Every cringeworthy encounter I had with boys in 2016

2016 saw the rise of many a regrettable phenomenon — Brexit, Trump, the resurgence of Spencer Pratt… and worst of all, the fuckboy. Let’s face it, we’ve all experienced the arse end of a fuckboy — the ghosting, the games, the trials and tribulations of a 3am booty call. So, to anyone feeling down in the dumps about getting ditched yet again(!) here’s a list of all the horrendous experiences I faced in 2016 for you to laugh with/at/not at all (because if you’re too busy sobbing at the relatability of these stories, I get it girl, we’re in this together).

The ghost
Johnny and I met whilst traveling. Johnny was the love of my life. Johnny and I decided to stay together whilst starting at separate unis. Johnny lasted a day. A DAY at his new uni and then *poof* like Casper the Cock (a befitting twist on our ghostly animated friend) he fucked off into the stratosphere whilst I was left to sob into my Tesco basics pillowcase. Appalling.

The premature pussy
I met Tyler at a house party and he seemed like a laugh. We went on a few dates before he dropped the L-bomb. No, seriously. Three dates in. Easy tiger. He then proceeded to blow hot and cold for about a week before announcing that he meant ‘I love you’ like ‘I love tennis’. (This is real. Like, this actually happened). He then Whatsapped me to say things weren’t working and that he couldn’t come round to speak face-to-face because Comic Relief was on the TV. Well Jesus fucking Christ thanks for reminding me, Tyler!! I forgot the Earth stood still for a two-minute sketch of Paul Hollywood trying to encompass Amanda Holden in a caramel lattice. Needless to say, I wasn’t heartbroken to let this one go.

The Yo-yo
Dan was a rollercoaster. Quite fit, seemed a laugh, so I thought ‘What the hell?’ Turns out it was just that — hell. One minute he likes me, the next he’s unsure. Up and down, back and forth, round and round the garden for the 29^th time and I decide to call it quits. Another bullet dodged? You bet ya sweet self.

The silent stalker
Richard was an enigma. The most confusing thing about him was that he seemed so normal. Like, couldn’t get more conventional if he tried. Politics? Centre right. Family? Middle income earners. Blue shirt, black jeans, blonde hair and BORING. But he was sweet, in a way… or so I desperately tried to convince myself. It soon became clear that underneath all the Emporio Armani aftershave, this guy had issues. Daddy issues, mummy issues, big-men-don’t-cry masculinity complexes. Even Freud would have been stumped by this psychological labyrinth. After a rather heated altercation, we decided to split ways. But somehow still, he lingers. Liking every Facebook post. The first to watch every Snapchat story. He’s there in the shadows, the bump in the middle of the night, the reason you jolt awake at 2am thinking someone’s staring at you — OK you get the idea. Still, bit weird.

The flaccid failure
He tried twice. He failed twice. I took that as signal enough that I was not the one.

The sociopath
He was really into me and we were going to give it a go, but oh- he disappeared. I waited… and waited… until finally reaching breaking point and messaging him asking him what the fuck was going on. ELEVEN minutes later of the dreaded ‘…’ and I receive a three-part essay about how confused he’s been and how the pain of his indecision has been tormenting him for the past couple of weeks but he didn’t know how to say anything and — wait *I sniffed the air* that smelt a lot like bollocks to me. If he cared that much he would have said something, and he didn’t, so he doesn’t. No biggie, but clarity is always appreciated.

The bastard
We were at a bus stop. I said ‘Hello’. He put in his ear phones and turned the other way. My heart broke.

The unnecessarily aggressive
We’re at a club. We’re having a chat. I say I’m going to the loo. He grabs my face. He. Grabs. My. Face. My actual face. He grabs it and tries to drag me back towards him. A quick kick to the ball sack and I was out of there.

The smash and dash
The less said about this the better. But I will add that I received a message from him six months later (??) of nothing but a fox GIFF with hearts instead of eyes. I’ll take that as a compliment.

The one who batted for the other team
Oh Julian, how perfect you were. With your styled hair and carefully sculpted stubble. Your liberal views. Your love of Bridget Jones, and as it turned out, men. At least I got a twerking partner for nights in G.A.Y #result.

The wicked one-liner
“Your name’s Len? Len. Sounds Chinese but you ain’t Chinese. That’s a bit too weird for me.” So long then, Robert. You racist arse.

The Tinder twat
OK let’s get one thing straight first. If I have swiped right on you I am ENTITLED TO CHANGE MY MIND. According to Oliver, this was not the case. The conversation went as follows: O: “How many tickles does it take to make an octopus laugh?” Me: “How many times has that joke actually worked?” O: “Christ you Brits need to get a sense of humor! I know you fancied me ‘cause you swiped right so stop being such a frigid bitch!!”

In case you were wondering it’s ten. It takes ten tickles to make an octopus laugh. Will Ferrell step aside, there’s a new King of Comedy here and he’s after your crown.

Two for the price of one
Jack and I went on a date. Jack decided to bring his mate. His mate decided to spend the rest of the evening telling me about how he couldn’t drink beer because he has a yeast allergy. And who said romance is dead?!?

Love on Lufthansa
We met on a plane. We hit it off. We spoke for hours. He was German, he was funny, he was drop-dead gorgeous. The plane lands. He takes a call. “Sorry, that was my girlfriend checking the flight was okay.” Of course it was. His sweet, caring, committed girlfriend just checking that her beloved was safe and sound and on his way home. Apparently, they’d been together for six years. My hopes were dashed in approx. 6 seconds.

The friend I forgave.
I’d liked Chris for a while. On New Years Eve I found the courage (after an entire bottle of tequila found its way into my possession) to tell him how I felt. To be fair to Chris, he was quite nice about the whole thing. He let me down gently. That was, until I came out of the loo to find him with his tongue down my friend Laura’s throat. It was savage, but in hindsight, actually quite funny. That same night I threw a granite cat statue at my friend, whilst screaming “It’s the year of the sphynx!” A successful night all round, I’d say.

Last, but by no means least
I was at a house party with my girls, living la vida loca, all shaking what our respective mamas gave us like our lives depended on it. Suddenly, a man approaches. Bomber jacket, white t-shirt, skinny jeans. Ah yes, a fuckboy. In his natural habitat. In a moment of rare gold, we were able to hear his mating call: “You’re both fit, but I think I want that one” he growled whilst thrusting his paw towards my friend. The alpha male had spoken. The best part? My friend twirled, twerked and farted in his face. Life really is the gift that keeps on giving.