Dateless for Valentine's Day? Tomas Olesen has solution, the Book Club's much feted speed dating night.
I turn and try to make conversation with the nervous looking gentleman to my left. He's a hard nut to crack though and I end up saying something along the lines of "sooo what brings you to speed dating?" He looks me in the eye properly for the first (and last) time and says, quietly, "loneliness", before turning away to his own thoughts again. Looking across the table I smile at the lady who is going to be my first 'date' and she smiles back equally sheepishly.
There's something akin to the feeling of that first school disco in the air. Boys and girls separated in to their own groups, casting furtive glances at the opposite sex all the while wishing they had some idea of how to approach them. I have to admit to being very nervous. Although I'm here purely to research the article you're reading now, there is still something quite intimidating about being thrust in to a situation where you have to make three minutes of conversation with eighteen strangers. Beer is helping though.
And then we're off! My first few dates are all really nice ladies – totally normal and fun – and it transpires they're all here together. This is a repeated theme: it seems that the majority of the women here have come with at least one friend and for most of them it's clearly just a bit of a giggle on a Monday night. We're all wearing name tags and at the end of each date you write on your little piece of paper the person's name and a little note as an aide memoir. Quite a lot of the ladies are wearing plunging tops and as the dates start to blend in to one another and the beers keep flowing in to my empty stomach (I came straight from work and missed dinner), I have to glance at their name badges to remind myself who I'm talking to, but I'm becoming increasingly paranoid that it must look like I'm just checking out their tits.
The problem with meeting a slew of new people for three minutes at a time is that inevitably you end up asking the “Where are you from? What do you do? Is this your first time?” questions to each other over and over again. I lose interest in this pretty quickly and start making stuff up and asking ridiculous questions. I'm various things, from the guy who designs cup-holders for Skoda to a sound artist, and it's only when I meet a lady who makes spot paintings for Damien Hirst that I realise I'm probably not the only one lying their way around the tables.
I feel like I'm doing a good job of being incognito, but I'm forced to admit I'm a journalist by date nine. I sit down and her opening gambit is "They've bribed you to be here with free beer haven't they? You're too normal, you're blatantly just making up the numbers!" She looks so peeved by this that I find myself admitting that actually I'm here to write an article. This makes it worse. "Typical! I bet you've got a girlfriend and everything! You'd better not write about me!" I assure her I won't mention any names, and that despite being here professionally I'm definitely single.
When I reach date number seventeen of eighteen, it turns out to be the only lady who'd caught my eye in the initial mingle before things had started. We're both pretty tipsy by this point – she'd also come straight from work without dinner and had also sought solace in Dutch courage. It transpires she's been dragged along as a wingman for her very single friend. We have loads in common, and there's clearly a spark. She glances around at the rest of the speed daters, looks back at me and says, "shall we get out of here?". And we do.
That's right. I went to speed dating and pulled. Who'd have thought it. We've met up since, sober. She's really cool and we get on really well, so who knows. At the very least I've gained a brilliant friend. My experience of speed dating at the The Book Club then? Very positive. It's a relaxed and welcoming enviroment thanks to the brilliant hosts. Give it a go – you might be very pleasantly surprised.
Picture: Mike Crane
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