Loughborough university had a ridiculously unbalanced ratio of men to women, roughly 5:1. This was great for sausage watching, obviously. Especially as Loughborough was jam-packed with sportsmen who had honed to perfection every muscle in their bodies except the ones used for thinking with. Consequently, men who looked great but had no chat whatsoever were depressingly commonplace.
My housemates and I had finished playing X Factor drinking games and swooning over Matt Cardle when normal Saturday night procedure took us to Echos. Echos is still to this day the grimiest establishment I have ever been in. Everything was moist. The walls, the glass covered floors, the bar, everything just oozed with unidentifiable moisture. The music was terrible, the dance floor was a slut-drop cesspit and the drinks were all dangerously sugary knock-off alcopops.
Still, when you’re a student itching to party with exactly £4.20 to last you ’til the end of next week you’re not exactly in a position to turn down free entry and three rancid VKs and a shot for £1.
We dug out our shittest shoes reserved especially for trips to Echos and joined the crowds. I was at the bar bidding farewell to the second shiny pound coin of the night when I got chatting to some bloke for about five minutes. He was good looking but blatantly knew it, which is always a turn-off. He stood there with that aura of arrogance about him, as though I was very lucky girl indeed to be graced with his presence. He was chatty though, so when he asked for my number I gave it to him and returned to my friends.
Much later on, my flatmates and I dragged ourselves home, finished the post-Echos evaluation and cheesy chips, and went off to bed. As I was brushing my teeth I received a text message from him that read: “Come to mine. I’m fit, I’m horny, I’m awesome in bed.” That was it, his opening line at gone 3am. Unbelievable.
At first I couldn’t believe it. You’re not allowed to just declare that you’re good in bed! Who says that?! People who have never had to try very hard to impress people, that’s who.
I didn’t text back, obviously, but told the girls and the story became legend. Worst opening line in history. Made worse by the fact that he probably has that as a template and just rolls it out to the girls in his phonebook, the pig. I never knew his name so he became known as Awesome In Bed, or AIB for short, which I doubt he’d be too upset by.