John Jones: Speed Dating

Youknowitshardtomakeagoodfirstimpressionwhenyourushthings.

It really is.

I have enough difficulty with first impressions as it is: either I’ll be over-enthusiastic and end up alienating my company with one willy joke too many, or else I’ll try and play the ‘dark and mysterious card’ and end up freaking them out, silently staring with so much intensity it looks like I’m trying to make their face explode with my mind.

So you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, reaching the inevitable conclusion of locking myself up in a padded room and letting the general population go about their business happily.

But no: Like an unstoppable force of awkwardness, this week I have once again ventured out into the world of dating. And let’s be honest about it: I’m hardly brilliant at dating at normal speed, so God knows why I thought dating speedily was ever a good idea.

I hadn’t ever really thought about speed dating before. I had always lumped the idea together with midweek quiz nights at the student union and those awkward ‘get to know each other games’ that you’re made to do during job interviews and committee meetings.

So naturally I had no hesitation when looking for a decent speed dating evening. In the end I went with an event run by originaldating.com, a company recommended by my sister (also single, but infinitely less hopeless).

Signing up was simple enough: I registered my email and phone number, chose my evening and venue (they run 2-3 nights every week in Clapham and central London) and then sent off £20 payment for the night.

At the very moment that I clicked the ‘confirm’ button, however, the reality of the situation hit me.

Yes, speed dating is marketed as something fun, nonchalant and trendy, but in reality you’re being rapidly judged by woman after woman, proving conclusively that when past girlfriends have said “it’s not you, it’s me”, they’ve been blatantly lying to your face.

There were two possible scenarios running through my head, both terrifying: either I’d turn up and face twelve stone-faced women, each judging every word I said as I squirmed awkwardly in my chair, or (far more distressingly) the whole party would get on terrifically and before I knew it I’d be scarred for life, standing in the corner as twenty or so people gradually began descending into a naked frenzy of belly buttons and saliva.

I’ve got no hesitation in admitting that I wasn’t brave enough to attend the evening on my lonesome, so I (somehow) managed to convince a friend to come with me (for the sake of this article let’s call him ‘George’).

As we approached the venue (‘Firefly’, a bar opposite Clapham Common), George was surprisingly confident, which was all the more worrying as I was shaking like a leaf.

The bar itself was relatively small, and as we entered we were told to take a seat and we’d be called when the event was about to begin.

George and I tried to pass the next few minutes in conversation, but I couldn’t help but notice other men littered around the venue, staring at one another with suspicion.

It felt like a metrosexual remake of an Old West movie, where half a dozen cowboys sit in anticipation for the first to pull their trigger, and I realised (for the first time) that I’d be in direct competition with the other men attending.

Sure, there’s always competition from other men in clubs, but here I’d be compared directly with the personalities and looks of the men next to me, each striving to get that coveted ‘tick’.

The actual event was fairly surreal. We all moved to a smaller bar upstairs, and there were seven men and seven women in total (a small enough number to prompt the organiser to offer us a free ticket to an event in the future).

My first two dates were definitely past the upper limit on my age range, but while I sat through the first ‘date’ feeling like I was talking to my career’s adviser, the second was clearly a fan of the younger man and asked how many children I wanted within the first two questions.

As the whistle blew to signify the end of that date, I sprinted away towards the next table as fast as my legs would carry me and jumped headfirst into four good dates with genuinely friendly women.

I was surprised by the calibre of girls who attended: all were funny women, capable of interesting conversation. Equally, they were all attractive professionals who appeared sincere in looking for a boyfriend.

The event was organised well, and I’d definitely recommend speed dating for anyone looking for an interesting night out – just make sure you bring back up.

I’ve always been a bit hesitant approaching women on nights out: I just think there’s no way of doing it without coming out looking a little sleazy, but I can definitely vouch for speed dating as a way of building this sort of confidence.

In fact, it may have worked a little too well, as George and I took the evening on to a local pub and decided to talk to anyone willing to listen.

But on to the inevitable judging. The only flaw that I can place on originaldating.com is that there was no massive rush to get the ticks and crosses sorted out, so I must admit that as it stands I’m none the wiser as to how the girls viewed me (though if past impressions are anything to go by I’m sure they’ve abandoned the current ‘Yes/No’ system and created a new column titled ‘Eejit’ just for me).

There was one woman who I did tick ‘Yes’ for, based completely on the fact that she was pretty and a hoot (though it must be completely possible to hide the crazy for a four-minute interval).

Although I’ll be batting for the other team next week, I’ll be sure to let you know how it went.

Next Week: Going Gay.