Speed Dating, Part I :: The Seduction Line

I still haven’t figured out whether speed dating is a wonderful, ingenious idea with the power to transform lives and create wonderful relationships, or actually even more inhumane than juggling kittens. I guess it depends on the person sitting opposite you. But even if you luck out and meet someone you can actually get along with, it’s still basically costly torture, with an outside chance of something life-altering developing amidst the pain and humiliation. Or do I exaggerate?

I'm still not sure.

The speed dating event I attended was on the other side of London and wasn’t strictly speaking ‘speed dating’. I believe with old school speed dating, you get around two or three minutes to make your mark; we had ten to fifteen minutes – ten if it was going badly; fifteen is it was going well.

As we stood at the bar waiting for the first round of dates to begin, I must admit I was very glad that Keith was there with me. If I’d have been on my own, I’d have been bilious with nerves. As it was, I was just slightly gassy. So as I stood there, trying to surreptitiously swallow another mouth fart, the woman running the evening – who looked like a permatanned Lynndie England - explained how it would work.

There were ten women and ten men, which meant ten dates each in two and a half hours, with the women assigned their own table and the men moving from date to date like giant, knicker-sniffing wasps. It was quite an ordeal, and basically a production line, the males slowly paraded in front of the females like incomplete consumer durables, holding up their shoddy personalities to the light of quality control, trotting out their stories and their questions and their jokes like tramps emptying their pockets looking for pound coins they know they’ve already spent. It was a seduction line.

I popped a mint in my mouth, fixed my name tag to my lapel and promptly fainted.

I didn’t really faint. Sorry. I’ve never fainted. Instead I did what I was told, followed Lynndie England’s pointing finger and sat myself down opposite date number one.

(As always, names have been changed to protect the vulnerable and the insane. And me.)

Gloria

Physical :: Gloria didn’t look like a Gloria. Gloria looked more like a Mildred. But appearances can be deceptive. I know, I know.

Gloria had, and presumably still has, small features: narrow eyes and a tiny pinched mouth which, in my presence at least, refused to smile. She had short brown hair and a thin, skeletal face. She looked like she hated me, frankly. Maybe she did.

Mental :: Although I had rehearsed most of what I ended up saying to Gloria – or at least imagined myself saying it - I was still rather surprised frankly, to hear it coming out of my mouth. ‘So, Gloria, tell me, have you ever seen thousands of tiny turtles scampering across a mighty beach on a moonlit night?’

Her expression didn’t falter. The cat’s rectum of her mouth opened slightly however, to release the words, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You know, like when thousands of turtles all lay their eggs in the sand. In South America maybe. Then one night, when the moon is bright and high, all of the eggs, millions of them, all hatch at once and all these baby turtles start scampering towards the sea. You must have seen in on The Living Earth or something. Have you never seen that?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Gloria was shaking her head as she spoke. ‘Why are you asking me about that?’

Wow.

So this was speed dating. I cringed. My cheeks turned cold. I felt sad. ‘I dunno, I...’ I shrugged. ‘I guess I like turtles. No reason other than that. Are you not a fan?’

She shrugged right back at me and curled up a single nostril. ‘Not really, no.’

‘Oh.’

‘So what do you do?’ she asked, out of nought but contemptuous obligation.

‘I’m a pole vaulter,’ I said. I couldn’t help myself. I was actually quite upset that my turtle opener had fallen on such wilfully deaf ears.

Gloria stared at me with an expression which said, ‘So, not only are you ugly, but you’re also an absolute fucking idiot.’

‘And you?’ I said.

‘I work in investment banking,’ she said. ‘I’m a trust fund manager.’

I laughed. ‘Wicked,’ I said. ‘That’s really brilliant. So tell me, Gloria, do you like bats?’

Her face contracted, reminding me, ironically enough, of a startled turtle disappearing into its shell. ‘What are you saying? Are you trying to be funny?’

‘No!’ I cried. I wasn’t. ‘We’re here to meet people, to get to know them. I’m trying to get to know you, Gloria. Trying to find out what you like. Trying to find out, specifically, if you like bats. It’s not that odd, surely.’

‘Yes,’ she cried, exasperated. ‘It is. What have bats got to do with anything?’

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry.’ I held out my hands, palms open and facing out, somewhere between us. ‘We’ve not got off to the best of starts, I think that’s safe to say. Probably that’s down to the sexual tension between us….’

I smiled, amusing myself enormously. Gloria’s mouth fell open like a broken trap. ‘I can assure you there is no such thing between us.’

I swear, this woman had absolutely no sense of humour.

‘Denial,’ I said. ‘The second of the first five stages of attraction. It goes like this…’ I counted them out on my fingers. ‘Fascination, denial, arousal, intercourse, repulsion.’

And that was that. We were only about five minutes into our date and Gloria had had enough. She pushed back her chair noisily, stood up and marched out of the room. I assumed at first she’d just gone to the loo or some such and would be back in time for her next date, but I realised later – when she didn’t return - that she’d gone for good.

I was flabbergasted. I wondered if I’d set some kind of record.

I wondered if Gloria had been speed dating before. I imagined not. I wondered if she’d ever go again. I imagined not. Definitely not. I imagined her telling her friends about the freakish mentalist whose idea of seduction was to ramble on about bats and turtles till she had no option but to leave in an almighty strop. I imagined her writing me up on her blog. ‘Physical :: Fat. Ugly. Face like a bag of elbows. Mental :: Definitely mental. Incapable of holding a normal conversation.’

I wondered if one of the other men in the room was her ideal partner whom she would now never meet. I kind of hoped so. Which was wrong of me.

I thought about this as I sat there, at an empty table, with every other woman in the room trying not to think about the fact that very soon they too would have to spend at least ten minutes with the big ugly freak who - within minutes – has women running screaming from the building. (She wasn’t actually screaming.) (And for what it's worth, I think there was probably something else going on beyond her seeming irritation with my conversational skills. She'd probably had some bad news or something. Or she was insane in some way. Surely?)

At which point I briefly considered getting up and leaving myself, but then, with something of a shock, I realised that I had no intention of leaving because, against all expectations, I was actually enjoying myself, and very much looking forward to my next date.

Cue…

Cindy

Physical :: Cindy was actually Lucinda, a posh girl with high, erubescent cheeks and bright blue eyes which were sweetly beady. Cindy was so far out of my league that she was actually playing a different sport. Happily, that didn’t matter, because for the time being we were both playing on the same field. Sadly – if I may extend the metaphor till it splinters like a butterscotch hymen in a flux capacitor - I had a set of darts and a catcher’s mitt; Cindy had a speed boat and a light sabre.

She also had a spicy blonde bob and tiny white teeth which she covered with her right hand whenever she laughed.

Mental :: ‘Hi,’ said Lucinda, pumping my hand like a lumberjack. ‘How are you?’

‘Well if you want to know the truth,’ I said, ‘I’m a tad hacked off. I don’t know if you noticed, but my first date turned a little sour.’

Lucinda didn’t know whether to admit that she’d noticed or pretend that she hadn’t, so instead, she opened her eyes wide and drew her bottom lip into her mouth. It was quite an effect, and I took it as a sign for me to continue. So I continued. ‘I don’t know what it was,’ I said. ‘But I think it was because she was a little intimidated by my looks.’

At this stage I should probably mention that before we left the house, Keith and I shared a bottle and a half of excellent red wine. Kind of pathetic I know, inasmuch as it was rather cowardly of us, but it really, really helped.

‘You’re not bad-looking yourself,’ I continued. ‘You must have got the same thing once in a while. People get jealous, and they lash out. I guess they don’t like to be made to seem inferior.’ Cindy was still sucking on her bottom lip, seemingly unsure as to whether to laugh or to run screaming from the room herself. Which I realised would be rather amusing. I told her so. ‘It would be very funny if you left too now,’ I said. ‘Just got up and walked out like the first one. Go on, I dare you. It would be hilarious.’

‘No, I’m alright,’ she said. ‘I think I can handle your beauty.’ I gave her a look which was meant to suggest that many a woman has made that mistake, but it was probably just more of a leer. ‘So what do you do?’ she said.

‘I’m a pole vaulter,’ I said.

She had a lovely laugh, Lucinda, like cow bells in a wind tunnel, and when she let it out then, it was a great relief.

‘You cover your mouth when you laugh,’ I said, rather unnecessarily. Then I realised… was that a neg? Was I gaming this woman? Good Lord, I’m smooth. ‘I’m a copy writer really,’ I said, ‘although not in an interesting way. I’ve written the copy for websites for both trade unions and chartered accountants. My life is that exciting. What about you?’

‘I’m a tree surgeon,’ said Cindy.

Then it was my turn to laugh. I also covered my mouth, just to make her feel at home. ‘But you had to give it up ‘cause you couldn’t stand the sight of sap, right? Is that what happened?’

The hand came up again, like clockwork. ‘No, honest, I really am. I work for the Tree Council.’

‘Get out of it,’ I said. ‘What Tree Council?’ I thought she was making it up, but she wasn’t.

‘That’s pretty cool,’ I guessed. ‘What do you think about bats then? You must like bats?’

‘I love bats!’ she said. ‘I even went on a bat walk a couple of months ago.’

‘You never did!’

‘I did!’

And so Cindy and I talked about bats for a while. And then we talked about speed dating. She asked me if I’d done it before. Then she asked me why I was doing it. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘believe it or not, I don’t meet people well.’ That was a line from Adaptation which I’d always wanted to use.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Oh. I guess I mean that I’m a big ugly bugger with a fairly unpleasant physical presence and women are generally discouraged by this.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Cindy.

‘Oh, come on yourself,’ I said. ‘You know it’s true. Anyway, the reason I’m here is not necessarily to find a girlfriend, although that would be ideal, but more just to force myself into these situations. You know? Because I refuse to hide away anymore.’

‘Well, good for you,’ she said. ‘I think that’s really admirable.’

‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Here’s to me.’ And we drank to me. Then – a sign that I was actually quite tipsy – I told her about the blog.

‘Oooh, will I be in it?’ she wanted to know.

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘If you play your cards right.’

Then she asked me what it was called and I said that if I told her, I would then have to torture and kill her, which I think kind of frightened her a tiny bit. So I gave her a winning smile. And suddenly it was time to move on.

So, that was the first two of my ten dates. Five of the next eight were – and I say this with no disrespect intended whatsoever – fairly unremarkable, so I’m going to rush through them now.

Meena was a slightly stuck-up Indian girl who worked in PR and told me that if she didn’t find a bloke tonight, she was going to become a lesbian; Kath had ratlike features and was a colleague of Meena’s with prominent gums and an unhealthy obsession with someone called Kaká - how I chortled; Clare liked George Clooney (yawn) and vodka and Red Bull. She also worked with Kath and Meena and seemed a little upset when I suggested that she might end up spending the night in a lesbian threesome; Meg looked like Emily Lloyd and insisted that I should be on television but couldn’t quite put her finger on why, or in what capacity; Jane liked short men with ‘really shit hot bodies’ and wanted to know all about my eczema. She had a face like a tapir. (By the way, I reckon I’m allowed to allude to other people’s physical shortcomings - 'ratlike features', 'face like a tapir' - because I am a card-carrying member of the Ugly Club and with that comes a certain very small number of perks. One of which is the right to call a spud a spud, in much the same was as black people are allowed to call one another ‘nigger’... ‘Alright, Tapir-face.’ ‘Alright, Elbows.’)

The other three dates however, were – for very different reasons, worthy of a little more attention. There names were Tilly, Atiya and Melanie, and I shall tell you about them on Thursday.

Until then, pip pip, and keep hope alive.

Everybody’s Free (To Wear A Paper Bag)

I’ve been practising thinking positive, because I’ve been told that it helps, that it makes life easier. So, to stop twitching with misery and shouting out, Tourette’s style, in embarrassment as I remember, amongst other things, the rather desperate, pathetic email I sent Patricia a couple of hours before I found Keith’s blog, I scribbled down a couple of lexical amulets to help me remain upbeat and optimistic. And then I got to thinking, hey, I could actually help others with this stuff. Because helping others is what I’m all about. So I started writing a kind of a manifesto for ugly people and other losers. Then I remembered The Sunscreen Song and thought I’d try and blatantly rip it off. I ended up staying up late and writing the following. It wasn’t till after I was done that I realised it was Easter Monday and like Christ, I had risen again and come back to save mankind. Praise me…

Everybody’s Free (To Wear A Paper Bag)

Ugly ladies and gentlemen of the internet… wear a paper bag over your head.

If I could offer you one tip for overcoming overwhelming feelings of ugliness, that might as well be it.

The long term benefits of wearing a paper bag are open to question, but in the short term they’re great at replacing the shame of a hideous face with the embarrassment of wearing a bag. It’s a trade-off. Still, this tip, along with the rest of my advice, should probably be taken with a hefty pinch of salt.

I will dispense the rest of this advice now.

Remember at all times that physical beauty really is only skin deep and that even though Enrique Iglesias has moist women queuing up to fellate him, he is famously, unconscionably dull. If this makes you feel better, hang onto it for all you’re worth, and don’t give a second thought to George Clooney, who not only is better looking than half a dozen Enriques, but is also a scintillating conversationalist.

Think beautiful thoughts. While you’re about it, buy beautiful things, listen to beautiful music and read beautiful words in the not necessarily entirely vain hope that some of this beauty will rub off on you.

Read. The more you’ve got going on inside you, the less you need to worry about the car crash that is your physical appearance.

Practise your comebacks for when the cruel barbs fly. Perfect them in front of a mirror. ‘Madam, I may be ugly, but I am also stupid and very bad in bed. Oh.’ That sort of thing. Be careful however, not to self-deprecate to the point of self-loathing.

When the barbs do come, try hard to laugh them off; let them bounce off you without causing damage. Don’t be overly sensitive, and don’t be too hard on yourself if you are.

Don’t be afraid of mirrors. While they may not exactly be your friend, they are a reminder that you’re bold enough to face who you are, and to love yourself.

Love yourself. Wear your ugliness like a badge of honour. Remind yourself that any old imbecile can be pretty but it takes real character to carry off a look like yours.

Rejoice in the fact that when people do like you, they really do like you. They’re not just trying to get into your pants because you look good, and they’re not with you for the cachet your company brings.

Avoid people who want to make themselves look good by surrounding themselves with freaks.

Surround yourself with freaks. (If this simply not possible, forget about it. It wasn’t the best piece of advice in the world in the first place.)

Accentuate the positive. If there’s really nothing in your appearance to be remotely positive about, accentuate the negative.

You’re only as ugly as you feel.

Don’t be intimidated by superficial fuckwits who cannot offer the world anything more than a camera-ready smile and a pig-ugly soul. You are better than they are. Just not as good-looking.

If you happen to be as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside, you probably need more help than I can give you here.

Floss. Good teeth mask a myriad of sins. If you don’t have good teeth, get some.

Work on your body. God may have given you a baboon’s behind for a face, but there really is no excuse for being fat. Besides which, your body is your temple. Worship.

If you do believe in God, remember that He loves you. If on the other hand you have sanity on your side, thank God you’re only ugly.

Dancercise. If you have nowhere to do it but in your own living room, well, that’s probably a good thing.

Remember that there are five senses and being ugly marks you down on just one. So make sure you concentrate on the others: smell good, sound good, practise sensitive tactility and sprinkle a little cinnamon on your genitalia every day, just in case you get lucky.

Wash. Good hygiene counts for so much in this world. If you really need to be told this at your time of life, there may already be no hope for you.

There is ALWAYS hope.

Embrace metrosexuality. Pamper yourself with oils, powders and unctions. Moisturise daily. If your skin is soft, supple and touchable, chances are someone somewhere will want to touch it.

Wear good clothes. The expression ‘You can’t polish a turd’ is a vicious, pernicious lie. You most certainly can polish a turd. Indeed, it is your duty as a human turd to polish yourself daily, and a fine wardrobe is some of the best turd-polish money can buy.


Smile. Even if you have a mouth like a block of blue cheese, smile like you really mean it. The whole world may not smile with you, but the best people will.

You are NOT as ugly as you imagine. Are you? Actually maybe you are. If you are, then really, the dancercising, flossing and good clothes will help. But if you’re genuinely not, you may actually have Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Look into it.

You are NOT as Body Dysmorphic as you imagine. You’re just fat. Eat less. Dancercise.

Wear a hat. Hats are the icing on the cake, the fairy on top of the Christmas tree, the fan of glorious feathers that turns the fat ugly peabird into a glorious cock. A good hat can be like sunshine above the clouds; a beautiful day atop the miserable blanket of smog that is your face. A hat can be the ultimate signifier of dignity. Remember, without that hat and those snazzy threads, Humphrey Bogart was just another ugly bugger in ill-fitting dentures, waving a gun about and grimacing like a gargoyle.

Avoid corrective surgery like the plague that it is. Don’t go under the knife unless you absolutely have to, or else part of you will always regret the other parts of you that you threw away.

Pleasure yourself intensely.

Use pornography if you feel the need, and use it shamelessly, but don’t let it get a hold on you.

If possible, sleep with people less attractive that you are. Both sides can only benefit from the union.

If possible, sleep with people more attractive that you are. Both sides can only benefit from the union.

When you mess up, when you embarrass yourself or just stutter or dry up because you’re too nervous, don’t beat yourself up over it. Other people forget quickly; they have their own stuff to think about. Also, the best way to help them forget your humiliations is to do something magnificent.

In the words of Ian Dury, be magnificent. Dury was crippled with polio but was so magnificently charismatic that many people tended not to notice.

Do not blame other people, even if you feel they might actually be to blame. You really are the master of your own destiny.

Do not hate yourself. I know that’s often much easier said that done, but keep it close to you at all times, and always believe it. It’s incredibly important.

Kindness lurks in the most unexpected of places. When kindness creeps up on you and takes you by surprise, allow it to reaffirm your faith in humanity.

Have faith in humanity, because faith in humanity is faith in yourself.

Be careful whose advice you buy, and be very suspicious of those who supply it. There are a lot of cynical heartless people out there whose sole aim in life is to exploit your insecurity.

Oh, and take that paper bag off your head.

You look ridiculous.