Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) (9 page)

‘Oh my God, I love Ant and Dec!’ she screeches at me.

I tell Bryce I’m employed as a chicken
sexer
, have never slept in a real bed and think Stephen Hawking is faking it.

She’s asking me where a chicken’s penis is when the buzzer goes.

Dates four and five are both so deathly dull I can barely bring myself to write about them.

I can’t even remember their names, but I know one of them thought tarmac was a beautiful word.

One of them was wearing beige.

I’m pretty sure the other one was actually made of it.

You know they say a minute can last a lifetime?

They’re wrong.

It can last an entire geological epoch.

Date six is
Magdalena
.

The second foreigner of the evening is originally from
Portugal
, but now works as a medium up in
London
.

You’d think anyone with psychic powers would know that moving from the gloriously sunny Portuguese coast to Tooting would be a bad idea, wouldn’t you?

Before three minutes have elapsed she’s grabbed my hand and is telling me that Glen Artichoke’s future will contain overseas travel.

I counter by telling her I suffer from a rare medical condition that means I can’t move over bodies off water without the urge to masturbate.

Magdalena
is learning all about
hydromasturphilia
when the buzzer goes and I move on.

Date seven is Maxine, the head of Human Resources at the newspaper I currently work for.

We sit awkwardly for five minutes discussing the changes to annual leave policy, before I rocket out of the chair when the buzzer goes.

We both know that this evening will never,
ever
be spoken about by either of us.

Date eight is Barbara.

Barbara’s surname is
Toadingham
, which almost makes me wish Glen Artichoke was real, as that would make one hell of a double-barrel.

By this time nearly an hour has gone by and I’m losing the will to live, so my conversation with Barbara is stilted and bland. I can’t even be bothered to make anything up.

‘You’re not enjoying this are you?’ she says.

‘Not particularly. You?’

‘Am I fuck. I could be at home watching Glee. Instead I’ve had to hear all about Colin and his piano collection, David’s wheat intolerance and Yuri’s problems getting a permanent visa.’

I like Barbara. It’s a crying shame I’m not attracted to her in the slightest.

‘Oh thank Christ for that,’ she says as the buzzer goes. ‘I need a drink.’

She’s up before I am, so for once I get to feel what it’s like to have someone scuttle away as quickly as possible.

I slouch over to the bar and order another Diet Coke.

Only eight dates to go…

And by the looks of things Barbara might be the highlight of the night.

I get a good look at the remaining women as they come to the bar.

There’s at least three more made of beige, two who obviously got dressed in the dark, one who is old enough to be my mother, but thinks she can wear the same make-up as a teenage girl - and a scared looking chubby girl I struggle not to feel sorry for.

The sixteenth and final woman of the evening would be a
looker
if it weren’t for the scowl permanently plastered across her face.

This might be due to the greasy looking individual in the white suit that won’t leave her alone at the bar, but I can’t be sure. From the speed she’s downing the bottle of Smirnoff Ice in her hand I can tell she’s having about as much fun as I am.

Can’t wait to chat with her.

I don’t particularly want an alcoholic drink right now, but I could murder a cigarette.

There’s five minutes of the break left, so I slope off for one.

I’m supposed to be quitting, but nothing raises my stress levels like trying to hold a polite conversation with eight complete strangers in a row.

It’s raining outside.

Not just raining actually, but absolutely bucketing it down.

I have the choice of getting soaking wet or not having a
ciggie
.

Neither appeals.

A third option springs to mind when I realise that the nightclub is virtually empty tonight, other than us lonely singletons.

Across the way is the corridor leading to the toilets.

I’m not one for arbitrary rule breaking, but I need nicotine
damn it
, so am more than willing to flaunt the law on this occasion.

As I walk down the corridor I have to dodge a very disgruntled looking blonde as she hustles out of the ladies loo. It’s the same one from earlier, and getting a second look at the black expression on her face makes me even less keen to make her acquaintance.

Nice arse though.

I go into the men’s loo and lock myself in a stall.

While I’m having a cigarette I might as well answer the call of nature, so I drop my trousers and assume the position.

Twenty seconds later I’m in creamy nicotine heaven, and the prospect of another eight speed dates doesn’t feel quite as bad.

Maybe one of them will turn out to be a winner!

…not the one that’s old enough to be my mother, though.

I never get the chance to find out.

You see, modern nightclubs are very well equipped places. They have great lighting rigs, pin-sharp speakers and state of the art bar facilities.

They also have very sensitive sprinkler systems.

A mere four puffs into my cigarette all hell breaks lose.

A klaxon goes off that’s so loud I’m glad I’m sat on the toilet.

I scream in terror and drop the cigarette in my lap. This elicits an even bigger scream of pain as the red hot ember singes my pubic hair.

I jump to my feet, brushing the cigarette away frantically just as the sprinklers get into action.

There’s one just above my head, so the toilet stall gets turned into an impromptu shower.

I scream for the third time in as many seconds as icy cold water goes down my neck and I throw open the toilet door, stumbling out with my trousers and boxer shorts still round my ankles.

…which means the bald security guard from earlier gets a good look at my meat and two
veg
as he comes barrelling into the toilet to check that everyone has evacuated.

I could have stuck around.

I imagine the speed dating continued after a clean up, but I was so embarrassed by this time that all I wanted to do was run home and hide for a couple of decades.

I was already soaking wet, so the rain didn’t bother me much as I traipsed back to the car, still smarting from the painful new burn in my crotch.

That was the beginning and end of Jamie Newman’s foray into the wonderful world of speed dating.

I failed to find the love of my life that night, but did come down with a nasty head cold, so didn’t walk away entirely empty-handed after all…

Laura’s Diary

Friday, April 22nd

Dear Mum,

I’ve finally scraped the bottom of the barrel and gone speed dating.

Elise from the gym recommended I give it a try. She met her husband at a local event a couple of years ago and told me it was a really happy experience for her from start to finish.

Elise is unfortunately one of those people completely untroubled by original thought.

If it were possible to gaze into her head, it would probably look like a sun dappled meadow, full of frolicking bunny rabbits and doe-eyed deer.

Her husband Malcolm is just as bad.

If these are the type of people speed dating works for, I’m not entirely sure I want to be a part of it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained though, eh?

Providing I don’t have to give anyone a hand job or ride a mountain bike, I should be fine.

I traipse down to The Cheetah Lounge on Tuesday night with more than a little trepidation, praying to whatever gods of dating might be up there that I’ll meet someone at least halfway decent.
 

I’m not in the best of moods when I turn up if I’m honest, as I’ve developed piles.

Yes,
piles
.

I’m twenty eight for crying out loud. How can a non-pregnant woman in her late twenties develop a complaint usually reserved for those in their
pensionable
years?

I can only put it down to the incredibly uncomfortable plastic chair I was forced to sit in for solid three hours at a wholesaler’s presentation on Friday.

Listening to a bunch of insincere salesman trying to persuade you to buy their product via a series of incomprehensible PowerPoint slides is bad enough. Add squirming around on a chair that’s slowly sending your backside to sleep makes the experience even worse.

With an itchy rear end and a cynical frame of mind I walk into The Cheetah Lounge to find that I’ve arrived a good half an hour early.

‘We’re not starting until eight,’ says the anorexic girl standing at the threshold to the Mexican section of the nightclub. I’m quite familiar with the place, having downed one too many tequila shots here last Christmas.

‘It said
seven thirty
on the website,’ I reply, a scowl forming on my face. I hate arriving early for an event, especially one like this where I don’t know anyone.

‘Oh! Sorry. That should have been changed,’ she says, giving me an apologetic, wet smile. ‘The bar is open already though if you’d like to get a drink.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?’

‘What’s your name, miss?’

‘Laura McIntyre.’

She looks down a piece of paper, ticks my name off and hands over a large plastic badge. I’m apparently blessed with being number five this evening.