An Adventure with Mr Popcorn Teeth (Part I)

‘I don’t watch Bollywood’ he says casually, as we approach the traffic lights at the Redbridge roundabout. ‘But… the only way I could be convinced, is with a blowjob’ he adds, with a hint of mischief. My insular cortex registers my immediate disgust, and my upper lip begins to curl in response to the mental image of his miniscule, circumcised penis. Almost immediately, I’m distracted by the sun. Streaming golden through the windscreen, the soft rays of sunlight land gently upon his heavily discoloured teeth. A wave of nausea washes over me, as I realise that the yellow biofilm of dental plaque making sweet love to his chisel-shaped front teeth, resembles one of Britain’s favourite cinema snacks – Butterkist sweet popcorn.  

‘…and what exactly did you think he would want from you, if not a shag?!’ screams the mean girl living in my head. ‘Seriously woman?! Who the fuck goes on a road trip for a first date with a stranger from Tinder?!’ she demands. Oh. Shit… I think, as the penny finally drops that I could be in trouble… is it too late to jump out of the moving vehicle?

It’s not long after Harry’s first departure (see here), and I’m running low on oxytocin. I’m back on dating apps, but quite frankly, it’s a shit storm. This time, Muzmatch, the ‘halal’ dating app for Muslims seems to be the worst offender.  Amongst Britain’s finest, I find: my married neighbour, falsely claiming to be a single man looking for a wife; 61-year-old bucktooth Bilal fantasising of giving me ‘the champagne lifestyle’; another neighbour claiming to have won the sperm race 15 years later than he actually did; and, of course, the various ‘pious’ men with usernames such as Bismillah (in the name of God) that are more interested in knowing the size of my bra than completing ‘half their deen’. Now, I’m not saying that every man on Muzmatch should have been swallowed, but if these men are the prize at the end of the race, you’ll find me walking backwards.

Fed up with Muzmatch, I join Tinder. Let’s just say, it’s somewhat different. I’m fascinated and terrified in equal measure by the bluntness of the bios. Here, you’ll find everything from 50 Shades of Daddy Doms to Booty-Call Benjamins. As I battle my way through the sea of STDs, I stumble upon a seemingly ordinary profile. I pause. I hesitate. I swipe right.

It’s a match. ‘Great, another Brown boy, just what we need’ says the mean girl in my head. Adam is quick off the mark and before I know it, I’ve spent over an hour chatting with him about a Route 66 road trip across the US. ‘It’s 2am, I should sleep’ I finally say, as my eyes begin to strain. ‘Sure. Would you like to meet for a coffee soon?’ he responds. ‘For the love of God – please no coffee dates. I’m so bored of them’ I whine. ‘What would you prefer?’ he enquires. ‘I don’t know. Something fun. Adventurous! A crazy road trip with a stranger! Omg Imagine being stuck on a road trip with someone you don’t like!’ I say, suddenly bursting with crazy ideas.

‘A road trip??? Are you sure? I’ll do it – but where?’ he shoots back. ‘Ooh, an adventurous Brown man – I like! I don’t know where. Not too far out. One night away max, in separate rooms of course’ I clarify, before he gets ideas. ‘How about New Forest? they have a really nice spa hotel’ he suggests. I quickly google search the hotel and I’m sold. ‘Cool, next week?’ I suggest, refusing to back down. ‘Sure’ he replies. ‘Oh, and before you go – here’s the deal. I don’t want to know much about you before we meet. I’m not even going to tell you my name. Let’s make this adventure fully weird!’ I say, as I exit the app for the night.

Over the next few days, Adam insists on a videocall before securing a booking. He’s convinced that I’m catfishing him. Oh, she’s no catfish, she’s just a stupid woman with a death wish mutters the mean girl in my head. ‘No. It’s going to kill the adventure’ I say firmly, refusing to entertain a videocall. Instead, I book my hotel room and tell him that I’m going with or without him. ‘Ok… can I at least have your name so I can ensure the rooms are next to each other?’ he says. I give in, knowing that what he really wants to do is call the hotel to see if I’ve made a reservation, and maybe even run a check on LinkedIn.

It’s Friday morning and I’m all packed and ready to go. As I make my way to our meeting point, I wonder which of my close friends should know about this adventure – you know, just in case he’s a serial killer. I scroll through my WhatsApp list, and quickly realise that they’ll all kill me, so I decide to tell them when I get back… if I get back.

Last warning. This is NOT how we want to die says the voice of reason in my head. Too late, I whisper, as his car pulls up outside my local Costa Coffee shop. He is on the phone as he steps out of his car. OMG he’s a human trafficker, he’s on the phone to finalise the deal! What will they pay for me? I wonder. Shut up will you and let me assess the situation barks the mean girl in my head. ‘Hi’ he whispers, as he opens the boot of his car for me. I place my overnight bag in the boot and step away whilst he finishes up his call. He is at least 5 inches shorter than his claimed 5’11 height – I’m definitely taller than him. My internal Jackie Chan comes to life as I examine his body for weak points. Meh. He’s built like a teaspoon says the mean girl. Let’s dislocate his joints with a round kick to his left knee she volunteers again. Maybe even an elbow strike to his… ‘sorry about that – why don’t you sit in the car and let me grab you a latte. Medium, extra hot yeah?’ he says, interrupting my internal discussions. ‘Oh. Erm… yes, thank you, five sweeteners, please’ I say, quickly shutting down the plan to cause grievous bodily harm.

‘So, tell me, is this the weirdest date you’ve been on?’ I ask, settling in for the three-hour drive.  ‘No’ he says, piquing my interest. I raise an eyebrow, to which he responds: ‘so the weirdest one was where I matched a Pakistani lady at 3pm, she messaged me straight away to ask if I wanted to come over to her house. I was there by 4pm, we had sex, and we never spoke again’. I shudder. ‘That’s grim’ I say. ‘Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t do that again though’ he says, clearing fibbing. ‘So, you love Salman Khan and Bollywood?’ he asks. ‘Absolutely’ I beam. Before long, he’s talking about blowjobs again, I assume, trying to figure out if he’ll be getting lucky tonight. ‘Well, I don’t know about a blowjob, but I’d happily slice off your penis and shove it down your gob if you annoy me’ I say, straight-faced, whilst staring at his popcorn teeth. ‘Ooh, you’re a violent one’ he says, as he lets out a nervous laugh.

Having checked into our respective rooms, we head out to a local Italian place for lunch. No longer fixated on blowjobs, he doesn’t seem to be the worst company I’ve had – even if he does chew like a rodent, offers the mean girl in my head. He tells me about his family, his work in finance and talks about wanting to get married to a ‘decent’ Brown girl. ‘Nothing like the woman I once met for a date. She ordered a bottle of Champagne after having a bad day at work – clearly had no Islamic values! You don’t drink do you?’ he asks. I place my cutlery down and pick up my napkin, slowly blotting my paper-thin lips. ‘No… though, I’d say your 4pm shag doesn’t sound very Islamic either’ I point out, in a measured tone. ‘Fair enough, good point’ he says, changing the topic swiftly.

‘So, do you have savings?’ he asks. I look momentarily confused. ‘It’s so important to have savings and be financially careful’ he continues. I laugh, ‘Erm… don’t tell me you’re a Guju? All that money talk!’ I say, somewhat uncomfortable discussing my finances with a stranger. ‘Yeah – what about you?’ he asks. ‘Punjabi – we have big hearts and spend freely’ I say, no doubt, giving him palpitations.

As we finish our meals, the waitress brings the bill and places it in front of him. I notice him shift uncomfortably as she asks whether he needs the card machine. ‘Yes please’ I say, cutting through the awkward silence and reaching for the bill. ‘You drove, so I’ll get this’ I say, as I politely smile at the waitress. ‘You sure?’ he asks, no doubt hoping I won’t change my mind.

‘So, what next?’ he asks, as we leave the restaurant. ‘Did you bring a bikini? Maybe we can hit the jacuzzi?’. ‘Bikini…’ I laugh… ‘No’. ‘Oh, that’s a shame…’ he says. ‘Maybe you can wear my t-shirt… or if you’d prefer, we can take a walk in the forest?’ he says, as an afterthought.  

Well, you called this an adventure, didn’t you? Taunts the mean girl in my head. What’s it going to be then? Murdered in a forest in the middle of nowhere or sitting in jacuzzi with his dirt, oil and microscopic particles waiting to assault your open pores??

What would I choose? Stay tuned to find out.

Until next time…

The Accidental Lawyer

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A date with Mr Domestic Violence

“So when will we involve your parents?” he asks, without a hint of sarcasm. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my eyes firmly fixed on his masculine hands. Looking directly into the eyes of this unhinged wife-beater, I clear my throat and say “well…….”

I blame my sister.

Having 392 dick pics in your gallery is not the only reason why you ought to password protect your phone and not share it with a soul. You see, passwords are like condoms. Condoms prevent unwanted pregnancies, and passwords prevent unwanted dates. 

Swiping, or rather ‘window shopping’ for a partner can be a soul-destroying experience. It is, however, a source of ecstasy for those closest to you. Armed with fire and arrows, should your phone ever end up in the hands of these demonic Pakistani cupids, expect disaster. With glinting dark malevolent eyes, they will swipe right at every deranged looking male with a pulse, ensuring that you match only with the finest of Britain’s deadliest criminals.

It was an instant match said my sister, looking guilty. I Usain Bolt across the room to grab my phone, hurriedly clicking on the ‘Muzmatch’ dating app. “Fuck my life” I curse, as I survey the damage. This man made Charles Bronson -Britain’s most notorious prisoner, look like a member of the Gandhi brigade.

Just as my fingers hover over ‘unmatch’, his message arrives:

“Wow I didn’t think you would like me!”

I gaze at my screen, guilt slowly seeping through my veins like poison. Oh you’re being such a judgemental bitch! I reprimand myself. And what happened to ‘looks don’t matter?’ and ‘my type is fat, bald and funny?!’ I say, mocking my own voice. Annoyed that adulthood had somehow supressed my evil streak and turned me into a bearable human – I reply. At least I will sleep better at night, I tell myself, letting out a theatrical sigh.

Sadly, the messages exchanged are drier than a fuck with no foreplay. Extracting blood out of a stone, I learn that he works only minutes away from my office. Having a eureka moment, I decide that the best course of action is a quick coffee – within 24 hours. It takes little to convince him, and less than 24 hours later, I sit in my local Costa coffee shop, dreaming of kicking the shit out of my sister.

Mindlessly tapping away at my phone, I lift my gaze to notice a bald, barrel-chested Brown Incredible Hulk gradually making his way towards me. Built like a brick shithouse, his shadow could effortlessly fill a room. I gulp. With my rapid heartbeat turning into tachycardia, my eyes dart towards the exit. As my mind races to secure an escape plan, I hear a gravelly voice vocalise my name. Driving my fight or flight response, my sympathetic nervous system leaps into action. A false sense of bravado immediately consumes me, and I look him dead in the eyes and say “nope, wrong person”.


You see, men don’t usually frighten me. I’m not fragile. My first glance at my date is likely to involve an assessment of how I will ‘take him down’ – should the need arise. Aware of my own physical limitations, I’ll allow my eagle eyes to carefully evaluate every inch of a man’s body for his weak points, whilst of course also taking in other areas of ‘interest’. A kick to the side of the knee may well be enough for a man with gangly legs, whereas a man with a long neck may be the perfect recipient for a strike between the collarbone and the laryngeal prominence. Experience will teach you that whilst a heel palm strike to the nose may be effective on some men, this technique will be redundant on a Pakistani man, as his nose is likely to resemble the deadly Mount Everest – you will get hurt. You could instead aim for a handful of groin, however if your mind is as curious as mine, you will end up in a Q&A session asking why his left testicle feels unusually small.


Despite my questionable belief that I possess the ability to destroy my opponent with a Jackie Chan flying kick, on this occasion, even my fertile imagination refuses to play ball. Finding myself between the devil and the deep blue sea, I turn to mother earth. Grounding myself, I summon up the courage to persevere. Forcing a smile faker than Donald Trump’s orange tan, I extend my hand, allowing this beast to envelope it in his bulky calloused hands.


We awkwardly settle down with our hot drinks and exchange pleasantries. Be nice, it will be over soon, I tell myself encouragingly. The warmth from the first sip of my green tea barely escapes my mouth before I hear the words: “I know your profile mentions that you don’t want anyone with a history of domestic violence, so I’ll just be honest…” He pauses and looks right at me. With fingers tightly wrapped around my mug, I raise my right eyebrow – a bit like ‘The Rock’, silently inviting an explanation.

I notice a hint of sweat building up on his unmoisturised face. With his palms facing away from me, he looks up at the ceiling for a moment too long and then suddenly, as though just becoming aware of his surroundings, he directs his attention to me. Firmly holding my gaze, he confesses to having been convicted of domestic violence.

I observe his raging bloodshot eyes whilst he places the blame squarely on his ex-wife. I allow him to spend the next ten minutes furiously listing her flaws, oblivious to the fact that he was here for a date. I silently question how many hours had passed since he had last taken drugs.

My facial expressions must have given away my feeling of disgust, as he looks at me and says: “you don’t look too impressed”. Having been the unwilling beneficiary of an unhinged stalker for 7 years of my life, I certainly was not looking for another. However, I struggled to contain the fire within. Flabbergasted at his audacity, I shoot back: “I didn’t realise that I was supposed to be impressed by your disclosure”.

Finding my composure, I calmly tell him that having worked with victims of domestic abuse and sexual exploitation, he will find that I have little sympathy to offer him. My dating profile which may have been a little tongue-in-cheek, did however reflect my views on the issue – slap me once, and I will punch you twice. I do a double take as I see him nodding in agreement, fast realising that this man is beyond hope.

Oblivious to my disinterest, the Brown Hulk turns his attention to Bollywood movies and my love for Salman Khan. Now, mention Salman Khan and I’ll be a soppy mess, grinning from ear to ear – but not today. I remain frozen with apathy.

God please don’t test me with another stalker, I silently plead, as he asks when my parents will get involved in “this”. “Well… no. They won’t” I say, swiftly turning my attention to a cute child sitting opposite us. “You don’t have children do you?” I ask, trying to keep this unhinged wife-beater distracted whilst I race to finish my green tea.

“Yeah, I have a 10 year old boy. The case was about me beating him up, but it was just discipline and my wife used that……”. I’d heard enough. I reached for my bag, telling him I was getting late for a meeting.

As I stood up to leave, he said: “so can I take you out to the cinema then?”.

As you can guess, we never made it to date two.

The Accidental Lawyer

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Death by dating apps

My earliest memory of online dating is the Indian matchmaking service shaadi.com. Founded in 1997, I viewed it as only being suitable for losers. As a teenager with questionable morals, I spent time on shaadi.com making fake profiles of people that I abhorred – oh, there were many. I’d give them various contagious diseases to see whether they would generate any interest. Astonishingly, I found that people ‘back home’ were still willing to marry them. My good deed was completed with the virtual match being given the phone number of their future spouse. Don’t judge me, I know I was a mean little shit..

Fast-forward a decade, coming out of a serious relationship that didn’t end in sunshine and roses, I found that ‘meeting people naturally’ was no longer a thing. You see, when you’re Muslim and you don’t drink or hang out in bars, the chances of meeting someone new reduces significantly. Prince Charming is unlikely to come looking for you whilst your mouth makes tender love to chicken breast at your local halal Nandos.

If you want to find Brown men, your only option is to head down to your local Shisha lounge. Clutching your asthma inhaler in your left hand, you’ll acrobat your way through the crowd to your 21^st century Muslim Don Juan, the ‘Seducer of East London’ i.e. Abdul with the gold tooth. You will find him manspreading over a germ-infested red sofa, letting out silent, but deadly farts. Bad-boy Abz will be ‘chillin with da boyz – innit’, and if you’re wearing your lucky red knickers, he may just undress you with his cold, empty, leering eyes. Blowing smoke rings in your direction, he’ll say “alright buff ting” as you walk past, noticing that bit of coriander stuck between his teeth – no doubt, a remnant of the fish curry that his mother cooked for his dinner the night before last.

I soon came to terms with my fate. I would join the loser brigade and turn my attention online. Thankfully, Muslim online dating had improved by leaps and bounds since my teenage years of searching for life partners for the diseased antagonists in my life. We now had ‘Muslim Single Solution’, ‘Single Muslims’ and dating apps such as ‘Muzmatch’ and believe it or not, ‘Minder’.

Ready for my new adventure, I joined the dating sites and apps. Following a little trial and error, I set my profile to read as follows:

Ok so here is the criteria [split into mandatory and desired requirements]:

Mandatory –

1. Must have an original non-tampered British passport with a security chip (protection against fraud).

• Must have a sense of humour that goes beyond reading jokes on the back of a Penguin chocolate bar.

• No history of domestic violence please – slap me once and I’ll punch you twice.

• Must be family orientated. That means being more than a lodger to your family.

• Ideally someone not on benefits; ambitious enough to have a job?

Desired:

1. Ideally Salman Khan or maybe a look alike.. but don’t worry, Jonny Lever’s will not be discriminated against.

• DBS cleared (enhanced preferred).

• Ideally come from a family that won’t set me on fire for dowry.

I thought I had it all covered. Online dating can’t be that hard, can it? What could even go wrong?

Well, it seems that a lot can go wrong.. find out more in the next dose of dating disasters..

The Accidental Lawyer

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