Welcome to Hell. Hell is not the fiery furnace you doubtless learnt about at school, oh no, Hell is a drafty pub on a cold winter’s night at a singles’ mixer – Romance at the Last Chance Saloon.

It sounded like fun. My friend Emma – gorgeous, sweet and still available – got invited to a pre-Valentine’s singles’ night. The invitation promised cocktails and food in a relaxed and sophisticated atmosphere along with the chance to meet lovely, single men. What could be better? Blokes, food, booze – these, surely, are the three essential ingredients for a good night out. It would have been great, except for the terms and conditions, which unfortunately applied.
Emma has been Internet dating for a few months, and while she’s had a lot of dates – and, it has to be said, a lot of sex – she’s still out there, searching for the elusive Mr. Right. Going to the singles’ party seemed a good idea, then: it would give her the chance to meet a lot of men in one swoop, a kind of sexual pick ’n’ mix.
I have to admit, there are times I miss being single. Don’t get me wrong, I’m crazy about Thomas, but sometimes I long for the thrill of anticipation that comes with meeting a stranger. The eyes meeting across the room, the flirting and the sexual tension – delicious stuff! So when Emma invited me along to the party to act as her wingman – or should that be wingperson? – I didn’t hesitate. I could be a pseudo-single, practice my flirting, and road test the talent for her.
I had the first inkling that something was amiss as soon as we arrived. The singles party wasn’t in a private function room; it was all hapening smack bang in the middle of the pub. I’d been to a lock and key party in similar circumstances before and it was a complete disaster. If this night turned out to be similar, no amount of free cocktails would numb the pain.
The over-enthusiastic organiser, who had all the charm of a Dublin socialite on speed, handed us nametags and waved us towards the drinks – punch, that was heavy on the Ribena and seemed oddly innocent of alcohol – with orders to ‘mingle’. Mingling was what we’d had in mind – after all there’s no point in going to a singles party and sitting alone in the corner – but it would have been nice if the old battleaxe had provided us people to mingle with.
The organisers had promised around fifty people would be attending. Lies, damn lies. Emma and I had arrived fashionably late but this had not gone according to plan. The pub was reasonably full, but not for the party. Besides the two of us, there were five other women, a bloke with a bandage over his eye and a quiet young man who didn’t seem to understand the concept of small talk. Oh goody.
Emma, being an optimist, decided we’d wait a bit to see if things picked up. I, on the other hand was already feeling pretty miserable, despite necking back two glasses of punch. There were plenty of fit blokes in the pub, but not a single one of them was wearing a nametag. Those damn tags! Mine may have said “Anne” but it might as well have said “Leper” – because that’s how it made me feel, especially after being on the receiving end of a smug look from a guy who was no great shakes himself.
After an hour or so, which were spent chatting to the ladies, some blokes finally arrived. Now I’m not trying to be pernickety, but you’d think it would make sense to arrange these evenings so that people whose ages and interests were roughly similar would end up sharing a room together – but this was not the case.
Emma and I both got chatting to a bloke named Aidan. He seemed very nice, but was as uninterested in us as we were in him. He wasn’t looking for a “young one” he informed us. He hated Dublin, owned a farm somewhere in Meath, and was the divorced father of two little girls. A great catch for some lucky lady, no doubt, but had we been keen on meeting men with a wee bit of land, we’d have gone to Lisdoonvarna and bribed the matchmaker, not headed into town in our finery.
Anyone who has ever attended a singles night will know that things can go either way. Either it’s a bit of a laugh, which no-one takes too seriously – with the added bonus of a chance of scoring, or it’s a complete disaster. Unfortunately for us, this night fulfilled the second job description.
We all need a little bit of sex and romance in our lives, particularly at this time of year. Not just because the Hallmark Holiday of Love is around the corner, but because it’s cold and nasty out. There’s no better way to spend the weekend than in bed with a snug and sexy companion, listening to the wind howl outside.
But trying to find it can be tricky. According to the philosophy of the love and dating industry, it takes time and effort to find true love. This I can live with, but why they want you to do it in socially excruciating circumstances is beyond me.
About two hours later, I could take no more. Another Ribena-plus and I would have turned into a blackcurrant, and any more divorced fathers of five with sob stories of wicked ex-wives and I would go off men forever. Emma and I decided that while her quest to find her true love this evening was a bust, dancing would at least be fun.
This turned out to be a remarkably wise idea. On the middle of the crowded dance floor, Emma shared a long kiss with a sexy stranger, took his number and agreed to meet him next week. Will it turn out to be the big romance? Probably not; but I’m sure she’ll have fun finding out.
Then again, you never know. Sometimes love happens when you least expect it.