Crap first dates
I was always crap at first dates. In fact, I was particularly crap at getting dates in the first place, compounded with a genuine talent of messing them up when I got there.
Take Michelle, for example. Lovely red-head, absolutely besotted with me, to the point that - out of teenage embarrassment - I slammed the door in her face and ran away. Our first date was a no-expenses-spared trip to the local swings, where Simon Bell - my rival for the lovely Michelle's affections - glowered at us from the safety of the Witches Hat.
Failure followed failure.
The pinnacle of my achievement came when I took a certain young lady - who I was told would really like to get to know me better - to the cinema for an evening of back-row entertainment.
We wanted entertainment. We wanted romance. We wanted - let's be honest - a chick flick.
We saw Platoon.
At one point, some bloke got both his arms blown off, and lots of blood and gore sprayed about the screen in slow motion. So much for holding hands.
And now we're married.
To my credit, I managed to avoid touching any lumpy bits until the second date. I was just amazed there was a second date. I took her to see Mel Brooks's career-murdering Spaceballs. We were the only two people left in the cinema as the end credits rolled.
We're doing a lot of confessing-me-up on this site at the moment, so don't think you're immune. Confess! Confess, I say!