1)
talking to all the men as though they are ugly. I reasoned that it is always much easier to talk to ugly people
2)
asking all the men if they know any good jokes, then at least I will learn something
I cannot therefore write in my online diary that I was so scared I didn’t even make it to Soho.
As I lift my hand up to press the red Next Stop button I notice that I have sweated so much I have wet patches under the arms of my blouse that nearly reach my waist. I walk slowly to the speed-dating venue waving my arms so that the fabric will dry. By the time I get to the venue they have gone from sopping to slightly soggy. I take a deep breath and unwillingly make my way down some very steep steps.
I arrive in a soulless room in a dark basement. It is not a sexy environment. I would go as far as to say it is the antithesis of sex. I cast my eyes furtively around for Julia, and as I do I see a lot of men wearing the de rigueur uniform of jeans with ironed, untucked shirts. I had let myself fantasize that I might meet a nice barrister or someone who works in post-production. It now seems that I shall be lucky to find a tiler with a drink problem.
A Sloaney man in chinos asks for my name and gives me a sticker with the number 12 on it. I smooth it on to my favourite blouse. I can hear shards of nervous conversations coming from all over the room. This sort of environment makes me want to rebel. I want to say the word ‘cunt’ loudly. A lot. I pray that I don’t. The only answer that I can think of is to buy a drink. I shuffle to the bar. I spot the strongest brand of European lager and buy a pint of it. I drink it nervously and scan the room for someone to talk to. There are three girls talking in a huddle; one has a very nice handbag and another has colossal sweat rings. I approach them.
‘Hello I’m shitting myself I’m on my own my friend’s always late do you mind if I join you by the way I love your bag.’ I wish I wouldn’t always talk bollocks too quickly when I’m scared.
‘Thanks, H&M, only a fiver.’
We go on to admire each other’s clothes and shoes and divulge where we bought them and how much they cost. I love being a woman.
‘Have you ever done this before?’ the sweaty one asks me.
‘No. You?’
‘God! Yeah! About eight times.’
It is not boding well.
The Sloaney man ushers us to our places. The women sit in the same spot all night and the men rotate. The girl they all meet before me is a petite Spanish-looking girl, making me the minger afterwards. The space after me is empty, presumably waiting for Julia to fill it. My spot is unbelievably uncomfortable. I’m on a funny little level between two floors. I’m wedged between a great silver pole and a DJ booth. I instantly bang my head on the pole as I crane my neck to see if any tasty men have arrived.
‘Bollocks,’ I curse and am just rubbing my head when I spy Julia entering the room looking flushed. Julia is gorgeous. She has long dark wavy hair, a full pouty mouth and very large breasts. If she were an opera singer she would always be playing Carmen. I’m not sure how well suited Julia will be to speed dating. She does go out with men but she tends to get bored somewhere through the first date. Then she normally sleeps with them and moves on.
‘What the bloody hell have you got me into, Sare? Have you seen the state of the men? What are we going to say to them?’
‘I thought I’d ask them if they know any jokes, I loathe all that “What do you do?” stuff.’
‘Yeah, me too. What shall I say?’
‘Ask them what’s in their fridge, and what star sign they are,’ I instruct her.
‘OK, then we can compare notes at the end. I might grab a quick drink before it starts. What you having?’
‘A glass of white wine. Cheers.’
‘I went for cocktails after work. I’m feeling a bit tipsy.’ She giggles, swaying into my pole.
She walks up to the bar and immediately starts chatting to two men that I hadn’t noticed. They look like friends and they look like fun. They are stubbly and wear nicely battered expensive trainers. The one I prefer has curly brown hair and a dimple in his chin. He’s wearing a pale pink shirt. I love a man in pink. I can see dark chest hair curling out from the top button. I love chest hair. The other one is standing behind Julia and blatantly looking down her cleavage. I am just thinking, What a cheeky bugger, when Julia suddenly throws her head back and head-butts him in the nose. This makes me laugh. I don’t have a ladylike laugh. My laugh is dirtier than my room. My laugh is dirtier than Jack and Vera Duckworth dogging in a dump. It’s bad. I am laughing so hard a bit of lager goes up my nose and I start choking. As I am choking the pink-shirted stubbly man looks at me. He smiles. I try to smile. It’s hard when you’re choking. I am pleased with the smile, although a Heimlich manoeuvre would have been more appropriate. Julia rushes back with my wine.
‘Oh my God, I just head-butted that gorgeous guy! Did you see him? He’s really cute.’
‘Mmm, yeah, they both are,’ I say with a glint in my eye.
‘This might not be so bad after all.’ She pulls her T-shirt down to unleash some more cleavage. I apply lip gloss.
The whistle blows. The battle commences. My first combatant is a tall man with a wobbly tummy. He squeezes around the pole.
‘Hello,’ I smile.
‘Oh, hi,’ he says. There is a long pause. Above the cacophony of militant pleasantries I can hear the turgid drone of the old Keane album. I am shocked by this choice of music for a speed-dating event. Any woman knows that Keane should only be listened to when driving away from your cheating boyfriend’s house in the early hours.
‘So,’ I say, ‘this is pretty dreadful, isn’t it? Do you know any jokes?’
‘Um . . . Not really . . . To be honest I don’t know whether I want to be here. I was really scared. My girlfriend left me last week and it’s really raw.’
‘Oh, you poor thing,’ I gush. ‘That’s so shitty. But I think it’s good you came, sometimes you need to “feel the fear and do it anyway”, you know, “step out of your comfort zone”. You may just make a couple of friends. Everyone’s scared. Look at the size of that girl’s sweat rings and tell me she’s not scared.’
I realize that pointing out another girl’s sweat rings isn’t a nice thing to do but it makes Wobbly Man laugh so I think God will forgive me. We end up having a three-minute conversation about pain. The whistle blows again and another man sits down next to me. I swear he could get regular work as a lookalike for Ian Beale from East-Enders.
‘Wow,’ I say immediately. ‘Do you know who you really look like?’
He stares at me. Then he takes two really deep breaths. Then he takes a third even deeper breath. Then he says, ‘I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t think I can take it any more.’ He starts shaking his head quickly. ‘If one more person tells me I look like Ian sodding Beale or asks me where Pauline is I could get violent. There comes a point when you’ve had enough. Do you understand?’ He is very tense. I can’t think of anything to say. But I have to say something because I think he might want to kill me, or himself.
‘Yeah, I know. Everyone says I look like somebody too. Not the same person and never anyone famous. It’s normally “Oh, you look like that woman who works in Boots who always short-changes me” or something like that. It’s a nightmare,’ I witter. He just looks at me. ‘Do you know any jokes?’ I add meekly.
‘Ask me if I’m an orange,’ he says with no expression on his face.
‘Are you an orange?’ I say slowly.
‘No.’
I wait for the rest. He doesn’t say anything else. I try to laugh. I really do. Then I drink my wine too quickly. The three minutes are tortoising by.
‘What do you do?’ he asks me.
‘I’m an actress.’
I dread telling people that I am an actress because they respond in one of two ways. One is with pity – ‘Oh you pooooooor thing, it’s such a haaaaaaard profession, my nephew’s girlfriend’s sister’s an actress.
Poor girl! She hasn’t worked in years. She tried to kill herself last Christmas. Such a hard profession’ – or they say, ‘Have you ever been on telly?’
Ian Beale Lookalike perks up now. ‘Oh right, my friend’s an actor.’ Then his face drops again. ‘Well he was. He’s just given it up to become a T-Mobile sales executive.’
I meet eight more men. Some are quite nice. I don’t want to see any of them naked but I do learn a good joke: Why are pirates called pirates? They just arrrrggghhh.
Another whistle blows and I am released on leave for fifteen minutes before going back to the front. I put my head in my hands. Julia stands swaying over me.
‘So how was it? I’m a bit pissed.’ She hiccups.
‘You don’t want to know,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘So tell me about the fridges.’
‘They all talk bollocks, and say probiotic drinks and chicken.’ Actually my fridge at home is filled with probiotic drinks and chicken. Simon leaves me just a small space for my out-of-date hummus. I tell her my pirate joke. She tells me my humour is warped. I buy wine. As I return from the bar I notice that Julia’s eyes are fixed to the floor.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask.
‘Your shoes!’ she gasps, staring at them.
‘Do you like them? I bought them today.’
‘They are proper fuck-me shoes!’ She sighs in reverence.
‘I thought I needed a new pair of shoes for my quest,’ I beam.
The whistle blows again to send us back to our torture.
‘We get the hotties this round!’ Julia whispers excitedly. I quickly reapply lip gloss.
After the old Keane album they play the old Keane album again. Unbelievable. My next man is very short. He sits down.
‘Now I’ve heard about you! There’s a body . . . hang on. No! . . . Last time someone asked me that . . . Hang on! No! No! Wait . . . The body of the last person to ask me that, that’s what’s in my fridge.’
‘Um, that’s not me. I ask you if you know any good jokes. Julia on the next table will ask you about the fridge,’ I say. We glance at Julia. She’s got the man she head-butted and she’s sitting on his lap. He’s staring down her top. I’m impressed. My short man leans towards me. I hope he doesn’t think I’ll be getting on his little lap. There’s something psychotic about this one. I edge backwards and whack my head on the pole.
‘Bloody pole!’ I curse at it.
‘Yeah, that naughty pole.’ He laughs lecherously in the manner of a man who waits in his raincoat down alleys near schools.
‘Urgh, it’s a sodding lap-dancing pole!’ I howl, the penny finally dropping. ‘I hope they’ve wanking well cleaned it!’ I squeal and try to remove every bit of myself from being in contact with it. All I can think of now is that I’m probably covered in a dozen women’s fanny sweat. I try to talk to this psychotic gnome as little as possible, which in turn makes him think I’m wildly exciting and enigmatic. When the whistle blows he whispers in my ear: ‘We’ve got a great connection and you know it.’ I shudder.
Suddenly the pink-shirted curly-haired, dimpled future father of my children stands before me, carrying an ice bucket.
‘White wine?’ he says. His voice is gorgeous. It’s rich and gravelly like Green & Blacks with ginger pieces in it.
‘Yes, please. I need a trough of it.’
‘Oh dear. Not having fun?’
‘I’ve just been hit on by a psychotic gnome, I’ve caused Ian Beale to commit suicide and I am stuck to a sweaty fanny pole.’
He laughs and fills my glass up. I look at him. He’s almost too gorgeous. I suddenly start to blush. Please stop it, Sarah. Please. Oh God, imagine he’s ugly. Quick. But I can’t. Maybe it’s the dimple, maybe it’s the hair or the voice or just the whole combo. But this man has taken gorgeousness to the penthouse level. God, please, I will start doing some volunteer work if you just stop me from being a pillock for three minutes.
‘Has your friend had a bit to drink?’ he says, looking at Julia, who’s got one eye closed and is trying to focus on the psychotic gnome.
‘Yeah, she’s cunted.’ The words land like bird poo on a new hairdo. Julia and I use the term ‘cunted’ to mean drunk. Yet when I say the word now to this handsome man it sounds crass and horrible. I cringe and will myself not to use it again. ‘She’s been getting on well with your friend though,’ I add quickly.
‘Oh yeah, Dan. I just met him here tonight, actually. But I think he’s a player, if you know what I mean. I think he comes to these things to see what he can get. You might want to tell your friend.’
‘Oh, OK. I’ll warn her,’ I say, feeling disappointed for Julia.
‘Most of the other women here are pretty dull, I have to admit. I just had a three-minute conversation about child-care.’
‘Well, it’s important to get those issues straight at the beginning,’ I say seriously.
He laughs and then says, ‘Do you know we’ve met before?’
Oh God, please, please don’t say I’ve tried to snog him in a late-night drinking club or that he’s slept with Julia or that I was accidentally sick on him once and I don’t remember.
‘Have we?’ I say, dreading what he’s going to say next.
‘Yes, you probably wouldn’t remember though. You did an ad a few years ago for Pizza Hut. I worked on the ad. I remember you because I saw the tape about a hundred times. We were introduced, but only briefly. I liked what you did. It was funny. I didn’t want them to cut any of it. I didn’t have much say though because that was my first job with the company.’
‘Fuck me! How mad is that? They did cut me though, didn’t they? The cunts.’ I’ve said ‘cunt’ again. Twice in less than a minute. This is terrible. ‘That was my first job out of drama school. The face of Pizza Hut in the North. I was a bit gutted it wasn’t Pizza Express, to be honest.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘Oh, I’m out of work.’
‘God, that’s wrong. You’re good. Something’ll happen soon. I feel it.’
‘What about you?’ I ask, thinking, I wish I had somehow videoed those sensitive words coming out of that kissable mouth.
‘Good, actually. I’ve started my own company. Yeah, I’ve been lucky.’
‘No, you only get lucky by working hard,’ I say, reminding myself to kill Simon later. I suddenly spy Julia about to fall off her stool. I rush to catch her and just about manage to reseat her.
‘Are you all right, lovely?’ I say.
‘Mmm, I think I just dozed off there. Feel a bit better for it.’ Psychotic Gnome licks his lips at me.
‘Get back to your man, you fool,’ she whispers.
‘I’m just going to get you some water and then I will.’
I nearly lose my fuck-me shoes as I race to the bar. I am just administering water when the whistle goes. It felt like forty-five minutes with the bloody gnome and not even forty seconds with Wonderful Man. I walk back to him. He stands up and smiles.
‘It’s Sarah, isn’t it? I’m Paul.’
He leaves and I am hovering somewhere above Jupiter. Paul. Paul. Perfect Paul. I get out my comments sheet, which I haven’t written anything on, and write, Yes, yes, yes, yes as many times as I can next to his number.
I smile and chat to the remaining eight but all I can think about is me and Paul on an Italian beach, me and Paul cuddled up by a fire, me and Paul having Sunday roast, Paul beaming at me proudly as I win my BAFTA.
The dating entrepreneurs blow the final whistle and now the loveless can drink and mingle. The relief is indescribable. I look for Perfect Paul. He is at the bar talking to a pretty blonde with a small bottom. The pretty girl is wearing stylish shorts over patterned tights, a look I could never attempt with my own huge arse. I want to run up to her and give her a wedgie. Instead I make my way to the toilets with Julia to reapply make-up.
‘The head-butt guy’s definitely the fittest,’ she tells me as she draws a very uneven black line around her eyes.
‘I like
his friend,’ I sigh, taking the eye pencil off her and trying to smudge her eyes so that they don’t look as though they’ve been painted by a man with final-stages Parkinson’s.
‘Listen, Jules, I think your head-butt guy just comes here to pull. Paul said that he’s a player,’ I warn her.
‘Sare, I’m not stupid, he was looking down my top as soon as I said hello. Player or not he’s still bloody gorgeous,’ she says, bumping into the sink.
‘I just don’t want you to get hurt,’ I say seriously.
‘Let’s go get them!’ She hiccups.
We head back into the bar. She walks up to her headbutted possibility and flicks her hair. I hold back because Paul’s still with the gorgeous blonde. Suddenly I feel a cold hand on my arm. It’s the psychotic gnome.
‘Hello, gorgeous, I’m having a barbecue next weekend. Will you come?’
‘No,’ I say in unintentional disgust.
‘God, you’re great. You’re such a challenge.’ He grips my arm tighter. Suddenly Julia comes up to me, coat in hand. ‘I’m going. I’m getting a cab with the head-butt guy!’ she says in ecstasy. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
The psychotic gnome quickly produces a napkin and a pen. ‘I’d like to call you tomorrow. I want your number. Give me your number.’
‘Um, no, don’t be silly.’
‘I want your number. Give me your number.’ The veins on his neck are looking angry.
‘No.’
‘I want your number.’ He is shouting now.
‘I don’t want to give you my number,’ I say slowly in the low, stable voice I use when I’m auditioning to play nannies and policewomen.
‘Give me your number!’ he shouts again. People are starting to look. I am going red.
‘No.’ I try to speak firmly but I’m sure he can sense my fear.
Then I feel a nice non-clammy hand in the small of my back and the sexiest voice in the modern world saying, ‘Sarah, are you ready to go?’ I look into Paul’s concerned blue eyes and I am so grateful that I am unable to form a coherent sentence.
50 Ways to Find a Lover Page 4
