I wish I’d said no when my favourite rockstar asked me out

I can picture the scene so clearly: It’s 2008, I’m 20 and after moving to London for university, I’m making the most of every moment.

Immediately, I was blown away by the big lights and possibilities: New friends, new opportunities and potentially, a new man. 

The throngs of the city had pulled me in, especially the nightlife. My friend Martha and I started visiting Camden, the rocker’s paradise. The people were fresh, motivated and exciting. We loved it.

Milling around a pub frequented by artists and creatives alike, one evening, I spied the handsome singer from a band I loved. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Acting on Martha’s giggly pleas, and my newly found big city confidence (or was it the tequila?) I went over to say hello. 

Palms sweating (which was definitely the tequila), I made my approach. Not sure what I was expecting, I fumbled an awkward introduction – something along the lines of: ‘Really love your band, big fan for years.’ Memorable. 

Much to my amazement, he bought me a drink and we started dancing. For the next couple of hours, I was on top of the world!

Before Martha and I headed home, the singer asked for my number. Trying to be the coolest 20-year-old on the planet, I played it nonchalantly and instead took his. 

The bus back to our flat in Putney was filled with excited squeals… was I actually going to date a rock star? I felt elated and drunkenly certain I’d fit in with the elite London rock scene – after all, I loved music and partying, two very necessary qualities. 

Trying not to seem overly eager, I messaged him the next week. We arranged to meet up, this time in a bar I’d never been to, but he said it was fun there. Of course, there were no protests from me. Going to a cool bar with a cool guy sounded pretty… cool. 

However, on date day, I was excruciatingly nervous. I became incredibly self-aware as to just how boring I was going to seem to a rockstar; my passions were video games and history documentaries, hardly interests I could see my eyeliner clad beau falling off his tour bus for. 

I donned my most flattering leopard print dress, promising myself I’d only listen to two of his songs on the train there – very reasonable. 

Arriving at the bar, it didn’t strike me as overwhelmingly cool. It was hardly a bar at all, more a tiny room with a few rickety looking tables. The air smelled like musty beer pumps, and worryingly, vomit. 

My date was already inside, getting very comfortable with the whiskey and small collection of CD’s behind the bar. My stomach dropped… was this it? The music was good, at least. A cliché heavy metal dump.

I found a table in the corner, away from two bedraggled guys spitting on the floor. After what felt like an age, Mr Rockstar finally came over, crumpling into his chair. The mood was suddenly tense. I felt a bit sick, uncomfortable, and quite underwhelmed.

I tried to make conversation, about music, about partying, about anything fun I could think of. He was having absolutely none of it and barely uttered a word, which only heightened my ever growing anxiety. 

What was I doing wrong? He seemed so very different to the night we’d danced. Now he was cold, distant and well, pretty rude. I obviously dressed wrong, wasn’t fun and definitely wasn’t anybody worth knowing.

As I felt my confidence evaporating, there was suddenly some hope: He pulled his phone out and started talking about his week. Hurrah! 

A short-lived success, though, as he immediately turned the conversation to other women he was ‘dating’ – from a model, to another woman who partook in rather intriguing night-time activities.

Nothing would better support the statements about his antics, than the accompanying photos, right? As he sat there on his phone showing me photo after photo of gorgeous women, I felt stupid. What had I expected, really? 

As I was planning my haughty exit, the singer went to the bar’s only toilet. Sadly for me, the door was right next to our table and opened to the main room – no hallway, no sound or smell barrier. 

While listening to his stomach contents violently moving south, I wondered why I was still there, but wanted to hit the famous guy with my best departure quip, mostly to restore my tattered self-esteem.

Finally, after 20 minutes and several thunderous noises from the loo, my date bounced out the WC oddly confidently. 

Before I could open my mouth to say goodbye, he jumped in saying he was bored and heading off to a ‘frisky adult group meeting’. But not to worry, he added – I was also invited.

During his absence he’d actually taken the liberty of sending my Myspace photo to the raunchy group organisers, and I’d passed their mandatory attractiveness check!

He then informed me participation was optional and I could ‘just watch if I felt uncomfortable’. 

I didn’t know what to say. Much like his stomach, my mind was now clear. Quickly I left, feeling silly, and also quite revolted. I did not contact my voyeur vocalist again, and happily declined a future drink invite.

Now 14 years on, I do still listen to his music – but only two songs, very reasonable!

This article was originally published November 23, 2024