Chicken Shop Tooting Review
Have you ever dated a guy so stupid that you are sure his sperm chases its own tail? I have, and then he cheated on me and I got pathetically sad about it.
Why? I don’t know, maybe because he was the first guy to tie me to a bed.
I’ve got to admit though, I should have felt a severe case of the cheats coming on from the start. Normal girls would have doubted the relationship when they found out he’d cheated on someone else to be with them, I only doubted he was Prince Charming when he started shitting with the door open.
The last time he’d been in touch was after my naked yoga post. He just wanted to let me know that I reminded him of the “crazy writer” from Gone Girl – “only fatter and less hot” – and that he’d decided to unsubscribe from my blog because I had refused to see him. Share an entire rotisserie chicken with him, to be precise.
He’d pestered me a month or two earlier after he’d broken up with his girlfriend, suggesting that we “split a chicken” at the new Chicken Shop he’d been frothing over. There was just something so ridiculous about that proposition that it stuck with me.
I’d already rejected advances prior to this when he’d emailed me to say he’d “come into some money” and wanted to talk about it. Basically all I wanted from him was some of the money, so I politely declined the request by not telling him to go fuck himself.
After the Gone Girl insult I knew I would rather drive a 6-inch nail through my head than ever see him again. And that’s when I decided, for the sake of the blog, I should really go consume a chicken with him.
When I arrived (purposely) late he wasn’t even mad and he’d bought me a drink. I thought, well that’s not very jerk-like behaviour, you jerk.
Our relationship has always been based on two of my favourite things – humour and food. The humour kicked off straight away when it became auto-awkward over something as simple as finding a place to sit in a pub with an abundance of places to sit.
Arrival at Chicken Shop saw humour and food conveniently roll into one when we were informed that the shop – famous for its minimalistic menu of CHICKEN – had in fact… run out of chickens.
What a hoot. I mean a cluck. What a cluck it was; there we were, set on having a silly chicken-splitting date and there were zero chickens to split.
We decided to wait for the chicken deliveryman to deliver the truck of chickens – because this was just icing on the chicken funnies. A chicken delivery man and his truck of chickens, doing an emergency delivery to the chicken shop that had run out of chickens. Get a load of it.
The chicken eventually arrived and OH MY GOD; the chicken. Like, he was raving about the chicken to the point where I thought he might have a thing for chickens. But after one bite into its succulent tender breasts, I totally understood why he wanted to motorboat them. Rotisserie chickens at their finest, I’ll tell you what.
I highly recommend splitting a chicken with a guy who hurt your feelings once upon a time. Not only can you write a ridiculous blog about eating chicken with him, but he will pay and you don’t have to feel bad about it because you felt bad enough two years earlier.
Probably a lot more than you should have though. After all, you only dated him for three months, he constantly made you feel insecure, he was competitive, he wouldn’t grow his facial hair into the trendy hipster-look you like… and his friends? A total bunch of dorks.
Ugh. But it still made me feel like a crazy person. I emotionally suffered for double the time I even dated the guy – desperately awaiting texts and calls that never came… fantasising about puncturing his car tyres.
Does that mean there’s something wrong with me? And a large percentage of intelligent women in their 20s? I come from a loving and supportive family, I’m independent, I’m not ugly, yet sometimes I still find myself acting kind of, well, desperate over guys who clearly don’t give a shit.
I guess unlike some girls, who knew exactly what they wanted out of life at the age of birth, some of us have to experiment with different types of sperm to see what kind we want to have in our lives for the rest of it. So we go around trialling and testing all walks of life in fear of ending up forty-years-old and sat on a cruise ship with ten stupid kids and massive buyer’s regret. Or sperm envy.
Who needs love anyway?
Barbie dolls! That’s who.
Anyway, the point of the story is, I stepped out of my comfort zone by splitting a chicken with this guy I never wanted to see again and as a result, I discovered how awesome Chicken Shop is. Yay!
Aaaaaand I don’t resent him. As much. He is alright. We chatted, we laughed. What can I say; he is a guy. And at heart, a nice guy who means well in general. He just lacks a few important qualities I’m after with my sperm.
Oh and I can now say I know someone who has won the lottery. Were you wondering how he “came into some money”?