Though to be fair, I had been traded in for aubergine-penis The Game. So I semi-forgive Jemma Lucy for the lack of love as she's held up in Manchester shooting a video (not the home movie kind) with him.
After killing time in an old man bar that feels a little like purgatory, Jem texts to say she's finally on her way and I should find her at the salon.
Eager beaver, I hit the taxi rank, am told it's "so close you may as well walk", so off I trot warmed up by a JD or three.
Once at WOW, door flung open, I fail to spot the inked vixen – who's pretty hard to miss. I soon discover from the receptionist that there are other branches, and clearly I'm in the wrong one. Through gritted teeth, it's déjà vu back to the taxi rank to get a cab.
Finally, I hit the right place and find Jemma in her seat, complete with peroxide on her roots, having arrived before me. The irony that she's there first, several hours after we initially agreed to meet.
Jemma's warmth is infectious and even though at 5pm we've arrived at closing time, the killer staff let us stay and beautify us for our night out.
Hellos and sorrys aside, conversation soon turns to, err, male genitalia.
Blame The Game. Kind of tricky not to mention when he posts d*** pics more often than most of us breathe oxygen. Jeremy McConnell may've also dropped into conversation.
Jem's delicate almost childlike voice juxtaposed with the tattooed bombshell are somewhat of a mind-trip. She tells me she was born in Singapore, travelled around before settling in Manchester, and despite the bright lights of London prefers the West Midlands instead.
She is crazy different from the lewd, crude Ex on the Beach/topless model Jemma projected in the press – mellower, chilled, dare I say sweet.
I'm told we're "starting posh and finishing dirty".
The country pub is a yin-yang between homely local and getting the party started. Both worshippers at the temple of Eating's Cheating, we opt for bubbles with a side of greens.
Though touching up her make-up at the table, Jem assures me she does eat, and her número uno fan in London often brings her Nandos and vodka on tap if she's ever in need at an event.
I want his number.
We hit The Pegasus.
As soon as we walk in it's hard not to notice we're two of the only four females inside. The neon hospital strip lighting blinds us as we hunt down a table.
Despite all the the wind-ups that "people have been murdered there" on the drive over, the dive bar charisma beats a West End club any day.
The staff allow us to dim the lights, change the music, make a dance floor at the pool table area – essentially disrupt the regulars who just want a quiet pint.
The locals are welcoming though, offering us seats, coming to sit with us and take photos like we're a novelty act, with one guy proudly showing off his bottle of Magnum Tonic Wine "with Viagra in it".
Nice.
At the dodge hotel I've booked into, I stumble across a drunk man collapsed outside my door propped up by staff.
They try to cordon me off from passing, until I announce "I'm staying in 224".
I'm allowed to sneak through, and as my head hits the pillow, I've developed a soft spot for mad Wolvy.
Next time though… it's girls on tour abroad. So watch out for round two soon.
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