There will be a break after the first eight dates, giving us chance to wet our whistles and pop to the loo.
We’re given forms that we’re supposed to fill out afterwards, indicating whether we’d like to see any of the dates again - and those that match are put together by the company in a subsequent ‘proper’ date.
It’s a masterpiece of efficiency, and I can’t help wondering if a German originally invented speed dating.
I go over to table thirteen and sit down opposite a wide-eyed red head with an angular nose.
A buzzer goes off and the speed dating begins!
I won’t recount every second of each date, but here are the highlights:
Date one is Carol.
Carol is forty, a mother of four and loves to tango.
I hate children, am not attracted to older women, and only dance when stupid drunk.
Carol’s husband left her for his masseuse, taking their dog Wuffly Frank with him.
I’m fairly sure this is too much information for a five minute date.
I tell Carol I’m a national yo-yo champion, can speak fluent Swahili and work part-time as an Elvis impersonator – figuring that I’m never going to see the woman again, so why not have a little fun?
I’m telling her the Swahili for testicles when the buzzer sounds and I move on.
Date two is Angela.
Angela is thirty, has no children and permanently looks off to the left.
It’s highly disconcerting.
The slightly worried look on her face doesn’t help either.
I keep thinking there’s some mad axe-man or rabid Yeti standing behind me, about to attack at any moment.
I tell Angela I used to be a roadie for The Wurzels, have French kissed Sinead O’Connor and can whistle through my eyeballs.
Thankfully the buzzer goes before I am called upon to prove this.
Date three is Bryce.
Bryce is an American living in the UK, and working for Nintendo.
Much like the games she sells, Bryce is colourful, irritating, hard to understand and loud.
Unlike the games she sells she doesn’t have an off switch.
‘Oh my God, I love Ant and Dec!’ she screeches at me.
I tell Bryce I’m employed as a chicken sexer, have never slept in a real bed and think Stephen Hawking is faking it.
She’s asking me where a chicken’s penis is when the buzzer goes.
Dates four and five are both so deathly dull I can barely bring myself to write about them.
I can’t even remember their names, but I know one of them thought tarmac was a beautiful word.
One of them was wearing beige.
I’m pretty sure the other one was actually made of it.
You know they say a minute can last a lifetime?
They’re wrong.
It can last an entire geological epoch.
Date six is Magdalena.
The second foreigner of the evening is originally from Portugal, but now works as a medium up in London.
You’d think anyone with psychic powers would know that moving from the gloriously sunny Portuguese coast to Tooting would be a bad idea, wouldn’t you?
Before three minutes have elapsed she’s grabbed my hand and is telling me that Glen Artichoke’s future will contain overseas travel.
I counter by telling her I suffer from a rare medical condition that means I can’t move over bodies off water without the urge to masturbate.
Magdalena is learning all about hydromasturphilia when the buzzer goes and I move on.
Date seven is Maxine, the head of Human Resources at the newspaper I currently work for.
We sit awkwardly for five minutes discussing the changes to annual leave policy, before I rocket out of the chair when the buzzer goes.
We both know that this evening will never, ever be spoken about by either of us.
Date eight is Barbara.
Barbara’s surname is Toadingham, which almost makes me wish Glen Artichoke was real, as that would make one hell of a double-barrel.
By this time nearly an hour has gone by and I’m losing the will to live, so my conversation with Barbara is stilted and bland. I can’t even be bothered to make anything up.
‘You’re not enjoying this are you?’ she says.
‘Not particularly. You?’
‘Am I fuck. I could be at home watching Glee. Instead I’ve had to hear all about Colin and his piano collection, David’s wheat intolerance and Yuri’s problems getting a permanent visa.’
I like Barbara. It’s a crying shame I’m not attracted to her in the slightest.
‘Oh thank Christ for that,’ she says as the buzzer goes. ‘I need a drink.’
She’s up before I am, so for once I get to feel what it’s like to have someone scuttle away as quickly as possible.
I slouch over to the bar and order another Diet Coke.
Only eight dates to go…
And by the looks of things Barbara might be the highlight of the night.
I get a good look at the remaining women as they come to the bar.
There’s at least three more made of beige, two who obviously got dressed in the dark, one who is old enough to be my mother, but thinks she can wear the same make-up as a teenage girl - and a scared looking chubby girl I struggle not to feel sorry for.
The sixteenth and final woman of the evening would be a looker if it weren’t for the scowl permanently plastered across her face.
This might be due to the greasy looking individual in the white suit that won’t leave her alone at the bar, but I can’t be sure. From the speed she’s downing the bottle of Smirnoff Ice in her hand I can tell she’s having about as much fun as I am.
Can’t wait to chat with her.
I don’t particularly want an alcoholic drink right now, but I could murder a cigarette.
There’s five minutes of the break left, so I slope off for one.
I’m supposed to be quitting, but nothing raises my stress levels like trying to hold a polite conversation with eight complete strangers in a row.
It’s raining outside.
Not just raining actually, but absolutely bucketing it down.
I have the choice of getting soaking wet or not having a ciggie.
Neither appeals.
A third option springs to mind when I realise that the nightclub is virtually empty tonight, other than us lonely singletons.
Across the way is the corridor leading to the toilets.
I’m not one for arbitrary rule breaking, but I need nicotine damn it, so am more than willing to flaunt the law on this occasion.
As I walk down the corridor I have to dodge a very disgruntled looking blonde as she hustles out of the ladies loo. It’s the same one from earlier, and getting a second look at the black expression on her face makes me even less keen to make her acquaintance.
Nice arse though.
I go into the men’s loo and lock myself in a stall.
While I’m having a cigarette I might as well answer the call of nature, so I drop my trousers and assume the position.
Twenty seconds later I’m in creamy nicotine heaven, and the prospect of another eight speed dates doesn’t feel quite as bad.
Maybe one of them will turn out to be a winner!
…not the one that’s old enough to be my mother, though.
I never get the chance to find out.
You see, modern nightclubs are very well equipped places. They have great lighting rigs, pin-sharp speakers and state of the art bar facilities.
They also have very sensitive sprinkler systems.
A mere four puffs into my cigarette all hell breaks lose.
A klaxon goes off that’s so loud I’m glad I’m sat on the toilet.
I scream in terror and drop the cigarette in my lap. This elicits an even bigger scream of pain as the red hot ember singes my pubic hair.
I jump to my feet, brushing the cigarette away frantically just as the sprinklers
get into action.
There’s one just above my head, so the toilet stall gets turned into an impromptu shower.
I scream for the third time in as many seconds as icy cold water goes down my neck and I throw open the toilet door, stumbling out with my trousers and boxer shorts still round my ankles.
…which means the bald security guard from earlier gets a good look at my meat and two veg as he comes barrelling into the toilet to check that everyone has evacuated.
I could have stuck around.
I imagine the speed dating continued after a clean up, but I was so embarrassed by this time that all I wanted to do was run home and hide for a couple of decades.
I was already soaking wet, so the rain didn’t bother me much as I traipsed back to the car, still smarting from the painful new burn in my crotch.
That was the beginning and end of Jamie Newman’s foray into the wonderful world of speed dating.
I failed to find the love of my life that night, but did come down with a nasty head cold, so didn’t walk away entirely empty-handed after all…
Laura’s Diary
Friday, April 22nd
Dear Mum,
I’ve finally scraped the bottom of the barrel and gone speed dating.
Elise from the gym recommended I give it a try. She met her husband at a local event a couple of years ago and told me it was a really happy experience for her from start to finish.
Elise is unfortunately one of those people completely untroubled by original thought.
If it were possible to gaze into her head, it would probably look like a sun dappled meadow, full of frolicking bunny rabbits and doe-eyed deer.
Her husband Malcolm is just as bad.
If these are the type of people speed dating works for, I’m not entirely sure I want to be a part of it.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained though, eh?
Providing I don’t have to give anyone a hand job or ride a mountain bike, I should be fine.
I traipse down to The Cheetah Lounge on Tuesday night with more than a little trepidation, praying to whatever gods of dating might be up there that I’ll meet someone at least halfway decent.
I’m not in the best of moods when I turn up if I’m honest, as I’ve developed piles.
Yes, piles.
I’m twenty eight for crying out loud. How can a non-pregnant woman in her late twenties develop a complaint usually reserved for those in their pensionable years?
I can only put it down to the incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair I was forced to sit in for solid three hours at a wholesaler’s presentation on Friday.
Listening to a bunch of insincere salesman trying to persuade you to buy their product via a series of incomprehensible PowerPoint slides is bad enough. Add squirming around on a chair that’s slowly sending your backside to sleep makes the experience even worse.
With an itchy rear end and a cynical frame of mind I walk into The Cheetah Lounge to find that I’ve arrived a good half an hour early.
‘We’re not starting until eight,’ says the anorexic girl standing at the threshold to the Mexican section of the nightclub. I’m quite familiar with the place, having downed one too many tequila shots here last Christmas.
‘It said seven thirty on the website,’ I reply, a scowl forming on my face. I hate arriving early for an event, especially one like this where I don’t know anyone.
‘Oh! Sorry. That should have been changed,’ she says, giving me an apologetic, wet smile. ‘The bar is open already though if you’d like to get a drink.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?’
‘What’s your name, miss?’
‘Laura McIntyre.’
She looks down a piece of paper, ticks my name off and hands over a large plastic badge. I’m apparently blessed with being number five this evening.
‘Thanks for coming tonight Laura!’ the girl says, plastering an enormous and completely fake smile across her face. ‘My name’s Natasha and I’ll be your host. Please enjoy the bar area until the other attendees arrive.’
She says attendees, but I hear losers.
‘Once everybody has settled in I’ll issue further instructions.’ Now it’s starting to sound like we’re about to embark on some kind of top secret mission into enemy territory.
‘Okay… thanks,’ I reply and walk over to ask the bored barman for a Smirnoff Ice.
‘Hello there,’ a male voice says from behind me. Without turning round I know this guy will be greasy. I can tell from his tone of voice.
I take a swig of Smirnoff, re-arrange my face into an expression of pleasant neutrality and turn round.
…yep, greasy as hell.
It looks like you could squeeze his hair and cook chips with what drips off.
‘Hello,’ I say, knowing I’m going to be stuck in a conversation with this bloke until somebody else shows up and saves me.
‘I’m Angelo.’
Of course you are. With a white cotton suit and slicked back hair, what other name could you possibly have?
‘Laura.’
‘That’s a beautiful name, Laura. It means goddess, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure it just means laurel shrub.’
In fact I know it does. When I was a kid I once sat with some friends looking up what our names meant. They called me shrub-a-dub for weeks.
‘Ah, I am sure it means goddess. Maybe it is Hebrew I am thinking of.’
This is obviously Angelo’s go-to chat up line.
I’m sure every woman on the planet has a name that means goddess in one ancient language or another as far as he’s concerned. I’d love to see what he makes of someone called Helga.
‘No idea. I was named after my grandmother,’ I add.
‘And a beautiful lady I’m sure she was as well.’
The rest of the Smirnoff Ice gets downed in one fast swallow.
‘Would you like another drink, Laura?’
‘Double vodka and coke please,’ I tell Angelo, safe in the knowledge I’ll be getting a taxi home due to my Ford Ka’s engine exploding last week.
Angelo takes a thin black wallet out of his white trousers and calls the barman over.
I’m barely into the evening and I’m already being wooed by a greasy Italian who couldn’t be more stereotypical if he spoke like Super Mario and twirled a pizza in one hand.
I bet he wouldn’t be quite so interested in me if he knew I was suffering from itchy piles. It was taking all my concentration at this point not to start scratching my backside.
Mind you, if Angelo won’t take the hint and go away soon, I might just start doing it anyway. It doesn’t matter how much of a goddess he thinks I am, I can’t see him staying around if I start working at my bottom with one finger like a dog with fleas.
I don’t need to resort to such drastic measures as at this moment three other women walk into the bar.
They’ve obviously come together – strength in numbers and all that. With hindsight I should have done the same thing. I could have dragged Elise along if nothing else.
At least one of these women is a rather stunning dark haired beauty, wearing an unfortunate ensemble of floral headscarf and gypsy skirt.
Angelo’s clocked her and I can see him trying to decide whether he should carry on chatting up the skinny blonde who keeps jiggling about on the spot, or go over and charm the Latin lovely with the deep brown eyes.
‘It was nice to meet you Laura. I look forward to our date,’ he says and makes a move to leave. I am entirely unsurprised.
‘And you Angelo.’
He saunters off towards his next victim and I am left blissfully alone with my second alcoholic drink and itchy rear end.
More people start to trickle in.
My nerves get worse as each one enters.
I order another double vodka, hoping it will calm them… and make the men look more attractive into the bargain.
I notice quite a good looking guy wal
k in bearing the number 13 on his badge. I’m put off by his name though. I really can’t see myself being Laura Artichoke any time in the near future.
By the time the rabidly upbeat Natasha issues us with instructions to go through to the dating area, I’ve got a real buzz on from the vodka.
There’s a card on one of the tables with a number 5 on it, so I sit down, hoping the hard wooden chair isn’t going to cause my embarrassing complaint too much grief.
Hah! Chance would be a fine thing.
I’m not two minutes into the first date - with a guy who won’t shut up about how much he loves pianos - when my bum starts to itch worse than it has at any point thus far. My eye starts to twitch as the irritation mounts.
What the hell do I do now?
I’m pretty drunk from the vodka, so my powers of reasoning have deserted me. I simply have no idea how to get myself out of this situation.
I’ll just have to sit here for the next hour while a series of single men are trotted out in front of me, trying my hardest not to squirm back and forth in my seat like a new born puppy.
‘…and that’s when it hit me. I should just buy one myself! What do you think of that?’ says Colin.
I have no idea what he’s on about.
‘Um…’
‘I mean, it’s not as expensive as I thought it would be. Maybe you’d like to see it if I do get one?’
Oh Christ.
…a new car?
…a new house?
…a penis extension?
I try to recall what little I’d picked up about Colin before my piles became all consuming. ‘Good for you Colin. I’m sure it’s a lovely… piano.’
‘Yes! Yes it is!’
Thank God for that.
I don’t intend to ever see Colin again, but nobody likes to be rude, do they?
I try a little harder to listen to him for the next two minutes, but when the buzzer sounds I really have no idea who he is beyond his predilection for ivory keyed musical instruments.
Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Page 5