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I have, as recounted here, been to a night where I had to sniff smelly t-shirts potentially worn by my future beloved. You would laugh coquettishly and then wave this dove of joy back, to wing its way into their heart. A typical recent trend in singles nights is not only that they seem to have increasingly bizarre themes, but also to pretend they have nothing to do with dating, being single, or anything so embarrassing.
On other occasions I have put up with milling around random bars whilst rather sinister ladies called Matchmakers forced me to talk to verbose men about football. I have even attempted to climb out a toilet window after turning up on a blind date, to find out my date was hogging the only doorway, which was almost as wide as he was. And my standards are so low, I don’t think even Usain Bolt could limbo under them. But this night did, oh God, if only the flashbacks would stop.
As he walked covered with molasses, The girls old the brooch upon Samaritan? I casually mentioned the singles side when we were almost there (a slightly dingy bar-entrance in Holborn), it was too late . We had just entered a scene from a bad high school movie. If I ever think about going to another one just stop me and give me a good dressing down. It didn’t help that the organisers, in the pursuit of cash, had clearly got the balance wrong, and there were roughly twice as many women as men (and they were hot women, very hot). Do anything else – proposition people on the tube, get drunk and go clubbing, talk to people in the street. In desperation we both decided to get horribly drunk and try to beat everyone at ping pong. We would have stood more chance of meeting a couple of guys if we had picked a pub, any random pub, and just gone out for a drink. We hit several men in some rather sensitive places (by accident, I stress). Clusters of feral women had taken to bunching in corners, behind protective protruding surfaces, and throwing ping pong balls at random mates from afar. At one stage a small Italian took to stalking us around the room until we had to physically restrain him. As my friend pointed out the whole business of being single gets so much worse when you are all fenced off together and forced to dance to the rhythm, of the date-makers’ music. We are not all defined by being single – the fact we have not yet hooked up with the love of our lives is not something that somehow unites us or makes us the same bunch of losers. At one stage I did manage to win us free drinks through a bit of pretty shit-hot dancing (what can I say?