Cupid Gets the Point

It was 6 0'clock on Thursday evening and I had made my decision much earlier in the day. No, I would not be going out to that London singles meetup off the internet, no I would not be wasting my makeup, and yes, I would be preserving my dignity. So it was inevitable that I would throw down my art pencil, and proudly exclaim, "Singles, here I come." Well, I have never been to one, and I am always looking for new levels of wrong. Not that all similar groups are wrong, but my spidey-sense was twitching.

On went the meticulously applied eyeliner and trademark red lipstick. I decided that my usual level of sexy would seem plain desperate in this environment, so I decided to show off the legs, (which at 35" on the inside, are one of my best features), and cover the top.

And she's off...

No, no she's not. Where is her appropriate coat? Bollocks, it's a Alistair's.

Call Alistair. Odd - no answer. Alistair recently told me that I did not need to ask to go round. Despite knowing that this is one of the silliest notions ever, I really needed my coat...

So with that, I strode purposefully, yet sexily out the door, (ignoring the cigarette hanging out of my mouth). I teetered up the steps to his house, punched in my access code, and upon entering, launched myself up the stairs. "Hello...? Alistair...?" The house seemed empty. I made my way up to the office, and there he was. With a face that had "bad time" written all over it, and a little storm-cloud hovering above his head. I asked if he was ok, and he shifted awkwardly. I said I needed my coat, and walked into the office. The ex was in one of the chairs, scrunched down, with her face buried into the back. She must have been crying, and she's the type who likes to feign invulnerability. Personally, I am all for bawling in public.

I grabbed my coat, refused to divulge my rather sad destination, and got the hell out.

We were told several million had been spent on the decor, we were told it was exclusive. It sits in the heart of Mayfair, so why shouldn't it be? As it transpired, Singles Night was held in a basement club consisting of two levels. Both designed to look like a 1980s nightclub from the Essex suburbs that thinks it's extra decadent. I basked in the splendour. Think cheap pink chaise-lounge with gold trim... think ornamental giant gold phallus in corner, think plastic perspex dancefloor with television screens underneath, connected to a camera filming the whole room... And then the overwhelming glory dimished when I surveyed the various life-forms surrounding me. Actually that makes it sound like the place was packed. To be honest, I was looking at a smattering of males with various degrees of social ineptitude. There was a small female contingent, which, apart from mad-mature-lady-in-floral-frock-and-brown-leather-bum-bag, seemed attractive and well adjusted. One by one, they departed rapidly.

Gin in hand, I decided to avoid eye-contact by staring at the large photo-slideshow on the wall. My suspicions were confirmed. This was a strip-joint. The curtained booths kinda gave the game away. Oh, the glory. The club proprieter clearly fancied himself, featuring in every other picture. He was old and round, and looked like a cross between an extra on Eastenders and a seaside-resort comedian from the 70s. He was resplendent in his vibrant pink suit, which was quite the most aggressive shade of pink that I have ever seen. What followed were several pictures of him with celebrities. As I sipped my gin, I pondered how he had come to be opening a car door for Cherie Boothe.

My train of thought was interrupted by a vacant looking man in a sports t-shirt and denim jacket and hat. He looked like he collected dolls. The kind that have convenient holes, and need a good wipe. We were surrounded by posters that shouted "Sexy and Single!", and I wondered if they could be prosecuted for false advertising. It became very clear why this man was still single. He proceeded to spend the next twenty minutes talking at me in monotone about the structure of the dancefloors of London. I was dying inside. I ran to the security of the loo.

It was bejewelled and punctuated with hearts. The sink was a heart. The lights were hearts. I threw open a cubicle door and was confronted by an odd shaped toilet seat lid, with a giant conch which had been made to look even more vagina-like. I stood and stared, and the woman in there with me told me to open the other doors. One contained a giant rhinestone egg, which one had to open the front of to reveal the toilet-seat. Another contained a giant plump, red mouth, where you could sit on the lower lip, and lean back on the upper. My loo of choice was a giant toad-stool, with Alice all the way from Wonderland looming over it.

During the evening, there were three men who were notable for their conversational skills. I mean to say that they could actually hold a coversation. One was a fairly cute black guy from Atlanta. He was around my age and had a gorgeous accent. He was nice enough, but not for me. He told me that the table of guys he was sitting with had been "checking me out", apparently thinking I was attractive enough, but too tall. I am used to this.

Rudy was the club photographer. He kept following me out to smoke and to tell me about all his amazing photographic escapades. I told him I frequented unusual clubs, and he leant in and whispered that he had done pictures at a fetish club once. He refused to allow me to leave without first taking my photo, and on our way back in, my heart leapt for joy. There, seated by the bar, was Mr. Pink himself. I was almost blinded by colour. "Rudy, make sure you take a picture of this beautiful woman," he barked. Rudy did. Sadly Rudy also tried to tempt me into the back room under the pretence of the privacy necessary to pose naturally.

As I left, Mr. Pink offered me a drink, asked me if I modelled, and promptly invited me to a sex party next week, which in his own words would be "A real one".

Oh, and man-who-collects-dolls was seen leaving with brown-leather-bum-bag-lady.