FIRST IMPRESSIONS: Column

Confession of a wild wingman. I'm just too dangerous
Remember the movie Top Gun?
If you do, you might recall a tense changing room exchange between Val Kilmer's gum-chewing pilot Tom "Iceman" Kazanski and Tom Cruise's cocky cowboy Pete "Maverick" Mitchell.
Barks the towel-clad Maverick: "What's your problem, Kazanski?"
Iceman replies: "You're everyone's problem. That's because every time you go up in the air, you're unsafe. I don't like you because you're dangerous."
"That's right, Ice ... man ..." Mav shoots back. "I am dangerous!"
As expected, Maverick's recklessness carried inevitable consequences, ultimately costing the life of his cockpit bro, Nick "Goose" Bradshaw.
It's the perfect analogy for my first Friday night out on the town in Tauranga, where I played the wild wingman who shot down his poor mate's chances of landing a girl. And it was his birthday of all nights.
Earlier that day, I'd been crowing to workmates about my dazzling wingman skills, which I could deftly employ to acquire my meek-hearted bro any girl he spied across The Strand.
Of course, this was extravagantly boastful - I certainly don't possess the cool confidence Goose displayed when he strolled up to Kelly McGillis in the bar room scene and paved the way for Maverick by reciting the opening lines of You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling.
No, my method would instead hinge on pure probability. Approach a single-looking girl, tell her your friend is looking for a good time, get rejected, approach the next one, and so on.
Considering my experience with newspaper street polls, I figured my strike rate would be at least one in 10 if I selected the candidates carefully.
And where Goose had a nice moustache and an amazing pair of aviator sunglasses, I had the relative advantage of being in a long-term relationship.
Surely this meant that I could endure rejection after rejection without being subject to a single person's level of humiliation; cold shoulders and repulsed expressions would ricochet off me.
My girlfriend had granted approval, having accepted it was all just a good-hearted deed for my friend.
But as with Goose and Maverick, what should've been a routine exercise suddenly became a Mayday call - and it was too late to hit the eject button.
My first mistake was to sink too many prepatory bottles of Heineken before my friend arrived at my apartment.
The second mistake was combining said Heineken with a few shots of Jagermeister before heading downtown.
Mistake number three - and here's the Maverick-like recklessness - was having more shots at the first bar we visited.
I'd rehearsed a few conversation-openers I hoped wouldn't sound too sleazy, but with the walls now whirling I could only try to keep my footing as I stumbled my way across to the first girl I could see.
For obvious reasons, I can't recall our brief conversation verbatim, but I'm pretty sure it was something to the effect of this:
Me: "Frinnnd!"
*Girl signals that she can't hear me above the music*
Me: "Myyy ... frinnnd ... heeeee's ..."
Girl: "Sorry? I can't hear..."
Me: "Frinnnd!"
And that was that. My first attempt at being a wingman was also to be my last, as my embarrassingly obvious inebriation stopped me from making it past the bouncers at the second bar.
My friend, who should have found the woman of his dreams that night, was instead forced to haul me home.
I've since apologised to him - as I also should to the unfortunate girl in the bar - and have also remembered how it wasn't the first time that mates have crashed and burned because of me.
One even provided this testimonial to readers.
"Jamie Morton is the anti-Iceman, he is to bad wingmanship what a freak tsunami is to the Papamoa coast - totally unexpected, lethal and guaranteed to stop you from getting busy - Matt S, Queenstown"
Yes, like Maverick, I'm too dangerous to be anyone's wingman. And as for holding my liquor?
I think I should go back to flight school.