1) Speed Dating
June 16, 2006
Speed
Dating. The very idea is repulsive. 'Would they do that in Italy?', I
ask myself. 'No, they bloody wouldn't'. Two things that really
shouldn't be rushed are food and love. Even Diana Ross' mum knows
you'can't hurry love.' Still best not knock it.
I
book to go to a place in Soho. It's £20, 20 people. £1 a person. I'm
torn between thinking 'what good value' and aren't I worth more than a
quid?' I'm nearly 30 and at the Pound Land of dating.
I'm
scared. Speed dating in Soho will be full of stubbly men in
post-production wearing nicely- battered expensive trainers. I feel
exposed. I don't want to put myself on the conveyer belt. I don't think
I'm much of a catch. I just want to watch Casualty.
I
find myself dwelling on negatives. I've got a heat rash. Also
there's a spot at the side of my mouth. It's out of control. I didn't
use toothpaste. I used surgical spirit. It is catatonic now. I
wouldn't want to kiss it. I can't dwell on negatives. I must
be positive and confident for this to work. Anyway Loaded is always
full of pictures of skin afflictions.
Slightly
worried that it's been a long time since I had a 'more than platonic
moment.' Also we're having a heat wave. I will be using alcohol for
courage. I must realize that my standards plummet when under the
infuence and remember that I am too old for drunken snogging.
I vow to
1) talk to them as though they're ugly (it's always much easier to talk to ugly people)
2) ask them if they know any good jokes ( then at least I will learn something)
Oscar Wilde once said that a woman needs 'a tiny streak of a harlot in her'.
I remember this when dressing.
I show breast.
The look is 'prim secretary with underlying filth.'
I
arrive. It is ghastly. It is just not sexy. In fact it is the
antithesis of sex. It is unsex. It is like sex with the sex taken out
of it. It is about as sexy as a smear test. I spy just one interesting
man. It is name badges and numbers and nervous 'have you ever done this
befores?' It is the sort of environment that makes you want to rebel. I
want to say cunt alot. The only answer is strong lager followed by
white wine and then gin.
Ladies
sit at tables and the men rotate. The girl they all meet before me is a
petite Spanish looking girl, making me the minger afterwards. It's
not ideal. The whistle blows. The battle commences.
It's..........really loud. But, above the cacophony of militant
pleasantaries, the tirgid drone of the old Keane album can be heard.
Any woman knows that Keane should only be listened to when driving away
from your cheating boyfriend's house in the early hours. After the
old Keane album we listen to the old Keane album again. Unbelievable.
The
motley crew of men are all very nice. Except one who is a bit
scary.Sometimes I am unable to ask for jokes because of the male
militias banal barrage of questions. I get on really well with one
bloke. I'd like to see him again but not with any rudeness in mind. I'm
not sure how that works in the world of 21st Century dating. There is
is one though.. He is funny and easy to talk to and I like the
look of him. He tells me an old joke about Shakespeare being bard
from a bar. I let him off. He has a something about him. I mark my
notes with 'I like him!!'
The
bugger about speed dating, however, is that - true to life - there are
many more attractive women than men. Also a man will excuse most
personality flaws (except maybe a murderous streak) if a woman is
beautiful. Sadly women don't or can't do this. The man I liked the
look of at first is eerily earnest to speak to and fills his minutes
lambasting the speed dating process. I nearly laugh a one point. I
think he's researching a character for a new Steve Coogan sketch.
However handsome I think he his I wouldn't touch him with a pair of
sterile gloves and a pipette. My male friend sums up the difference
between men and women when I ask him about the petite Spanish girl.
'Mad as a brush.........but I''d still shag her.'
The
dating entrepeneurs blow the final whistle. The loveless drink and
mingle.The women get on well. We all like each others bags and shoes.
My favourite guy has barricaded himself in at the bar with a pretty
blonde. Lucky for me my male friend fancies the pretty blonde. With
tactics learnt at Youth Club we approach. My male friend takes the
blonde away. I chat white wine nonsense to my favourite guy. We
get on. I tell him he was the only one I enjoyed speaking to. I get out
my comments sheet. He gets out his. I show him mine. He shows me
his.
Under comments he wrote
'says cunt a lot'
My mum would be proud.
I will add that I said it twice, for shock value and comedic effect and I pronounced it beautifully.
Oh well. Let's be positive,
Why are pirates called pirates?
They just "AAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH"
I
| 
The Spanish Dish and A Dilemma