Internet dating sites pave the way for even the most socially awkward singles to portray themselves as the ultimate catch to a sea of women on the prowl for their, or rather 'a' one.
Through a combination of carefully executed messages and flattering camera angles, they are able to falsely advertise their way to a drink and inevitable demise. Oddly so many of these hopefuls are oblivious to the fact that, when the 6 ft witty adonis they claim to be is actually 5ft five with a limp, a lisp and the grace of a pre-pubescent teen, it is inevitably going to go badly.
My recent date with Hans from Sweden is a prime example of the dangers of shopping for love. Over messages Hans almost made me ROFL so was definitely worth a drink.
Arranging to meet at stereotypical first date venue, Gordon's Wine Bar, Hans flicks through the menu with panic etched across his face.
I ask if he's okay.
"Yes, I just try to find something that is not wine," he replies.
Having arranged to meet in a wine bar I would have thought it a logical assumption to jump to that they would serve predominantly wine.
"Don't you like wine?" I ask, to which he responds, in a very Swedish and very loud voice with dramatic up-speak.
"No because zen I wooood has a giiiiirrrlfrieeend".
We're off to a good start.
Several minutes of faffing later and Hans settles for a glass of house red and the bar tender pours two glasses to the very brim. I sense he senses my pain.
"Oh zey are veeerrry full no," he exclaims, turning to me and shouting: "Vaaaat ver you theenking ordering red vine in a bizzi vine bar?????" in my face before whisking the drinks high above his head, addressing the room as he makes his exit with the words:
"Scuse me viine coming through viiine coming through."
We are followed by every eye in the room.
As we sit down and try to hold a conversation Hans is twitchy and his eyes keep darting to the side. I ask him if he's okay and he confesses that, being multi-lingual and suffering from ADD, he cannot concentrate on what I am saying because of the Russians sat at the next table and demands we move to where a young girl is reading quietly.
We begin to talk again and he tells me about people's lack of respect for pens, all the while harking back to the good old days when people took pride in their ballpoints.
Before long a girl comes and sits down, reading girl closes her book and they begin to talk, as people generally do in busy wine bars.
Colour draining from his cheeks, ashen Hans' face is grave: "oh no, eet is appening again," he exclaims.
As I long for the comfort of my bed the bad situation continues to get worse and I am most certainly not seeing the funny side.
Escaping to the toilet to compose myself I return to find Hans lecturing the girls at the next table about women's rights in the workplace. He springs up when he notices me and dashes off to get more drinks, leaving three girls and an awkward silence lingering behind.
Incapable of lying Hans relays a woeful tale of how his application for life insurance was turned down when he was asked if he had ever dabbled with drugs.
"I said yes, I smoked the herb once, but it was nine years ago. The lady on the phone, she say to mee, if you say it was 10 years ago then we can insure you. Nine years? You are classified drug addict, I can pretend that I never heard what you just said."
He paused pensively, before adding: "But I cannot lie, so I did not get life insurance."
I drank my drink, yawned dramatically, exclaimed "goodness is that the time," complained about having to be up early and went home.
The following week I met up with social networking manager Rob, who ironically possessed no social skills yet complained that people applying for roles in his company were too socially awkward.
He was not impressed by the waiter automatically serving me a large wine, commenting, "goodness, I'm glad I ordered beer now." Even less impressed by me teaching my nephew the term "pooh head," he spent the vast majority of the date banging on about marriage, babies and how he's a natural with children.
Thankfully he made the decision to call it a night at 9.30 and, having been led to believe that there was a definite mutual unattraction, I breathed a sigh of relief.
At the tube I gave him an awkward hug farewell, turning my face just in time as the kiss he intended to plant on my mouth slurped across my cheek with a dissatisfying smack. Sadly I think this uneventfully mediocre date was probably about as eventful as social networking manager Rob's life ever gets.
There's those that don't even warrant a date. An 18 year old, a man offering to sire my children and provide financial stability in return for regular extra-marital affairs and a pleasant young gent who's only photos were of his penis, around which he sported a tattoo of Pinocchio's face, and a woman being spit roasted.
And the forward men either offering 'discreet' fun or demanding blow jobs:
Him: "Will you give me a blow job."
Me: "Only if I can use teeth."
Him: "Oooooh kinky, what else will you do?"
And finally those without a shred of humour, such as this bland chap:
Him: "You do know you have "dogging" as an interest don't you?"
Me: "Of course. And basket weaving and tractor pulling, they're heavily underrated pursuits."
Him: "Just so we're clear, this is my understanding of the term dogging (link to wikipedia)."
Picking up a copy of Time Out and turning to the "strange conversations you've overheard this week" section, someone had texted in about disrespect for pens.
