Rain, Rugby & a Kiss

Have I’ve got a story for you. A tale of passion, pints, and one gloriously awkward cultural misunderstanding. Let’s rewind to a drizzly Saturday when the Six Nations was in full swing, the Guinness was flowing, and my dignity was hanging by a very frayed thread.

Picture it: me, sweaty and slightly dishevelled after running up and down the field like a dog chasing a rogue tennis ball, rolling into the pub with the squad for some much-needed hydration, beer. The atmosphere? Electric. The crowd? Raucous. The bench? Packed, with yours truly wedged somewhere in the middle, half trying to catch my breath, half watching the rugby, and then — bam — eyes lock.

A few seats down, there he is. The Kicker. All jawline and effortless charm. Think: windswept hair, slight stubble, and a gaze that could cut through fog. And he’s looking at me. Me! Not the glamazons around us dressed like they’ve just come from a Love Island reunion. Nope, he’s clocked the scruffy one in trainers with a face redder than the Welsh jersey on the screen.

I do what any self-respecting woman does in this scenario — I panic, then pretend to look at the telly. Fast forward a bit and I’m at the bar, pint in hand, trying to act casual (rehearsing flirty one-liners in my head like I’m in a Richard Curtis film). Suddenly, he’s right behind me. I summon all the liquid courage I’ve earned and blurt out:“Who you here with?”Smooth. Pulitzer-level seduction.

Of course, I already knew the answer — he'd come in with some mates I vaguely knew. But it worked. We chatted. We smiled. We exchanged the look. You know the one. The universal, intoxicating, “something’s definitely happening here” look.

Somewhere between discussing the match and ordering another drink, the conversation took a turn into the bizarre. We started talking about customs — you know, as you do when you're flirting in a busy pub. I don’t know how we got there, but I ended up telling him that where I come from, it’s normal to kiss family members on the lips. Including your dad.

The look on his face — somewhere between fascinated and mildly traumatised.“You kiss your dad on the lips?” he asked.“Yeah,” I said casually, “when we greet each other. I mean, I don’t anymore. I’ve become too British for that.”Which, to be fair, is true. The stiff upper lip won’t allow for lip-on-lip action, apparently.

Anyway, time gallops on, as it does. He says he has to go — some birthday to get to. We walk outside. I’m riding the high of a solid chat and bold choices. He asks for my number. I give it. I kiss him. Just a quick peck on the lips, a cheeky little goodbye.

He disappears into the night. I’m standing under the awning, just short of humming “Kissing You” like it’s Romeo + Juliet, when ping! My phone lights up.

"You kissed me like you’d kiss your dad."

Wait. WHAT.

My soul momentarily vacates my body. Had I just… dad-kissed the fittest man in the pub? In my mind, I was channelling Parisian chic. In reality, I’d just traumatised a stranger.

Naturally, I panic-flirt.

"Come back and I’ll show you better."

Which, in hindsight, could’ve come off either very sexy or very serial-killer. But dear reader — brace yourself — because he does come back.

I’m still under the awning, rain drizzling like a scene straight out of Notting Hill, and there he is. No words. He strides over, lifts my chin, and we kiss.Not a dad peck.Not a friendly smooch.A proper, movie-worthy, earth-tilting snog in the rain.

It was perfect. Too perfect.

He leaves again, and I’m standing there absolutely shell-shocked, already composing our wedding vows in my head. I'm head over heels in approximately six minutes flat. The bar's turned into a background blur. I’m in a dopamine daze.

And then… nothing.

No text the next day. Or the next. Or the next.I check my phone like it owes me money. I refresh WhatsApp more than I check the weather.Ghosted.Vanished. Gone, like my will to wear waterproof mascara again.

And naturally, I spiral. Was it the “dad kiss” thing? Did I smell like pub sweat and bad decisions? Was it my laugh? Was I too much? Not enough?

I obsessed. I analysed. I talked about him so much my friends nearly staged an intervention. Classic anxious attacher behaviour. You know the type: We fall hard, fast, and get ghosted just as swiftly.

And so, that’s how I became a cautionary tale. A pub legend. A woman who accidentally turned a fantasy kiss into a Freudian nightmare.

But would I change it?

Absolutely not.

Because for a few magical, rainy minutes, I lived inside a rom-com. And those don’t come around every weekend — especially not after a rugby match and a pint too many.

So here’s to pub kisses, unexpected connections, and the fine line between flirtation and familial trauma.

Stay tuned — I’ve got loads more emotional chaos where that came from.