Tag Archives: Dating

‘Did I date you? – The 2nd year’ is waiting for you

The second installment of ‘Did I date you?’ is now available for you.

The second part of ‘Did I date you?’ takes the Grey Knight on a new series of bewildering dates that will make you laugh or nod your head in agreement, having been on a similar date yourself. He meets new women such as Randy Russian, Deranged Debbie, Angry Yank, The Bitch and many more.

His journey to find The One takes a surprise twist when notable women such as Krazy Girl from the first book reappear.

Despite keeping his eye on the prize, he can’t helped be sucked further into a murky world of easy sex and disposable relationships. He learns about the politics of sex and how to seduce women, but the cost is mounting. He even tries to have a relationship. Can you guess how that turned out?

It’s a story of our times, for our times. Make of it what you will, but don’t judge him until you know the full story.

You can get it now via your preferred Amazon site:

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07M75P34H
UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07M75P34H
Canada: https://www.amazon.ca/dp/B07M75P34H
Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B07M75P34H

Feel free to let me know what you think of it.

Your Grey Knight

Singles night

I have a dentist appointment in London in the late afternoon and just before leaving home I got an email from a dating site. It’s advertising their monthly singles evening in a pub in central London. I buy an off-peak train ticket to save money, deciding to kill time after the dentist at their ‘event’.

You can not imagine how far out of my comfort zone it is to walk into a setting like that, all those single people, oestrogen and testosterone in the air, booze-fuelled antics, all sorts of crazy people, knowing full-well that I never hit it off with anybody on that dating site, all the women off it who I had taken on a date were hard London women with clear agendas involving money.

I decided to push my boundaries as part of overcoming my Avoidant Personality Disorder. Having time to kill I tell myself that it’s okay to just sit quietly in a corner and observe the shenanigans. Treat it as research for my blog. Yes, research, there that feels better. I won’t strike up a conversation with a single woman. I’ll just sit and analyse the rabbits during mating season. I’ll leave at 7pm.

I get there just after the doors open at 5pm and there are three other women already there sitting chatting. I buy a cider from the bar and find my ideal spot where I can see everyone arriving and do my voyeur thing. I start thumbing my phone.

A few minutes later a voice asks if the seat opposite is free. I look up and there’s a cute little 30-something girly with light-brown hair blinking at me. She starts talking to me. We get along fine. She starts playing with her hair. I notice that she has a tongue-stud (which means cock-sucker extraordinaire). Despite sounding thoroughly English, she’s German. She has even lived in South Africa for a while and loves Cape Town. She wants kids. I’m actually not that attracted to her, good banter, but that’s all.

A fat, ugly English guy in a grey suit arrives and he buys a bottle of wine and stands at our table. I find that odd. The whole place is empty and he stands on top of us. He makes no effort to talk to us nor makes eye contact. Within 15 minutes he finishes the bottle of wine and goes back to the bar. The German girl says to me, “Did you see that?” and we laugh. I don’t want to spend the entire evening talking to her; it’s not what I came here for. So I decide to test something. I start telling her about my blog.

She asks me more probing questions about my blog, so I tell her, not really sure how she’ll react, but I’ve learned that women don’t like the idea of possibly being an entry in somebody’s public diary. I sense her withdrawing and it doesn’t take long before she says that she has to go home. I ask her her age and she tells me 33. By now other people had arrived and she could have tried her luck elsewhere in the room, but she left. I’m disappointed in myself that I might have ruined her evening.

As she’s leaving two other women come up to her and ask, “Are you leaving?” She says she is and they take the two seats opposite me. The one woman is a mixed race brunette and the other is a stunning milky-white-skinned brunette. The latter gives me the look women make when they fancy a man. I’m surprised. This isn’t what I came here for; I just want peace and quiet.

I ignore them and they start talking to each other. As they get seated the English guy returns with a bucket of ice and Moet champagne. Nobody says a word to him and he just stands there, but by now the place is nearly full so I excuse his presence. I notice the stunning brunette occasionally looking at me, smiling and then looking away. She is easily the most attractive brunette I have ever seen. She has beautiful blue eyes.

For more than two years all I have been interested in dating is blondes. It’s the default filter on all the dating sites that I’ve used. Now Life is teasing me with a beautiful brunette.

I’m intrigued. My people-watching idea becomes an afterthought. Has Fate handed me an opportunity here? Only one way to find out. How do I do this? A plan comes to mind.

The mixed-race friend is telling the stunner about her new boyfriend’s latest text message, complaining that she can’t figure out the sub-text to it. I see my chance.

“Excuse me, but if you would like some help in translation, I can help. I speak Man,” I say.

“Do you understand Australian Man?” The friend asks.

“Almost. I’m South African,” I respond.

“Oh my God! My best friend is South African!” exclaims the stunner.

From that moment on the three of us engage in good banter. I make a concerted effort to deliberately address the bulk of my interaction to the friend. I want to build anticipation in the stunner, who I am interested in, as well as not come across like any other guy by showering the prettiest girl with all the attention. She’s probably used to attention from men. I’m playing subtle. The friend leaves to go buy drinks and order food.

The Englishman to my left is making his way though his champagne and tries to strike up conversation with any woman who passes by on the way to the bar. I don’t know what he’s saying to them, but they all stop, pull a funny face, either say nothing or utter something short, then continue on their way.

Conversation with the two ladies in front progresses at a pace and the stunning brunette hangs on my every word. We swap names and she struggles with mine. She looks a bit young though. No more than 33 I surmise. It doesn’t matter to me as it’s not likely to lead to anything. This is just fact-finding of some kind, I tell myself. As we talk the stunner starts asking me all sorts of personal questions such as why did my last relationship come to an end, etc. I feel like I’m being interviewed for a job. I give the friend a bemused look and she just smiles knowingly.

I then turn the tables and start asking questions of my own, but being more indirect. I start guessing their nationalities because I detect an accent in the stunner. I start with the friend, making the stunner wait for my attention. I guess the Caribbean influence correctly but am off the mark; she’s quite a mixture. The stunner I initially think is Czech, which she instantly rebuffs, but I’m convinced of it. So I suggest Polish, to which she has an offended response. (Polish women have a bad reputation as sluts amongst the Eastern European women). Only someone from that part of the world will know that and react as she does, so my initial region is correct, but I still think she looks Czech. Then it dawns on me and I say it, “Slovak!” and her face lights up. The friend smiles.

I’ve been on dates with two Slovakian girls before and I found them delightful. Their culture is considered as stuck in the 1930s by the other Eastern European cultures (I’ve worked with many people from that part of the world.) I find that appealing, because my mother brought me up to be a 1950s gentleman. Only someone equally old-fashioned would appreciate my manners.

After a bit more of a grilling by the stunner do I realise that her and I are actually a good match in many ways. She doesn’t want kids, loves travel, has an intellectual/cultural bent, is amazingly 43 years old (the same as me)…and we fancy each other, but I’m trying hard to not let it show. I find my thoughts wondering if there is relationship potential here, after all, happiness is not a hair colour. The now-drunk Englishman lurches forward and says something to the friend. She pulls a quizzical face and moves back away from him. We resume our conversation.

I get a tap on my shoulder and turn to see the Englishman shouting at me, “You, sir, are a user!”

“Sorry, what?” I retort, shocked at the insanity of this intrusion.

“You’ve only had one drink the whole time you’ve been here. Look what I’ve bought in the same time. Don’t you know how to socialise?” he bellows at me at the top of his voice.

People around us are shocked and things go quiet.

“I don’t have to be drunk to have a good time. Now leave us alone,” I say as calmly as I can.

No, he won’t quit. He keeps ranting about how little I have spent compared to him. I realize that every women he has tried speaking to has rebuffed him. His ego can’t take it. His sense of failure compels him to assert himself somewhere, somehow and he’s seemingly chosen me because I’m close at hand. He keeps going on as loudly as possible about my ‘bad form’ and I can see that he’s not going to stop any time soon.

“Mate, what are you trying to do here? Are you trying to provoke me into going outside with you?” I say. That makes no difference and he keeps sounding off like a little baby sitting alone in the middle of a room all by itself. He keeps going on and on. You can’t reason with a drunk; my father taught me that.

In front of me is the type of guy who would have been a bully at school. Bullies only respect someone standing up to them. I’ve never been afraid of a bully, so I lean over into his face, our noses almost touching and say as menacingly as I know how, “I used to be a bodyguard in South Africa. You can’t imagine the things I can do to your corpse.” (Which I mean. Gore does not shock me; I’m desensitized to it from all the things I’ve seen in my life.)

I turn away from him and try to resume my chat with the two sweet women before me. Their faces portray absolute horror at this arsehole’s behaviour. I notice that people around us, men and women, have now scattered, anticipating a fight. This guy is big, but I’m taller, stronger and I’ve never lost a fight in my life because I’m always willing to go that one step further than the other guy. However, that’s not what I came here for. I’m not going to let matters degenerate into childish fisticuffs. I’m getting too old and wise for that shit.

He starts saying all sorts stereotypical rubbish about South Africans, being a bigot, revealing to all and sundry just why he is single. He’s making a complete arse of himself and some people are starting to laugh at him which makes him think twice.

People resume talking and his audience is thus gone, so he simmers down and finishes his last glass of champers. I’m keeping half an eye out for a glass or bottle coming my way from my left. I try to carry on as if nothing has happened, but the two women in front of me are in shock, their faces ashen. What was a pleasant evening for some is now destroyed. The stunner gets up and runs away. The drunk slob moves off too.

The friend says to me, “Jesus, that was intense. She’s gone off to have a cigarette now.”

My pumping heart slows down upon hearing that the stunner is a smoker.

This is how life fucks with me.

I think my facial expression showed what I was thinking and feeling because the friend says, “oh, she’s not a heavy smoker, only two or three a day.”

Her words don’t change my sense of disappointment. I make small talk with the friend, trying to calm her down which I succeed in doing. The stunner returns, reeking of smoke and visibly shaking. I succeed in calming her down too. I leave them to finish their food in peace and go to the bar to get myself another drink. While I’m standing in the queue, I feel a hand getting slapped down on my shoulder. I turn and its the drunk, argumentative Englishman; I’m ready to duck a punch.

“Mate, I just want to say, no hard feelings, heh?” he says with a bad slur.

He’s more drunk than I realized and he stammers so badly that I can’t make out anything he’s saying to me, but the tone is conciliatory. I discern him saying, “I’ll see you here in twenty years time,” which makes no sense to me, but I just smile, agree and make appeasing, passive overtones. He shoves a twenty Pound note in my hand and drawls, “Here, you’re a good chap. Buy yourself a drink on me,” to which I say thank you. He’s such a fucking idiot I may as well take his money. I don’t think he has much idea of what he’s doing or saying, but eventually he staggers off.

I return to the table and the ladies look pleased to see me. I guess they were checking out my body while I was standing in the queue. Until now all they could see was my torso and they had no idea how tall I was. The stunner gives me a beautiful smile and I look around the room of at least 200 people, mostly women and realize that she is the most attractive woman here. How lucky am I ?

Not so lucky.

To be continued…

Online dating profiles

I’m taking an hiatus from online dating until someone remarkable catches my eye. I’m reflecting on my two years on the dating scene. Two years of drama, craziness, varying degrees of sex, times of learning, episodes of amazement and downright determination.

I have some tips that I’d like to share with you. This is going to be the first of some of the lessons I’ve learned about modern dating. Today deals with dating profiles and the build-up to a date.

Online dating has a visual bias, there is no denying this. With just one look we can form an impression of someone, or worse, an attachment. We are likely to click on someone we like the look of because that is how we are attracted to someone in the real world too. It is no surprise then that people whose profiles have no photos included have a quieter dating life. That’s to say I’m talking about a conventional dating site and not esoteric sexual niche websites. If you are on a regular site and you never get messages, then you might get the impression that nobody likes you.

Nobody likes me.
Nobody likes me.

It might be that your profile isn’t working for you and it needs some attention and thought. A sense of rejection on a dating site should not discourage anyone or give them reason to embark on desperate measures to entice someone into their life.

Van for offine dating. Sweets optional.
Van for offine dating. Sweets optional.

Once you’ve spruced up your dating profile you’ll start to get attention and eventually somebody will seem worthwhile to meet for a date. You’re not attracted to everyone so don’t expect everyone to be attracted to you. Attraction isn’t a choice and you might be surprised by who finds you attractive. An open mind is key.

First date potential.
First date potential.

It is vital to project the correct image, so give some thought to the photos you’ll be using. Often your favourite photo might send out the wrong message if you’re not careful. Many people like to include their cherished pet in their photos in a hope to attract someone who has a liking for the same creature. Sometimes this can backfire.

A man's favourite pet.
A man’s favourite pet.

At the same time it is good practice to scrutinize the photos that someone has chosen to post on their profile. Look away from their face and see what the surroundings can tell you. You might spot a few warning signs. For example, they claim to be a non-smoker but all their photos show them holding a cigarette.

Check details in photos.
Check details in photos.

As a general rule I would advise against meeting someone if you don’t know what they look like. This applies to men and women. A look of surprise or disappointment on your face might not be the best start to the date.

Your next blind date?
Your next blind date?

Because of the nature of the internet being a relatively anonymous medium, there are people who abuse dating sites for their own ends. Occasionally you’ll encounter people who are not even the gender they claim and often they are after money.

Anybody can pretend to be somebody online.
Anybody can pretend to be somebody online.

If you’re a guy looking for a gal, with time you’ll learn that there is a code that women use in their dating profiles. Their narratives after a while start to have similar terms. With a bit of dating practise you’ll crack the code.

Women code for dating profiles.
Women code for dating profiles.

If you’re a lady then I must inform you that, sadly, not all men on dating sites are as they portray themselves to be. Men are likely to lie about their jobs, height and relationship status. This is not the norm, so don’t let a few bad apples spoil the cider.

Some men lie on their dating profiles.
Some men lie on their dating profiles.

I have noticed that there are far more attractive women then attractive men on dating sites. That can work in a chap’s favour, not because he might be handsome, but because he has the confidence that women appreciate.

Nobody is out of your league.
Nobody is out of your league.

I have it on good authority that modern online dating is also prone to some rather unusual behaviour. Sexting, the swapping of intimate photos, is becoming commonplace, so much so that some men consider it standard practice. Don’t let anyone intimidate you into doing this.

Sexting extortion
Sexting extortion

In the same vein there are women who are pretty explicit about what their needs and wants are. A camera-phone and mirror is often involved.

Lick it. Women can be explicit too.
Lick it. Women can be explicit too.

It’s a common and easy mistake to develop an online crush on someone before you’ve met them. Don’t spend too much time swapping messages and phone-calls because you might create a false impression of someone who is radically different in real life.

Not everyone on the dating scene is sane.
Not everyone on the dating scene is sane.

What matters most when going dating is having a clear idea of what you’re about and who you want to meet. Keeping that in mind should keep you out of trouble…unless trouble is what you’re looking for. 😉

Your self-perception is vital.
Your self-perception is vital.

Just please be careful not to fall for someone on the basis of just one look at their dating profile.

Happy dating!

The Grey Knight

Doris Troy – Just one look

Quiz on my face – Late June 2012

My best friend and I were living together. I had finally left my long-term girlfriend at the beginning of the month. The novelty of sitting around feeling sorry for yourself wears off quickly. He had been internet dating for a few months, but without much luck. Just one oddball that he found interesting and entertaining, but distinctly not relationship material.

His preferred dating site was offering a night out to members that was a cross between a comedy night, a speed dating event and a pub quiz. Ladies would be assigned to tables where they would remain for the evening. The men would move between the tables after a few questions in a pub quiz that involved topics such as love, romance and relationships. It was a manner of getting everybody at the table talking, a la speed dating, but on a group basis. After a couple of rounds when men had changed tables a few times, proceedings would be interrupted by a stand-up comedian. After that the quiz and table swapping would resume. Nice idea right? It’s all in the execution.

My friend and I would go together, but truth be told I wasn’t that interested, I was far more interested in changing my belly-button fluff. He needed a wingman and I felt compelled to oblige given that I was staying with him and had done so at short notice. This was a big step in his world, walking in to a room full of single women. I found the thought of it slightly daunting myself. It didn’t seem too far off from walking past the cosmetics counters in a department store, staffed by those overly made-up women who glare at you if you’re a man, as if you had just groped their backsides.

I arrived early and scouted around the venue, walking through the roads and sidestreets of London that surrounded it. True to form, my mate messaged me that he was going to be late. He’s always late. I reckon he’ll be late for his own funeral. So I had little choice but to enter the venue a few minutes before the stipulated time. It was in a pub that had turned it’s main floor in to a seating area with collections of tables and chairs. There were about a dozen people present, mostly women, scattered about. The hostess at the door took my name and gave a me a table number to start off at.

I stiffened my spine, took a deep breath and walked toward the bar. I got the distinct impression that eyes were following me. I ordered a cider and looked in to the mirror behind the counter that spanned the wall. I noticed two women at different tables looking in to the back of me. Drink in hand I turned to go find my seat at table 8. The table was against a window and two relatively attractive fair-haired ladies in their late twenties or early thirties were sitting there talking to each other.

I sat down and introduced myself to them. They reciprocated and easy conversation ensued. They were friends and one of them (the less attractive one) was actively looking for a new relationship. The more attractive one, ok the one I fancied more, wasn’t looking as she had just come out of a relationship. We chatted about anything obvious and it became apparent to me that the less attractive one was very chatty with me, very forthcoming in conversation and was leaning in towards me. The one I liked the look of was leaning back in her seat with her arms crossed.

When I told them that I was there just a wingman for my best friend and wasn’t on the prowl as I had also just come out of a relationship, the whole dynamic changed in seconds. The less attractive one sat back in her seat and didn’t say a word to me the rest of the night, while the one I fancied unfolded her arms and became very chatty.

The venue was filling up quickly and eventually another youngish lady joined our table. She was petite and so softly spoken that I couldn’t hear a word she said. Then two guys in their early thirties joined our table and the whole tone of the evening took a turn for the worse. These two were so noisy, boisterous and embarrassing that I could only but keep quiet for a few minutes. The less attractive gal starting chatting to them, encouraging them almost and the noise level became unpleasant. I suspect that they had some Dutch courage in them. It became impossible to hear anything that the softly spoken little pixie said, even though she was sitting at my shoulder. A few more men and women joined our table, but I couldn’t catch their names as the two jackasses were making so much noise.

Eventually the master of ceremonies took to the stage, welcomed everybody and explained the procedure for the evening. After 3 quiz questions, all the men were to move to another table in a clockwise fashion. Ladies “teams” would remain seated and claim the answers or points for their table, the men were just helping out. Each table had to have a name. One of the jackasses suggested “Quiz on my face” and for some reason, nobody suggested anything else and table 8 became known as that.

Inane questions about all things related to love then ensued. This resulted in pandemonium at all tables. Most of the men at all the tables went in to over-drive trying to show off and it became almost impossible to hear anything. Because it was so noisy, the only way to make yourself heard was to be as loud as possible – and everybody across the room was doing this. It was a horrible experience. Is this what happens when a room full of testosterone and oestrogen meet?

I sat back in my seat, slightly disgusted with proceedings and really not enjoying myself. The attractive gal to my right leaned forward and we started chatting as best we could, ignoring everyone else. She had an easy smile, twinkling eyes and pleasant demeanour. If I was on the prowl, I would go for her. Looking around the room I could see three more women that I liked the look of. Going to their tables was going to be interesting but hopefully we could hear each other.

The comedy act took to the stage and she was Romanian with a perfect grasp of the English language with only a slight hint of an accent. While she was doing her routine, I became aware of the fact that the attractive gal to my right was repeatedly knocking me with either her left leg or left arm. I thought nothing of it and dismissed it as just her being a fidget.

It was time to move to the next table and all the men stood up. It was only then that I noticed how short the two jackasses at my table were. I’m six foot one inch tall and these two twats barely came up to my shoulder. I wondered if there behaviour was driven by Short-Man’s Complex. I now thought of them as two little yapping dogs, mouthing off in an attempt to get attention – any attention. I bade the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to my new table.

There were five women in their late twenties or early thirties at this new table. The Twats and two other oddballs caught up to me. I deliberately moved as quickly as I could wanting to have a few moments alone at the new table. I introduced myself and shook hands with each of the ladies, repeating each of their names as we shook hands and made eye-contact. One of them I liked the look of, but before any clever conversation could commence The Twats started their loud boyish behaviour. I looked at the ladies and could see that they were a little taken aback, not knowing what to say.

Three of the ladies were work colleagues, while the other two were independent. “Quite brave of a woman to come to an event like this by herself” I thought to myself. Or really desperate…or really easy…or badly wanting a baby. One of them, Helen, who had come by herself, wasn’t the best looking gal at the table (only one was), but she had bags of confidence and was quite lively. For some reason I believed her the type to take one guy home on the night and have a good time in bed with him, then kick him out asap and never see him again. I could never be with a woman like that.
Three questions were fielded and raucous pandemonium reigned almost throughout. I didn’t get much chance to talk to any of the girls and the one I liked the look of was seated furtherest away from me. Then it was time to move to a new table. Once again I moved fast because at this new table there was a very pretty blonde that I wanted to talk to. Not because I was hoping anything would come of it, but largely because I find blondes irresistible. Sad but true. After the round of quick introductions I immediately started talking to my target. It turned out that she was Czech and her English was not good at all. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. What must it feel like to be in city like London, single and not being able to speak the language? Especially London where everything moves at lightning speed, people don’t have much time for each other and there are multitudes of accents and cultures to contend with.

The room quietened down as the master of ceremonies was speaking. Except for one of The Twats (the gobbiest one) and one of the oddballs who were engrossed in a heated debate over something. Everybody near to hand was staring at them, but they were oblivious to the world, intent on their little duel of egos. The Oddball was a lanky, geeky character with a bizarre name. When introducing himself he compounded his bad initial impression by spelling his name out, emphasizing that it has a “y” and not an “i” in the middle of it. Their high-spirited exchange wasn’t going to end soon and even the MC had stopped speaking and was also looking at them. I tapped the oddball, who was to my right, on the shoulder and told him that the MC was speaking. He stopped momentarily and then resumed his heated exchange with The Twat. Only they were speaking in the room and everyone present had now turned to look at them.

I was getting annoyed by these two, so I grabbed the Oddball by the shoulder and said “Mate, shut up! You guys are disrupting the show. Everybody is looking at you.” Undaunted, he shrugged my hand off his shoulder and turned to The Twat, intent on carrying on. The Twat meanwhile had heard what I said, looked around and realized what was happening and turned away from the Oddball. Thus their argument died and the MC recommenced with proceedings.

Many people kept their gaze on these two numpties for a few seconds afterwards. I reckon most were thinking what I was thinking, which was “And that’s why those two are single.” They used their personalities as a contraceptive. This evening was becoming a drag, perhaps not just for me.

My mate then arrived, late and last, as was his style. He always claims something about making a grand entrance. I always say a lot of negative things in response. He joined his table, acknowledged me with a smile and got in to the spirit of things. I wondered what he was going to make of all this.

Three more questions and much more noise. I didn’t bother making small-talk with any of the other ladies present at my table. I was now not in the mood. I looked over to my friend and saw that he was leaning forward, a stern face, battling to make himself heard at his table too and probably struggling to hear anybody, just like everybody else.

There was a pause in proceedings and another comedian took to the stage. His routine wasn’t that funny and I suspect I detected a collective sigh of relief when he left the stage. It was time to change tables again. I made a beeline for the next table because a little cutie that I had been eyeing all night had a seat open next to her. I was trying to make the best of the evening and seeing if I could strike up a conversation with her was an appealing idea. She was just over five foot, thus short, petite frame and had long, curly, light brown hair…and big fat juicy boobs.

I got my seat next to her and didn’t waste any time in getting chatting to her because I knew the window of opportunity was short. There was a lull in proceedings, so I got more time with her than I had anticipated, which was good. We chatted amiably about all sorts of things. She was Scottish, from the Highlands and had been in London for a few years. She was very friendly, bubbly and conversation flowed easily. She was asking questions and initiating topics of conversation which gave me the impression that she was enjoying my company. The conversation took a turn for the serious when she started asking about children. I answered quickly and honestly that I had decided against it. It was as if I had hit her through the face with a fresh, wet Scottish salmon. Her whole demeanour changed and she partially turned away from me, her face visibly unhappy. I was astounded by her sudden change in attitude. I tried to continue the conversation, but she wasn’t interested, only giving curt replies and little eye contact. The evening was getting worse with each change of table. Could it get any worse?

The usual three questions were fielded amidst the predictable torrent of verbal diarrhoea and cock-fighting between the guys. Surely women were not enjoying this spectacle? Perhaps they were inwardly laughing at these jackasses, especially The Twats? I tried making small talk again with the Scottish lass but it was obviously wasted breath on my part. I couldn’t make conversation with the other women at the table as they were mesmerised by the shenanigans of The Twats. A drinks break was called and the bar was flooded within seconds. Great, already bad behaviour was now going to be compounded with alcohol.

For the lack of anything else to do (I’m not a big drinker and the bar was crowded) I turned one more time to the Scottish lass and asked if she would like a drink. “No” was her curt reply. “Rude little bitch” I thought to myself.

I was starting to look forward to the next table change. In fact, I was starting to look forward to the evening ending. I looked over at my mate at another table and could see that now he was slouched back in his seat, his hands playing with his phone, not talking to anyone and looking around the room. It seemed he wasn’t enjoying himself either.

The table change was called, I bid the ladies at my table farewell and moved over to the next table which had been obscured behind a column. There were four Chinese ladies sitting there. Only one of them spoke English. I was spotting a trend here. I was dreading the next table change. What awaited me then? Medusa, Catwoman, Miss Haversham, Cruella Deville and Sharon Stone?

Even The Twats fell silent at this table. The Oddball starting texting people on his phone. I tried to get a look at the next table. This was where the last of the three cuties that I had spied out earlier in the evening was. The optimist in me said, “Things can only get better”. I made some small talk with the Chinese girl who spoke English, largely as a way of defusing the obvious tension and discomfort in the air at this table. What the hell were they doing here? What was their game or expectations? I was too polite to ask.

The last of the three questions were fielded and the answers were scribbled down by a lady at each table and then taken to the stage where the MC sat dealing with the administration of them. It was suddenly and unexpectedly announced that the evening was ending. People were surprised, as was I, but I was also slightly relieved. I was willing to forego meeting the last cutie. What was the point? I wasn’t looking for a relationship.

The scores were totalled and the winning table was…Quiz on My Face. Back where it all began, all those hours ago, two in fact. Back where there was time for a decent exchange of banter and even an involuntary touch or two. Back where someone not looking had met someone not looking. A wingman met a winglady.

The MC invited people to partake of the bar revisit someone you “found interesting” and almost immediately unnecessarily lour music started playing. I thought for a moment about going back to table eight, a.k.a. Quiz on My Face and chatting to the very first two gals I had met. I looked over at my mate, saw the pained expression on his face and knew instantly that he wanted to go. His tilting his head towards the door confirmed it. I bade my table’s ladies farewell and made my way over to the door where my mate and I met up. We agreed that we wanted to leave. As we turned for the exit I noticed the Scottish lass walking past. We made eye-contact, I said “Good night” with a smile. She just glared at me and walked out. I was stunned by her behaviour.

Outside my mate and I walked past a table where the four Chinese women were sitting smoking. They just looked at us as we walked past. I felt a little bit bad about not going to say a few words to the two girls at table eight, but I was happy to be leaving.

My friend and I sat on the train home discussing the night’s events. We were of a like mind – that it was an unpleasant experience. Neither of us were keen to repeat it.

Before I fell asleep I thought about the behaviour of the men that night. It bordered on disgusting. Women can not find that attractive, all that verbose, loutish behaviour, chest-thumping and cock-measuring. I was so very different to all those guys that I observed. How would I be received by women? What was my marketability on the dating scene? Who could I meet?

I was very curious. There was only one way to find out.

I decided to go internet dating.

And that is how it began…all so innocently and so well-intentioned…