The Dating Diary of Dickhead Deirdre #1: Plumber Dave

Angry face

Santa is off sick this week with malignant gout, so we “reached out” to one of our lonely hearts column daters. She uses the Professional Moron Dating Service (PMDS) that we occasionally run.

She had this to say of our cutting-edge app: “It’s ****in’ ****.” With a glowing endorsement like that, here we have Dickhead Deirdre’s diary for her latest dating escapades! We may have a few more of these, if Santa gets ill again. We’ll see. Anyway, fun, frivolity, and profanity-laden witticisms await!

Date #1: Dave

[Editor: Please note, we decided to edit Dickhead Deirdre’s copy to meet our family-friendly guidelines.]

Hearty greetings! So one got called up to do this blooming gig with the marvellous Professional Moron. Thusly, one bagged a glorious date with a fine gentleman! A plumber by the name of Dave.

A most handsome specimen with a fine crown of bald skull due to the onset of male pattern balding. Never you mind! With those, admittedly sagging, jowls of his one can still see he must be a hit with that ladies. So one is a lucky dame! In one steps as a result – we hitched up, thanks to Professional Moron, and have a date all set.

[Editor: Please note, Dickhead Deirdre threatened to sue us if we altered any more of her copy, so from the below onward it’s all verbatim.]

Well, whatever, I mean I had a ****ing leaking kitchen sink right so the plan were to get him home, thinking he’s scored, then get him to fix the goddamn leak. Then call the cops and say he looked at me funny. But saving about £100 in plumbing fees by doing that. A dickhead move, but then I’m Dickhead Deirdre.

The Date With Dave

I put me best hot pants on and strapped on a skin tight t-shirt. I were looking belting! The shower were broke, though, so I hadn’t washed in a week. To hide the BO stench, I drank three pints of lager and smoked a pack of ciggies. Then it were date time, so I went to town where Dave told me to meet – Red Hot BBQ Bonanza were the restaurant.

Anyway, I taped the conversation we had, for legal reasons, when we met. That’s below. You can have a read if you want. I don’t ****ing care, I’m the one doing Professional Moron a favour here. FFS.

Dave: “Hi Deidre, great to finally meet you!”

Deidre: “Yeah, whatever.”

Dave: “You look nice this evening!”

Deirdre: “What the **** are you talkin’ about, you massive bellend?!”

Dave: “Er… sorry, it’s just a compliment.”

Deirdre: “Well, did I ****in’ ask for one!?”

Dave: “I… erm… I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot. Here… I got you these flowers…”

Deirdre: [snatching them from him] “What do I need these ****in’ stinkin’ things for, you goddamn ****in’ piece of ****in’ turd?!”

Dave: “Erm… I just thought they were pretty. Like you!”

Deirdre: “Do you want a punch in the face, mate?”

Dave: “I’m sorry?”

Deirdre: “I’ll knock you out right now, you ****in’ ****!”

Dave: “Deirdre, please, why are you so angry? I unclogged seven toilets today and knowing I had a date got me through the day!”

Deirdre: “Oh, got a problem with assertive women, do you!? I knew you were sexist the moment I laid eyes on you!”

Dave: “I’m not… I just think you’re getting the wrong end of the stick here!”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ what, mate?”

Dave: “Sorry?”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ what?!”

Dave: “Look, should we just go in for dinner? The table is booked for…”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ startin’, mate?”

Dave: “Well… we should start on the starters when we’re inside… haha…”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ startin’!? I’ll do you in right ‘ere, right ****in’ now!”

Dave: “Deirdre… I’m not sure what to make of this… I guess I should go.”


The Meal

Right, so we went into the restaurant but he looked pretty terrified. That were funny. We took our table, but me right boob slipped out of the hole in me t-shirt when I sat down and I caught that sexist goddamn SOB piece of **** have a look. Goddamn pervert!

**** me, did I see red! So I whacked him round the head and had a right go at him. Bastard. I’m not standing for arbitrary moments of fleeting glances based on equally arbitrary bodily malfunctions due to inadequate clothing! Anyway, then the meal turned up. Here’s the conversation for you (taped, of course, for the legal inquiry).

Dave: “Okay, let’s get a bottle of bubbly in to make this a special occasion!”

Deirdre: “Whatever. You’re payin’, mate.”

Dave: “That’s… yes. Okay, waiter! A bottle of your finest champagne, please!”

Waiter: “Mate this is an easy diner, what the **** do you reckon is goin’ on ‘ere? I can give you a pint of Lambrini for, like, £2. Yeah?”

Dave: “Yes, that’s fine. And a pint of beer for me.”

Deirdre: “‘es quite fit, ‘im.”

Dave: “I’m sorry?”

Deirdre: “That waiter is pretty fit.”

Dave: “He looks about 17, I don’t want to comment on that.”

Deirdre: “****.”

Dave: “The swearing is wearing a bit thin, Deirdre.”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ what, mate?!”

Dave: “See, there you go again!”

Deirdre: “You ****in’ what?!”

Waiter: “There you go, mate, your pint of Lambrini.”

Deirdre: “Well where the ****in’ **** is mine you ****!?”

Restaurant Manager: “Excuse me, but I can’t allow this level of profanity in the restaurant, I’m asking you to leave immediately.”

[Editor: At this point it transpires Dickhead Deirdre took a swing at the manager with the pint glass of Lambrini. The manager was dead before he hit the floor. Dave offered his plumbing advice to fish out the glass remnants out of the manager’s skull, but the waiter quipped that “Won’t be possible, mate, look at the blood spewing everywhere. Lol.” Apparently Deirdre legged it at this point and hasn’t been heard of since. Although she wrote this piece for us from an unknown location. Plus wrapped it up with the following…]

So, anyways, I invited Dave back to mine  under the pretence for nooky. All whilst the emergency services arrived and all that to take away the corpse. But Dave said I’m an “unstable bitch” and ran off waiting for the coppers. Stupid prick. Now I gotta figure out what to do with me sink. Suggestions? I’ll put out for anyone who’ll fix it for free! Ta.


  1. In England you get officiated limits you have to stick to:

    – 1 fuddy duddy
    – 2 ****s
    – 1 ****ings

    And you get 3 others of your choice. Breach that limit and you’re lashed with a rusty whip, in public, by the Queen of England.

    This might be different in America, though.

    Liked by 1 person

Dispense with some gibberish!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.