Meet the Editors: Our Best/Worst First Date Stories


To celebrate the release of our new issue, XO, here are the Grapeshot team’s best first date stories! Find out how our Deputy Editor may have swapped spit w/ Tom Daley, a terrifying wedding proposal, and our very own Grapeshot love story. <3

Editor-in-Chief, Angela Heathcote

Hmmm, let me think. One of the best dates I ever went on was with my first boyfriend. It’s legit the benchmark for future boyfriends so listen up. After a heated fight and a throw around of “you don’t understand me!!” my boyfriend at the time planned for us both to skip school for the day and go to the local oval, which at first I was a bit like what the actual fuck? We got there and he helped me climb on top of the canteen, after which he unravelled a heap of Bakers Delight scones and finger buns from his bag and we spent the whole day there. Moral of the story: Cake.


Deputy Editor, Amy Hadley

This is less of a first date, but more of a drunken interaction that ends in me bragging. I was 18, at a club, and moderately drunk. I was going through a phase of ‘I’m going to get drunk, make out with the hottest guy I can manage, then go home with a kebab’. I was with a friend who happens to be a world class wingman. He had located the most stunning guy I had ever seen, and promptly introduced me to him. This devastatingly gorgeous guy my friend found was called Tom, and had a beautiful British accent. Funnily enough, he looked and sounded exactly like Tom Daley, the Olympic diver. My G-string had pretty much fallen to the floor at this point. We chatted and we locked lips for the remainder of the night. Sadly, I didn’t have the foresight to add him on Facebook. Days later, my wingman friend and I were chatting about the possibility of this guy actually being Tom Daley. We checked out the real Tom Daley’s Twitter and he was in Sydney at the time, and had visited the area I had been clubbing in that very day. So either I actually made out with the Olympic diver Tom Daley, or someone as stunning as him. Either way, I’m impressed with Drunk Amy.

[Editor’s note: Not sure if Amy is aware that Daley the Diver bats for the other team? I don’t have the heart to tell her.]


News Editor, Alicia Scott

It was a crisp autumn afternoon at Ubar in March, 2015. I was meeting up with a student – who I had never met before – so I could interview her for a Grapeshot feature I was writing. Yes, you’re about to hear about a Grapeshot love story. I was feeling detached and worn-out from an exhausting week (did I mention that I broke up with my ex of three-years only days beforehand?), but in an effort to remain professional I read over my questions before my interviewee arrived.

My head was buried deep into my laptop when a woman fashioning short wavy hair and a Something For Kate band t-shirt sat down next to me, equipped with alcoholic beverages and all. “Hey, sorry I’m late. [I’m] Sam. Nice to meet you.”

The sun began to set before I had even started a new recording on Voice Memos. Miraculously we had been chatting for over an hour and a half non-stop about everything including feminism, university, music, vegetarianism, racism, sexuality, and everything in between. Was there anything wrong with this woman?

After a few rounds of cider we caught the train back to the coast together, talking about our dream careers and what I’d like to achieve as a journalist. We both held off on any PDAs despite being in such a classy environment (you go, Cityrail). However, Sam was smiling at me with her eyes the entire trip home, bringing a warm sense of intimacy between us. A year and a half later, we have never once felt bored with each other’s affectionate company. Thx Grapey.


Features Editor, Yehuda Aharon

My first date such a beautiful and naïve little thing. While that date was somewhere in early January, it all began at the strike of midnight on New Years Eve. We made out and then didn’t really know what to do, and after socialising a little we went and made out a little more. As things approached 3, I was still not sure what to do so I asked her out on a date.

We were to meet at Luna Park, but of course we were both late and I was later. I don’t remember why but we didn’t end up going to the park. Instead we spontaneously decided to catch a ferry with no idea where we were going. We got off at East Balmain and walked around a little then trekked it up Darling Street being all awkward and excitable.

We seemed to walk forever but in hindsight it was probably an hour and then caught a bus to the city were we said goodbye. We hadn’t kissed the whole time because I was too nervous and I assume she was too but before we left it happened again and so I caught the train back home in a young loved up daze.


Regulars Editor, Phillip Leason

The first official date of my last relationship was a biit of a mishap. We’d been together a few weeks, and after a quiet dinner in Surry Hills it was off to a lovely start. Then over drinks the playful hypothetical arose, “If we were to get married what would our wedding be like?” After a little planning we’d decided yes, we would probably have the coolest hypothetical wedding ever, so she nonchalantly popped the question, “Why don’t we?”

“Ahh, what?” I had to clarify that, yes, I had in fact just been low-key proposed to. “Well, we’ve known each other barely a month, I’m 19, we don’t have two brass razoos to rub together. Oh, and WE’VE KNOWN EACH OTHER FOR ONE MONTH.”

This didn’t so much kill the mood as it did stab it, soak it in petrol, ignite it, and roll it off a cliff into a wood chipper, so we decided to head home. Snap, trackworks. Trackworks were my fault, of course, so I was paying for a taxi home. On the ride she slid the ring off my right hand, slipped it onto my left, and looked me dead in the eyes. I shook my head and all hell broke loose. I spent this $80 cab ride trying to weasel my way out of a fully fledged argument over whether or not we were ready to take the next step, while the cabbie squirmed. By the time we got home I was ready to say ‘I do’ just to make the yelling stop, until I made the mistake of dropping the C-bomb – ‘crazy’. A trigger word, it seemed, cut her off mid-sentence, earning me a vicious slap and a door slammed in my face. We never did tie the knot, but we dated for a few more months, until I was dumped for a drug dealer who was apparently ready to make a more serious commitment. Oh, what could have been.


Marketing Manager, Aura Lee

I had my first date when I was 16 with my boyfriend at the time. He rocked up with roses which I thought was a bit overkill but only because I’m not a flowers type of girl (they die and I’d rather someone buy me food). We went on to watch a movie together and after he dropped me home I thanked him and promptly left. Without my flowers. He tried to remind me and I stupidly replied that it was fine and didn’t want them. Turns out I’m socially retarded but we dated for 2 years so I’m sure I made up for it…


Online Editor, Angus Dalton

I was waiting to meet a guy I’d been talking to on Grindr outside King Fook’s restaurant (appropriate) in Chatswood, feeling pretty chill about the whole first-date thing, when my brain suddenly fell apart with paranoia. I was sure that he’d look nothing like his profile picture. That he was either a complete whackjob or I was the victim of a grossly intelligent con-artist. I convinced myself that I was being pranked, preyed upon, or was about to be kidnapped. Silently, I said goodbye, and sorry, to my mother. And then I saw him. He was neither a predator nor a profile-pic faker. Worse. He was gorgeous. Like he’d been peeled off the pages of a modelling magazine, airbrushed skin and all.

He calmly and charmingly introduced himself as Alex and I replied with some sounds similar to the ones you make when you’ve had one too many vodka shots and are about to boot, interspersed with some testie-pops worthy of an orangutang who’s just hit puberty. Damn. Despite this, we went to dinner together and planned to see a movie afterwards. If there’s one thing I gleaned out of the fug of nervousness and the steam of untouched risotto during dinner, it was that this guy was a huge. Fucking. Movie buff.

Hence my horror when my bladder (apparently the size of a literal walnut) started aching before the opening credits of American Hustle had even finished. If I leave for the bathroom, I thought, this guy – with his Becky-level good hair and a smile that could make Queen Elizabeth cream her pants  – will instantly lose all respect for me and take the opportunity to flee. So I held on. For over an hour. And then, when my bladder had swelled to the size of an ostrich egg and I was ready to give birth to it in a messy and unhygienic panic-delivery, I sprinted out of the cinema without saying a word.

Trudging back from the bathroom with an empty bladder and an empty heart, I fully expected Alex not to be there anymore. But he was there – and still is! A few days after the date I thought I’d botched, we performed the sacred ceremonial act of deleting Grindr together, and we’re still in a relationship almost three years later.



Come meet Grapeshot’s 2017 editors February 27, at the launch party of our next issue! It’s at Ubar at 4:30pm. While we can’t offer romantic fulfilment, there will be drink vouchers, temporary tats, and bangers, which is just as good.

Event deets here!