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"Lucy"SPEED DATINGSSpeed 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. One pound 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 Poundland 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) 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." ...He has a something about him. I mark my notes, "I like him!!"... 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 before?"s. 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 turgid 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 other's 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." "Lucy" is a 29-year-old actress who writes A Spinster's Quest about her attempts to find love. The illustration is by Lucy Pepper - no relation - a professional illustrator who lives in Portugal. See her blog here.. 9:40 PM - 16/7/2006 - post comment
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