No time to waste in this episode. There’s barely time for Georgia to finish putting on her lippy and a pan over the geraniums before Osher turns up with the date card.
There’s a clue: Let’s take a bite together.
“Awesome! Shark tank!”
“Yay! Shark tank!”
And it gradually becomes clear why these men are still single.
Shark tank, indeed. Surely even Channel 10 isn’t that far into cross-promotion that Georgia would organise a date presenting a business idea to the Greencross vet dude and the Boost Juice chick?
Anyway, all is soon revealed when Clancy gets to go on a single date with Georgia. She’s flogged a few wine glasses from the mansion and picks Clancy up in a limo to take them into the city centre where she has recreated a New York experience. Apparently, it is very New York to go to an empty wine bar and sit awkwardly while being serenaded by Dua Lipa.
Conveniently it’s Winter Festival time and there is already an ice-skating ring set up in Hyde Park. So Georgia recreates a magical Christmas Rockefeller ice skating sequence only without the Christmas, the Rockefeller centre, or a million other ice skaters.
Thank god the latter is missing, because Clancy proves to be quite inept at ice-skating and his seven foot legs and arms flail about dangerously, only narrowly avoiding knocking Georgia on her tighty-whiteys. Eventually Clancy finds his feet, but it’s all a bit much multi-tasking: skating, talking and holding hands, so he ditches the idea of kissing her in favour of avoiding face-planting on ice.
They end up at the usual pile of cushions with the glass of wine, but it’s a very special occasion because there is chocolate! Not enough to bathe in (phew), but not enough to bother eating. They spend their time chatting, and Clancy proves he’s more deep and meaningful than the beard-shaving, pool-diving, robe-wearing goofball. They share a kiss and he gets a rose.
The next day all the boys are off on a medieval themed group date. Sam reckons he’s got the upper hand here because this one time, when he wasn’t modelling, he appeared in a photo mounted on a medieval jousting stool.
They divide into two teams and retire to change into their manly medieval clobber of velvet and Glo-mesh. As is usual in these types of Bachelorette challenges, all the jocks (and gymnasts) end up on one team and the dweebs (led by Courtney) are in the other. They prance all in like they’re doing a remake of Monty Python and the Holy Grail, without the coconuts.
Osher announces that they are going to play a game of Ye Olde Skirmishe where the two teams get to defend their bouncy castles against the marauding hordes. Predictably, all the jocks get knocked out pretty quickly because the dweebs are all cowering in terror behind the hay bales and the jocks can’t find them.
The second game is every man for himself, running the gauntlet of arrows. The idea is that each boy will run a path while the other nine are shooting arrows at them. The two that are hit by the least number of arrows get to fight out the final duel for one-on-one time with Georgia. Sam sees the opportunity for strategy and convinces the other guys to deliberately miss Rhys, thinking that eight hours of woeful poetry in Georgia’s ear will undoubtedly get him sent home. Sound strategy in principle, Sam; so much more than just a pretty face.
Courtney, on the other hand, just shoots himself in the foot. Keen for his mate mini-Heath to get a date with Georgia, he places his hands firmly on his testicles and ambles through the arrow onslaught.
Georgia, at best reads this as a snub and disinterest, and at worst, that a future with Courtney means being passed around his mates.
And it’s all in vain. Rhys plants an arrow right in Heath’s heart.
Sam’s plan seems to be working a treat, though. Rhys doesn’t break out any poetry, (nor does he tell her about his wife), but he does the next best thing and starts snitching on the other guys. For all he reads poetry, he’s pretty crap at reading body language.
Shortest one-on-one chat in history; no poem, no rose, no pash.
Straight back to the cocktail party. Rhys, perhaps now sensing his medieval fuck-up has at least dressed properly for drinks, but none of them have scrubbed up quite as well as Cam, who looks like a Connery Bond about to play a hand of Black Jack in a Monte Carlo casino.
The boys barely have time to finish their gushing endorsements of Georgia’s latest choice of cocktail frock before Osher rocks up to ruffle some feathers, so how convenient that Georgia wore some feathers to ruffle. Osher whisks Georgia away to the turret.
The boys are all in a curfuffle. Instinctively they adopt meerkat position staring up at the turret and soon their worst fears are confirmed.
Little Matty gets his knickers particularly knotted about this:
“Wah! I haven’t even had a one-on-one date, yet and now these other guys are pushing in. Wah, wah, wah!” and I notice how weirdly shaped his ears are for the first time.
Well should they be worried, because the producers have introduced Matteo, with his dreamy Italian accent, and guitar playing, song writing, Broadway loving, Tod/d.
Only Sam isn’t feeling threatened. He’s surrounded by pretzels and peanuts, so what’s a couple more water crackers into the mix? Besides, for all their exoticness and musical talent, Mateo and Tod/d would scarcely reach six feet tall if they were standing on each other’s shoulders.
But it’s Courtney that Georgia wants to talk to.
“You made me feel like shit,” she tells him. “Full disclosure.”
Courtney stammers around, “But Ryan’s me mate.”
She does not look impressed, but at least there are three things that could save Courtney: he meets height code, his good mate Ryan appears to be mute, and Rhys is a snitch.
“The boys they are-a shitting their pants-a,” observes Matteo. “But notta me. I am like-a ‘ow you say, the frigid cucumber.”
“Matteo. You have not received a rose,” says Osher. “Please take the time to say goodbye to these blokes whose names you haven’t had time to learn and this woman who just rejected you five minutes after you first met.”
And as Matteo leaves, the moral of the story is clear. There’s only room for one pasta maker in this house, and Georgia’s keeping the original, even if Courtney is a clueless git.
Besides, a Matt, a Matty and a Matteo would just be too much for the boys to remember.