The Bonkers Ballad

Let me take you back. Back to a simpler time—pre-inflation, pre-therapy, pre-him. I can’t quite remember where I met this Argentinian guy—somewhere in the haze of London life, probably involving red wine and dim lighting. What I do remember is agreeing to meet him for a date in Angel. You know, the kind of hopeful evening that starts with a nervous flutter and ends with… well, I’ll let you read on.

He was tall. Tall tall. Posh-ish. Think Hugh Grant meets a Latin American shampoo commercial—long, curly brown hair, and a button-down shirt that screamed I may have read Proust, but I won’t pay the bill. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We met at a pub with outside seating—standard first date protocol. The conversation was alright. Not fireworks, not flatlining either. I somewhat fancied him. Enough to stay. Barely.

Cue the first red flag: A homeless man approached us, asking for some change. I smiled politely, instinctively reaching into my bag, but my date? Oh no. He waved the man off like he was a pigeon interrupting a brunch in Notting Hill. Dismissive. Cold. I pretended not to notice, but the little feminist/socialist/empathetic voice in my head filed it under “warning signs.”

Now, this is where it gets spicy. I went to the loo—because, well, gin—and there, I found myself chatting to another guy. Completely different vibe. Funny, charming... And yes, I fancied him too. Apparently, I was magnetic that night. Something in the Islington air.

Anyway, I returned to my table (reluctantly) and the Argentinian and I carried on to dinner. Burger joint. Solid. Not exactly Michelin-starred, but decent enough to risk a bit of ketchup on your outfit.

The vibe was mellow. Still no major connection, but nothing offensive either… until the bill came.

Reader, brace yourself.

Just as the waiter arrived, card machine in hand, my date miraculously needed the toilet. A Houdini-level vanishing act. I chuckled awkwardly, handed over my card, and paid the whole damn thing. Surely, he’d offer to split when he got back? Nope. He returned, sat down, and watched me pay, silent as a mime in a library.

I was stunned. My burger was digesting, but my dignity was not.

We left the restaurant in a fog of awkwardness. Him, suddenly all chatty, trying to justify his disappearing act with some half-hearted “I thought you wanted to” nonsense. Me, tail firmly between my legs, silently vowing to never trust a man with nice hair and no wallet.

I called it a night faster than you can say “he’s not the one,” and we parted ways with a limp goodbye and an even limper apology via text. Which I ignored. Obviously.

But of course, it didn't end there.

A couple of weeks later, just when I’d emotionally detoxed and was back to living my best brunch life, he sent me a song.

Yes. A song.

No context. No message. Just a link and a “this made me think of you.”

Curiosity got the better of me. I pressed play.

It started off sweet enough—references to dates we never had, breakfast in bed, walks in the park, fairy-like whimsy. Cute, right?

But then…

Oh boy.

“I’ll kill her.”

What?

Yes, that was the chorus. And the verse. And the outro. On loop. Violent, obsessive, love-bombing on steroids. He was serenading me with a song about homicidal jealousy, like it was a Nicholas Sparks plot twist. The girl he mentions? Apparently me. Or my future imaginary competition. Or Susan, our fictitious daughter born in Japan.

I listened to it over and over again—part fascination, part horror. Was I overreacting? Was this quirky or creepy? Maybe I missed something? I tried to find irony. Satire. A hidden joke. But nope. It was unhinged. 0-100 real quick.

Let’s just say, if Spotify was a red flag, this song would be waving from the top of Big Ben.

Needless to say, I ghosted him harder than a haunted house in October. I never replied. Never looked back. I even deleted the song, but every now and then, those creepy lyrics pop into my head like an unwanted ex at a mutual friend’s wedding.

So what’s the moral here?

1. Trust your gut—especially when it’s doing somersaults in a burger bar.

2. Never ignore the small red flags—they usually lead to giant ones waving in your face with musical accompaniment.

3. If he sends you a murder ballad, it’s not because he’s “in touch with his emotions.” It’s because he’s one verse away from a Netflix true crime special.

   
   

Thanks for reading, my little romantically bruised readers. Stay safe out there. And if a man ever watches you pay a bill in silence… run.