Dating the Kiwi Male: Mostly true tales from Kiwi women

By Olivia Caldwell

Dating the Kiwi Male recounts the dates of Kiwi women looking for a Kiwi man - the fun, the funny, the awkward and the ugly, all the while laughing at our own expense. What is it like to date the Wellington hipster, the Auckland yacht owner, the Queenstown ski champ, the Canterbury bogan, the Waikato dairy farmer? Are they true to form, or is the Kiwi man misunderstood? Dating the Kiwi Male provides comedy in spades. If you take yourself seriously, this book isn't for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Upstart Press
• Release date: Sep 8, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990003837

Olivia Caldwell

As a young girl, at just age 10, Olivia Caldwell knew she was going to be a sports journalist. It took her 27 years to get the job in a previously male dominated industry. She has worked for Stuff for three years, contracted to Newshub and the New Zealand Herald, specialising in sport and has also worked for New Zealand Rugby.

Book preview

Alyssa, on the Dirty Dog wraparound-wearing Timaru boy racer

I had just broken up with my boyfriend of three years — well, he had broken up with me. It was messy and I was heartbroken as I was head over heels in love and really didn’t see it coming.

But, like any good Kiwi girl would do, I got straight back on the dating wagon. I downloaded Tinder for the first time, ready to enter the terrifying world of online dating. I am a bit old-fashioned and didn’t imagine I’d ever use online dating, and never thought I’d have to, given my boyfriend and I were ‘lifers’. Things change; cue Tinder.

I was living in Christchurch at the time and while I was sure there would be so much potential out there, I must say, it was slim pickings. I found there to be two types of men in the Garden City. There was the bogan/boy racer who never evolved from his 1990s origin, or the rugby bloke whose pastimes include drinking beer with the lads, or, watching rugby whilst drinking beer with the lads. Perhaps I am being a little harsh on the Cantabrian, but I know what I saw and I will not take it back.

You get cocky with each match, and become erratic in your choices in this game. This one has muscles — sure! This one has a puppy — love it. This one has a man bun — why not?

I won’t lie, I don’t dabble — I need something more than fun, raunchy and fleeting. I was after something with meaning. (Well, in hindsight I was looking for a quick replacement. I was hurting and shouldn’t have been on the app in the first place.) Out of the crowd, I thought I might have actually landed on a middle ground with one sweet-looking Tinder face, who seemed like a reasonable guy. His name was Ryan. He had a photo with a niece. (They all do this. With granny they show they’re caring, with kids they’re potential dads, with fish on a line or a pig on the back they’re neanderthals capable of feeding you.) Ryan also had one on a boat (adventurous), and one selfie with these sure-sign bogan Dirty Dog sunglasses that even materialistic me somehow overlooked. I now realise they were the red light that should have seen me throw on the brakes.

We matched. I don’t think I read his profile at all, or at best I glanced over it. More likely, this Tinder novice was so naïve I missed another red light, one that a guy pal later pointed out to me. There, under this Timaru tradie Dirty Dog mug shot, he’d written ‘aim to please’, with two emojis. I thought, That’s nice, a man who treats a woman well, does his best. But the devil is in the detail. And that detail I so amateurishly overlooked was an eggplant emoji beside the wet tongue emoji. Read into that what you will, but I just had no clue how direct a man can be.

During our conversations I find out he was from ‘Timaz’ originally. I didn’t really love that he nicknamed his hometown that, but I accepted Kiwi men are a bit bogan by nature at times. Timaz, Oamaz, Invers, CHCH, Wellies, etc., etc. Our chat was all pretty sweet and polite and he seemed a little shy, which I like in a guy.

With each conversation and eventually little ‘xo’s, I began to feel excited. I felt wanted, and my confidence was coming back. Of course there was someone better out there for me. This was all just a speed bump.

After a week of chatting we decided to meet up for what would be my inaugural Tinder date. I was just so utterly excited to meet this lovely Tradie from Timaru. Three years with one guy and I was now courageously throwing myself into the unknown, so forgive the following please . . .

Looking back, there were enough signs before the date to know it wasn’t right. In the light of day he was throwing clues of his character leading into the evening, and I chose to ignore them, or worse, backhand them out of my way as I was just so keen to find myself a quick replacement boyfriend. Ryan’s clues came thick and fast. He firstly forewarned via text that we would be splitting the bill. Now, I am a modern woman with a decent career and I wouldn’t have it any other way, but did he need to state 12 hours prior to meeting up that I am not worthy of a free meal ticket? Anyhow, I needed a date! Even just to whet the appetite a little, but not in the way his emojis intended.

Another strange occurrence. He had to text to tell me he had ‘swung by the restaurant, just to check out the parking’. What in god’s name? Why do this? Still, I chose to go forward and conquer. He will be fine, he seems nice, and he won’t be wearing those Dirty Dog sunnies in mid-winter, will he?

Aside from not reading the fine print in his profile, a second mistake I made during this first date is that I asked him to pick me up from my flat. That’s Tinder 101: always find your own way there. For safety mainly, but also, how can you escape a terrible date if you ride together?

Much like my burning heart of desire, the man pulls up burning petrol by the gallons in his rumbling boy-racer wagon. A black Mitsubishi Galant with shiny gold-alloy wheels. It is hideous. But I come out of my drive too quickly — he’s seen me and I can’t turn back. He doesn’t get out of the car, or remove his sunnies. Chivalry is dead in 2018.

As I open the car door it scrapes the curb and gets stuck, and this man is visibly upset about what I am doing to his car door. I am a little flustered too, as he has these dramatic facials, accompanied by a lack of speech. Is he okay? I get in and he starts the Galant, and you can hear it and feel it all in one turn of the key, which has a skull keyring dangling on it, FYI.

He drives off, all the while swerving side to side over the speed bumps on my street, because that Galant is so low to the tarmac that if he doesn’t do this the bottom of the car will scrape the ground and be damaged. More than I had already damaged it. I’m red with shame at being in this wagon and hoping to god my flatmates don’t see any of this. I imagine myself sinking into his fake leather upholstery, just melting out of his vision. But I am still visible to him. I know this because when we stop at the lights he turns so side-on to me that he is in my lap and says, ‘Are you nervous?’ Well I am now, Ryan!

We park in his pre-planned space, and it is unclear to me what is so good about this regular car park, but I don’t question it. When we vacate the Galant my eyes are instantly drawn to the Etnies on his feet — remember those fat 90s skater shoes that looked a bit like a people mover on your foot? There is a skater chain attaching his wallet to his jeans, and a classic bogan studded belt. This was the moment my heart sank at my own ignorance. All the signs were there of the classic Kiwi bogan and I had ignored them. We are all different and there is someone for everyone, but I am fine with saying that boganism is not my cuppa tea. And I knew I wouldn’t be his cuppa either.

Finally, luck is on my side: we are the only two diners at this empty Chinese on a Tuesday night in central Christchurch. This would usually be a bad thing, with little ambience, but I am quite keen to keep this ‘dating a stranger’ night on the down-low. There is no atmosphere to distract ourselves with, but I decide I am going to put it down to experience. Let’s hope the food is good.

The waiter takes our order. I grab a wine, none for him. I am slightly impressed I admit, Good on you, I think, but I don’t comment on it. Still, he sees fit to me tell straight up: ‘I’m recovering.’ I assume from alcohol and not an injury and think well, he’s obviously honest as day, and laying it on the table straight away. But to be clear, this was never going to go any further the minute we swerved over the speed bumps at 5 kilometres per hour. I just had to get through this first date and back in the game.

Our meals come out, we chat for a while, and I ask him about his family. All the basics, anything to take up some time at the table. About 40 minutes into our meal, I can see he is done with his spicy pork, and I decide to reach over and finish it for him. It’s too spicy, my eyes water and I choke a little. I usually try to remain a ‘lady’ while dining, but I was starving, and it didn’t matter anymore, we were toast and I was depressed. I order a second rice.

While I am eating his food and drinking my church-flavoured wine (tastes like it’s been open for weeks) he tells me about his ‘pretty rough’ relationship with his ex. He really doesn’t need to go there on the first date, but I sympathise and go into counsellor mode rather than romantic interest. I try to switch the conversation several times to current affairs, sport, the tab, but he’s not budging.

He and his ex, it turns out, have a baby on the way, which he keeps referring to as ‘baby’. He maybe could have mentioned this in his profile, but then again, I probably wouldn’t have read it. I congratulate him, but I am still thinking more about his chunky shoes than his upcoming entry to fatherhood.

My mind does begin to wonder though. How hard must it be for single parents to date? It’s hard enough for me — a complete catch with free time on her hands. So, I try showing interest in his future, talked baby names and co-parenting plans — he’s just a dude who needs a good chat, and I am happy to provide it.

But the real punchline of the evening is yet to come. He continues to explain how volatile his last relationship was, and just so I could truly be involved in the drama, he pulls up his right sleeve and shows me an incredibly large scar. It is a stab wound, just a casual stab wound from his ex. He says it was a once off. I am pleased to hear that, given there is a child coming into the world between them.

I hear him out for another hour (two in total), and still have to pay for my own meal, plus the extra rice. There is no halving down the middle tonight. It was the dating etiquette he had crossed that confused me — he had revealed far too much too soon. He had left himself no chance of a second date and when we pulled up to my driveway he says, ‘Just go away and think about it. I know there has been a lot to take in.’ An understatement, Ryan.

So that was my first Tinder date. I went inside, cried for a couple of hours about my ex-boyfriend and realised I was in a sea of fish, and I would probably drown. I deleted the app for months and should have permanently. Because upon re-entry into Tinder Christchurch, he was not my last bogan with a lowered race wagon. They came in their abundance.

Heart

Amy, on Wellington’s Tony Robbins think tank/life coach

I met my Tony Robbins think-tank guy at a mutual friend’s house rave. He was high energy and seemed super insightful and well liked around the room. The two of us got talking. We got drunk and made out, as all my good romances start. Then we started to date.

It all went super well for a bit — in the honeymoon stage we were inseparable, he told me he loved me after about two months and I thought fuck it, me too! We went to gigs together, watched live bands, met each other’s mates, mums, had great sex, it was all nice and sweet.

To paint an image for you, he was an Owen Wilson character on steroids. Enthusiastic, loved people, loved life, excited by his work. And with this exaggerated happiness. It was one of the things that pulled me in at the beginning — happiness is attractive, right? But after a while, he started to make me look like a Grinch. It is one thing to see the think-tank guy on the big screen, it is quite something else to date him.

Owen was your typical guy involved with start-up culture. It’s very much a Wellington thing — we love a start-up and pride ourselves on the entrepreneur. There is a whole hub down on Manners Mall/Cuba Street; these little think tanks are sprouting up greenery and energy everywhere between the corporate-grey buildings. These entrepreneurs are better than us — the bankers, the government workers, the corporates. Unlike us, they’re sparking up innovative, creative ideas and then throwing them out into the abyss. Disclaimer: I am a banker myself, and we run a little on the cynical side. Well, I do.

Anyway, Owen started up some digital marketing agency and I think it did really well. Before that he was at a think-tank place that brought creative ideas together, he told me. He described it as an open-plan office, with email transparency and screens on show. Everyone knowing their colleagues as well as a family member kind of philosophy . . . so my idea of hell, really. And before that, he went to Singularity University. I can’t even articulate very well what that involves . . . They use words like harnessing, future-proofing, enterprise, networking. Technology integration and all that. A lot going on for a numbers brain like mine. But Owen was all about it, right.

As a start-up culture buff Owen was naturally positive, over-hyped and an energiser bunny, as were all the mates he surrounded himself with. He’d say things like, ‘I just love connecting people, I love being a creator of ideas. I want to meet people and build a huge network.’ His enthusiasm was next level. I would often think to myself, Did you put crack in your coffee this morning? Why are you so full on, it’s fucking 7am? Why are you so happy?

I probably knew at the start we just weren’t well matched. I can be a bit of a pessimist, or more accurately a sour bitch. Some women would absolutely love and appreciate this high-on-life happy soul, but for me it was not at all infectious, it was obnoxious. His energy made me feel like such a kill buzz. Which I am, but my people don’t care, or just put up with it. That’s why we work, they expect complaints from me.

After a while I started to recognise there was no spark for me . . . and for some stupid reason I have never got the art of cutting things off early. I dig in the heels, if anything, keep things going to give them a chance, even when I know in my heart of hearts I shouldn’t. We continued to date and go on these nice walks, picnics to the beach, etc., etc., but still no spark. There was fun involved, otherwise neither of us would have stayed, but it started to feel like I was dating a life coach or my fifth-form careers advisor. But I could never say what I was really thinking out of fear he would try to coach me into a happier or better me. I didn’t want that.

Then one night after about three months, I decided it was time to put a cap on it and part with him, but he fully Tony Robbinsed me!

I am at a dance party at Laundry on Cuba Street with my mates and I bump into him at random. Here he is by himself, having the time of his life dancing with strangers — a friend of all. I’m slightly bewildered really. He’s just here having an absolute rave on his own on the dance floor with no care in the world and no previous mention to me he was even heading out. Before I can speak to introduce him to my girlfriends, he asks, ‘Why aren’t you dancing, why aren’t you dancing?’ as he shakes me by both shoulders. I just stare wide-eyed, like a toddler being told to cheer up on her birthday. He isn’t even on drugs, this is just him — all day, every day. ‘I’m not really in the mood to dance. I just want to chill with my mates with a drink . . . and you are doing enough dancing for the both of us, really,’ I say, a small jibe. No worries, he brushes my nastiness off and starts flossing with two strangers he has met 10 minutes earlier and has made fall deeply in love with him. He is likeable.

So I take him outside for a talk I have worked myself up for. ‘I feel like we are on different paths and I am starting to wonder if this is going to work out. I think we may be too different. You are so intensely happy in life and positive and I just feel like a wet blanket when I am with you.’ A it’s not you, it’s me kinda chat. He grabs my hands, looks me in the eye with that crazy Jack Nicholson look, takes a deep breath and says, ‘No! We balance each other out.’ And then he gave me this fucking pep talk I’ll never forget. ‘You’re like a cat and I’m like a dog. If we must decide if we want waffles or pancakes for breakfast . . . like, I would say both! And you would be like, no you have to pick one.’ He was fucking Tony Robbins on weed that night and he turned me around completely — well, at least for another few months. I was thinking, Why are you so damn optimistic? Have you never been hurt before? Can you not see the darkness?

Anyhow, I started to really pick up on the ‘I love everyone’ façade after this. Sure, my man was friendly, caring and wanted the best for people, but it was always strangers he was trying to help, rather than me, a girl he was in a relationship with. I found him to be so busy changing lives he didn’t have the time to put into us. He is one of those dudes who would actually state ‘I am so honest, I am so transparent with people, I’m so humble’ — but if you’re really humble, you don’t say it, right?

And he was pretty self-centred under all the people pleasing. He would tell me when breaking plans with me: ‘I have to put myself first. I am my biggest priority, and I am hitting my goals.’ Or he’d say, ‘I have to put the gym first, because I focus on myself,’ and I wouldn’t see him for weeks at a time. Once he literally left with a gym bag and returned two weeks later. ‘I am smashing my goals, for my mental hygiene.’ His drive was admirable, and it is a fine thing to look after yourself, but I never got why he made out he was the man who had time for all, when really he had time for nothing but himself.

Owen was so kind to people and so patient that I wondered if he actually had a secret vice, like an underground fight club sort of thing? He didn’t, but he was into kickboxing. He even trained his younger siblings in MMA during lockdown because he said he never wanted to see them weak or bullied. I suspected he may have been.

Owen was like dating a full-time life coach. He never switched off the positivity, while my negative thoughts actually grew in volume — in silent rebellion I was becoming more of an arsehole than ever. And it wasn’t welcome. One time I tried to complain about a meal while we were out for dinner, because it wasn’t up to $49 standard, dry steak. He grabbed my wrist across the table, lovingly, and said what if the chef hadn’t the time, or wasn’t feeling his best . . . Give me strength, it’s his job, Owen!

He was also sort of a messiah in the business world, too. Honest, humble, transparent were words I kept hearing. He loved a catch phrase. He was a catch phrase. He was very results-focused, too. When I complained about a rough day, he said, ‘Don’t worry about that, your boss just wants results, deliver results.’ Hang on, I thought, I do deliver results. I just want to bitch about this particular colleague for half an hour and then I am done with it, allow me to do this! He didn’t understand the concept of venting, everything had to be solved and have a purpose. Maybe the world would be better with more of him and less of me? But fuck, you can’t be your best every day.

Anyhow, he must have seen that my influence in the relationship was far too negative. Then just before Christmas he sat me down and said, ‘I don’t really see this going further. I think we are too different. I kind of just see us as friends.’ A complete role reversal — I was stumped! My ego, shat on. By this stage I had accepted he was overly positive, hyped and not really me at all . . . it would be fine, I’d told myself. But he totally undercut me and fed me back my own words from two months previously.

It would be my second-to-last pep talk from Tony Robbins. He said, ‘I think you are a fantastic person,