Deb Byrne – A Short Story

You’d need a fucking long distance gun with the scum on tinder. Fucking army of chancers. You get fifty lads with photos of them and their arsehole mates swilling pints and covered in sweat from their limp haircuts to their mangy beer bellies. Fucking Give-it-a-go dopes. Yeah I know I’m not some stick insect skinny bitch but I can guarantee I’m a better ride than them frigid bony moaners. So after you get the fifty saps you get about five benders that just don’t know it yet. You know the ones with their beards and long hair, Who’d want a lad that takes longer to get ready than you? And then there’s some business turds that look like they’re just trying to save money from fucking brazzers. Not this bird mind. I’m not that kinda street scum. It’s so hard to just find a lad that’d want to romance you, to be on his toes around ya, that’d put up with my mood swings and that’ll know what I want before I ask, or before I even know I want it. That’s what I want. I wanna be adored and cherished. The lads that you get that do match with ya, nine and a half times out of ten, they turn into creeps. Creeps think that just cause there’s “more of you to love” there’s less effort they’ve to make. They think that a big girl must be delighted with getting their attention that the bird will let them do whatever fucked up shit they want to do to ya. This one lad sent me a picture of his two mates, asking if I fancied a bleeding bukkae with the three of them. No chance twats. And then bounces from my rebuttal with “Go on ya fat bitch. You’d love to eat our cum ya cow”. I’d love to smash a pint glass into his nose.

I’d been on the dreaded thing for about five or six months. On and off like. The odd spurt and binge here and there if there was a promising lad but usually they all turn into the same arsehole. But just when I was giving the app the ultimatum, I was going to delete it in the next month, this lad comes out a nowhere and is chatting all sweet and that. It could be a long con, don’t get me wrong, I’m well aware of that. But I’m not sending him money or making any daft promises to him like. I’m just seeing where it goes with me guard well and truly held up.

His name was Murphy. Don’t know wether that was first or last. He worked in an office. Something to do with a bank but not actually a bank. He looked decent enough too. He was salt and pepper. Like if Clooney had an irish cousin and I will admit I fancied him. He seemed to be chirpy enough. But like I’m all smiles and rainbows online and around people but when I’m alone I’m a big sour mess. So I’ll take that with a pinch. He’d been chatting me for ages, like the day after valentine’s day. Probably the busiest day on tinder. But we found each other. He wasn’t too good to be true. Like he always said “Ya better believe it” and that ran me up the wrong way. He would act like I was a fool sometimes and was looking like a slapped arse baboon in shock at all these “Mad Things” he’d say. But to be honest I didn’t give a fuck what he was talking about the majority of the time. I don’t think passed the tip of me nose to be honest.

He’d arranged a date. Well he’d arrange a few but like if you come across to eager you come across like a panicked spinster. So I rain checked a few of them but looked like I’d to meet him now or I was going to put him off and he’d drop off the radar. We were going for drinks, I said the Gin Palace cause I’m a G and T expert. He knew that already though. If he ordered a beer I’d probably walk out after he gave me fare for a taxi. But when I arrived, at my own time, he was sitting there in the corner with two G and Ts. His was half empty and mine was sitting there.

“How longs that been there?” I asked.

“Oh only about fifteen minutes”

“Get us a new one, that ones probably gone flat and warm.”

“No problem Debra.”

I took off some layers as he went to the bar. He came back with a fresh one.

“Thank you Murphy.”

“Not at all.”

“You not giving them that one to throw out?” I says pointing to my old drink.

“No I’ll drink that.”

“But it’s all warm and flat.”

“I don’t mind.”

My alarm bells were ringing. What does he mean when he says he’d drink a gone off drink? Was he an alco? Or has he just got really low standards? If he’s on a date with me he better not have low standards with the effort I put in to me hair, garb and slap.

“Don’t be mouldy Murphy”

“It’s grand. I’ll have it.”

Ding-a-ling went the bells.

“Just throw it away and get a new one for yourself.”

“I don’t like wasting drink and it was about eight quid.”

“So money’s a problem with ya?” I all but grabbed me coat.

“Nah, it’s just waste I hate.”

“Do you not use bins? Does your house look like a tip?”

“Hahaha. No it’s pretty clean.“

“It’d fucking better be. Excuse my language.”

“No worries. So how was your day? Were you working?”

“Yeah I was in the call centre.”

“Oh nice.”

I wan’t liking his tone. He was trying to butter me up for something I could just tell. He was like one of those creeps the reads about tricks and stuff online. All these little subliminal scams and cons. They act all nice and normal. Supernatural normal that it’s subnormal. And get right under your skull without you realizing it and then you end up with them doing ya up the arse. I’ve heard tales of this too many times and I was not going to fall for it. So I turned the table on him to see what he really felt about long term.

“Were you ever married?” I ask.

“Not yet. No.”

“But you’d like to?”

“Of course, is that not what everyone wants?”


“Not that I know.” and he gives a dumb grin.

“What’s that mean? You fuck every girl in town once and then never see them?”

“Not at all, it’s just a joke, I’m pretending to brag about prowess. Badly.”

“Do you want kids?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t you?”

It felt like he all but was measuring up me womb and judging if it could incubate all these children that he wants.

“I’ll have kids when all the pedophiles are dead.”

“Oh… right”

“Sorry but that’s just my stance. There’s no point bring kids into this world with all those pedos lurking behind every bush and tree.”

“Ah no I get you. But isn’t that going to be a bit difficult?”

“I don’t care.” I start putting me phone and all in me bag. “That’s how I feel and if that’s not something you care about then we might as well leave it there.”

I get up and put me coat on.

“Oh I’m sorry if I was curt. I didn’t mean anything judgemental.” He goes.

“Well… ya did.”

“Please, I’m sorry.”

“Well.” I swing me bad on to me shoulder, “Maybe you can cry into your stale drink, ya alco.”

And I head out with my head held high. I don’t wanna hear another thing from him. I get a taxi home and order a curry. It was an absolute waste of time. I’d gotten new clothes, used up a ton of slap and slept on curlers last night. And all for some twat that doesn’t know a thing about me or what i want. I deleted tinder that night. I don’t need that shite. Fuck them all.

Mark Baldwin 2018