or may not be an Ibiza bartender”—I took the bait. I mean, who among us hasn’t prayed that this is the one photo where they actually look like themselves? Spoiler: he kinda did. Until he didn’t.

As a woman of efficiency (not about to traipse across the city for someone who might look like Shrek in a shadow), I invited him to my local pub. It’s a solid date spot—big beer garden, great gin, ambient lighting that works wonders, and a location so close I could crawl home if it went badly. Which… in hindsight, would’ve been prophetic.

We met inside. There he was. Cute face. Kind eyes. Glasses that whispered, “I read philosophy in cafés.” And a laugh—oh, a laugh that could melt frosty London hearts. We vibed. We were giving eyes, banter, and chemistry. He went to get the next round, and I, feeling optimistic, watched him walk to the bar… and blinked.

Who was that?

Posture: collapsed. Glasses now screamed “left IT for interpretive dance.” It was like watching someone shapeshift into their own disappointing alter ego. Still, I shook it off. We were vibing. Surely one bout of reverse hotness couldn’t derail this.

And then came The Kiss.

He asked—very Mediterranean, very forward—if he could kiss me. We were in a quiet corner. Why not? Well… it was slimy. I don’t say that lightly. I’ve kissed my way through enough male species to know the difference between a passionate kiss and something resembling a warm slug.

But hey, he was enamoured. Popping up for kisses like a human whack-a-mole. I tried to suppress my gag reflex and the growing scent of stale cigarettes. Did I mention I’d told him smoking was my biggest turn-off? He swore he wouldn’t do it next time.

He did.

Date Two: His turf. No solid plans. Last-minute bar suggestion. Vibes were good. He still smelt like a Marlboro advert. More kisses, more awkwardness. A surprise gig followed, featuring three grown men headbanging like their lives depended on it. I tried to enjoy the moment, held his hand, had a flicker of "hmm, maybe boyfriend potential?" until he tried to lure me home. Mate, slow your paella.

Date Three: Again his area (because equality is apparently dead), and this time, pool at a pub. It was here that the ick began writing its thesis.

He removed his jumper. Beneath it: cartoon t-shirt, zero effort belly containment, and a startling lack of self-awareness. My eyes drifted to the table next to us where the most stunning man was holding court. Naturally, my eyes lingered. I mean, I’m only human.

We grabbed food. He said he could tell I wasn’t that into him. Fair. I wasn’t. Even the way he said his name gave me secondhand embarrassment. It was supposedly Italian-turned-Spanish but sounded more like a drowning gargle.

Despite it all, we went back to his flat. He showed me… his fridge chicken. Yes, you read that correctly. Cooked chicken. Just, in case I was peckish. Bedroom tour followed: laundry piles, and one condom waiting on the bedside like a very presumptuous paperweight.

Let’s skip the foreplay. The moment trousers were down, I was confronted with a bush so intense it needed its own postcode. He jackhammered like a teen at his first house party. I told him to slow down—twice—and he hit me with, “No one’s ever told me that before.” Sir. That is not the flex you think it is.

I called time. Got dressed. As I was leaving, he accused me of eye-flirting with Pool Table Adonis and told me I was rude. Oh, but also, “let me know if you want to meet again.” Mixed messages much?

Days later: one last message from him. A classic guilt trip text. “If you didn’t want to see me again, you should’ve just said.” So I did. Gently. Honestly. Kindly. His response? A full-blown monologue about love, deceit and how he should’ve trusted his gut.

Reader, I ghosted.

And while I’d love to end this with a moral or a quote about how we grow from every experience, I’ll just say this:

Never trust a man with one good photo, visible cartoon apparel, or fridge chicken.

Anyway, onwards and upwards. Back to Hinge we go.