LITMIR.BIZ

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who worked down the local chip shop and occasionally went to karaoke.

      My next suitor was Ozzy Osbourne. Even as he approached my table he had his phone surgically attached to one hand while the other swiped people. Tinder, I bet. Once he sat down, he half-heartedly mimed emptying bins, but his eyes kept either glazing over or glancing to the next table where Katy Perry was pouting and flicking her hair. He looked like he couldn’t wait to get over there and I was happy for him to move on, too. There was no connection between us whatsoever. I’d never liked men with shaggy hair and heavy eyeliner. We sat there in silence for the remaining minute, with Ozzy looking at the neighbouring table from between squinted, heavily kohled eyes, and Katy looking back at him, in between miming to her suitor that she was a lap dancer.

      Nigel sounded the klaxon and Ozzy stood up. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye and practically sprinted to lap dancing Ms Perry and her mimed pole. I had an urge to stick two fingers up behind his back, then I remembered I’d have to face him again in two more rounds. Oh good god. I wished I could have buzzed him off somehow. The next two rounds would be a complete waste of time if all the men were like him.

      The next guy had come as Elton John: rainbow, heart-shaped glasses; badly-fitting toupee; mad hands. He didn’t stop miming; I couldn’t get a mime in. In that two minutes and with not a single word said, I found out he lived in Twickenham, that he worked as a fork-lift driver, that he had three children and a red setter, and enjoyed puzzles and playing scrabble. The wackiness and the excellent miming aside, he seemed very dull. There was no spark there, and his grin was quite inane. I was dreading looking into his eyes during the next round as I knew he’d just pull silly faces.

      And so it went on. A succession of not very attractive frogs and certainly none worth kissing: Boy George, Michael Jackson and Kanye West (gold camouflage trousers, anyone?) all came and went, with underwhelming effect. Adam Ant was, as suspected, a sex pest. I found out later he’d mimed ‘having it away’ so many times he’d got himself thrown out before he even reached my table. Then there was the Paul McCartney fellow (bell ringer, apparently), a Bruno Mars who told me by the medium of mime that he worked in a pie shop, and a David Bowie, circa ‘Modern Love’, who wasn’t quite pulling off the yellow suit – he was as wide as he was tall.

      They came and they went. I didn’t fancy kissing any of them. Not even just to see. Only one was slightly intriguing; a Mick Jagger lounge lizard who mimed reciting poetry and smoking. I looked forward to seeing him again – he was surprisingly good looking and a little bit sexy – everyone else was an obvious no hoper.

      The klaxon was once again the clanging bell of doom. The first round was over and I was already exhausted. Nigel appeared again, looking slightly unsteady, to announce the second. He actually said ‘Take it away!’ and I braced myself for the dreaded ‘staring’.

      The first guy I got, Michael Jackson II, kept winking at ten second intervals. He hadn’t quite got the brief. I actually found the non-stop staring really difficult; it was like that hideous game you play when you’re kids. I could never do it. My eyeballs always hurt after five seconds – the eye equivalent of a stitch – and I’d blink more than ever. Playing it with your brother was bad enough, playing it with a complete stranger was totally freaking me out. The second guy… oh god help me, it was Elton again, and he now looked even more of a nutter. The staring brought out a random twitch at the side of his nose. He looked like he was wincing at a constant bad egg smell or that he was a very sensitive bunny rabbit. I wanted to focus on something else, like his chest hair, but that was against the rules. The eyes it was. It was unbearable.

      Ozzy was next. He looked as enchanted as I was. He stared at me in quite a hostile manner for the first minute and nodded off for the second. I looked across at Sam. She was on the table by the door opposite someone who looked like Rod Stewart, and had another full glass of wine in front of her. She winked at me and I shrugged in return.

      The klaxon sounded. It was time for Mr Osbourne to move on. I nudged his elbow with my hand. He blinked his kohled eyes, mumbled, ‘See you’ and meandered off.

      Fourth starer was Kanye. He didn’t blink once. I felt like I was going into a trance. He was like the snake singing ‘Trust in Me’ from the Jungle Book – I thought the whites of my eyes would turn into spirals and I’d fall away in a dead faint.

      Finally, it was over and Kanye loped off to scare Katy Perry half to death. It really wasn’t going very well, so far. None of these men were for me; there was no one here I liked. I was incredulous at the thought someone could waltz into my life in four days’ time. How ridiculous!

      Oh, hang on, I thought, things could be looking up. Mick Jagger was slouching up to the table. I liked his style and didn’t think he’d even come in fancy dress. He wore a louche, undone paisley scarf over a navy velvet jacket extremely well; his skinny jeans and pointy boots were just the right side of flamboyant. He sat down with a waft of aftershave and a lopsided grin, Nigel’s klaxon went off, and we began looking into each other’s eyes. It was really intense – quite sexy. Ooh, he could be interesting. His eyes were really dark and broody, his eyebrows all dense and quizzical and he looked like he was not only undressing me with his eyes but tethering me to a willow tree and whipping me lightly with peacock feathers. By the time the klaxon sounded I was quivering slightly and praying that when I spoke to him in the next round he’d have a voice like a rumbling Heathcliff and not disappoint with an unmanly helium squeak.

      The remaining contents of an eighties reunion festival, Ringo, Bruce, Bruno and that low rent Michael Bublé later, Nigel announced the third round with two blasts of that bloody klaxon and a balletic twirl. He was staggering around a bit now and laughing wildly at random, while Isobel glared disapprovingly from the wings and waved a grubby gloved finger at him. Finally, I’d get to actually talk to someone, I thought. Bring it on. Let’s get this whole charade over with, and as quickly as possible.

      Up first to the post was Ozzy and he cut straight to the chase.

      ‘Do you fancy me?’

      ‘Do what?’

      He acknowledged my surprise. ‘Well, no point beating about the bush, is there?’

      He would never be beating or anything else about my bush, so I decided to join him in the straight-talking.

      ‘No, there isn’t. And no, I don’t fancy you.’

      ‘Ditto,’ he said. ‘You’re a bit too fat. Next!’ and he made a great show of looking behind him as though Britney bloody Spears was going to be waiting there, ready to fall at his ridiculous feet. Well, actually she was. She had a pina colada in her hand and was swaying slightly, in front of the bar.

      ‘The klaxon hasn’t gone yet,’ I said tersely. ‘And I am not fat.’ Fat! How dare he? At least he could have had the decency to say curvaceous. He should pack up his Tinder and go.

      ‘I’ll just go and hover,’ he said. He downed the rest of his beer, issued a small belch and went and stood at the next table, where pole-dancing Katy was tittering at Bruno Mars.

      At least he was honest, I thought, as I gave a giant sigh. About not fancying me, that was. And I’d been honest with him. I suppose this was the point of speed dating, right? Quick fire. Do you like me, yes or no? Then move on, as quickly as possible. It was very cut throat, and also very antiquated, really. Men move round and round, all proactive, while women wait at the tables like sitting ducks. Still, you could argue I was proactive simply being there. I was out. I was open to suggestion. I was not sitting at home with a box set of Mad Men and a large portion of chocolate cheesecake.

      I smiled ruefully and looked around the room. Some people were laughing, others sat in nervous or cheesed-off stony silence. A few women were furiously hair-flicking. The only people actually roaring with laughter were the hosts. Isobel had got over her disapproval and she and Nigel were now hanging onto each other in convulsions. She had a large glass of something in her hand. He was stroking her wig.

      Timberlake, Jackson et al passed through my table on their way to better prospects. None of them were very interesting or at all interested in me. Our

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