The perils - or merits - of Internet dating

'I'm starting to think Lisa was right,' Martine mulled, inspecting her watch for the fiftieth time, slumping against the pub wall as though she could melt into it, and wishing she'd worn trousers.  'This is a bit of a dumb meeting place.  I feel so bloody conspicuous!  And I'm cold.' 

She rewound to last night's squabble, in which her sister had warned that, on a Saturday afternoon in March, this spit 'n' sawdust backstreet was possibly not the wisest venue for a blind date.

'The Station?' Lisa had grimaced dubiously.

'It's a pub,' Martine explained patronisingly, 'near to...er, the station!'

'I know where it is,' Lisa snapped, 'by reputation, if nothing else.  It's a bit rough round there, Mart.  And secluded.  Shouldn't you pick a more public place?  Bearing in mind you've never even met this guy?'

Martine huffed dramatically.  'It's a bit late to start changing the arrangements now.  And why should I anyway?  He's not some hideous old perv.'

'I wouldn't be too sure about that - especially if he's familiar with places like the Station.  All sorts hang out in there, you  know.  "Hang out" sometimes being the operative phrase, if you know what I mean.'  A protective wave of big-sister concern overcame Lisa.  'Oh Mart, are you sure you really want to go through with this?'

'Yes,' Martine snapped stubbornly.  'Nice try, Lise!  I know you don't approve of this whole Internet dating thing.  Just let me lead my life, eh?'

'I just think you're far too young to be so desperate.  You're only twenty-two, for God's - '

'I'm not desperate!'

'Well he must be, at any rate, if he has to advertise to get girlfriends.  He probably makes Mr Bean look hunky.'

'Oh, sour grapes!  He's probably gorgeous.  He sounds it, in any case.  With a fantastic personality. Anyway, this is the way people meet nowadays, dear.  You should try it yourself, Lise.  You're still single, after all.'

'No thanks!  I'll stick to dates with blokes I've actually seen before.'

'You're only jealous because nothing ever happens to you, I bet.  I'll pity you tomorrow afternoon, mooching at home while I'm out having an adventure with my mysterious Milk Tray hunk.'
 

But pity was the last thing Martine now felt for her sensible sister, snugly at home while she was dallying about in this naively short skirt and drawing pervy ogles from scroggy old men.  Not that she'd have told Lisa that for the world.  Martine was stubborn.  And allergic to admitting she was wrong.

'He will be gorgeous,' she said insistently to herself.  'Mr Bean indeed!  Poor old Lise just doesn't have a clue.'

She raked her mind back over Damian's advert, to which she'd replied a week ago.

What do you get if you cross Robbie Williams, Frank Skinner, David Beckham and, er, Cliff Richard?  Me - because I'm 30, witty, athletic...yet in a terminal state of singledom.  But the latter can soon be rectified if you get in touch with me...

Lisa had scoffed, of course - calling it 'the work of a corny sleazeball.'

'You're actually going out with a guy who compares himself to Cliff Richard?  Oh, sis!'

'He just means he's single, that's all.  Probably lonely too.  He isn't saying he looks like him, or he's like 60-odd, or anything.  He's only 30 - look!'

'Yeah right - so he says!'

But Damian had sounded fun, and not at all fogey-like, in his subsequent e-mail, the one he'd sent Mart within hours of her replying to his ad.  They'd exchanged one or two more, and before she could blink she'd found herself agreeing to this meeting time and place.  Saturday, 2pm, outside the Station pub. 

It had all progressed a tad more urgently than she'd expected, to be honest.  A week ago, she'd never even heard of this Damian chap, and ideally she'd have preferred a few weeks to establish a more intimate Internet rapport before meeting.  But she was afraid to procrastinate and lose him to some wittier, very possibly prettier ad-respondent.

'I am doing the right thing,' she drilled herself even as she froze outside that grim pub, 'striking while the proverbial iron is hot.  While he still sounds keen on me.  Because that's all I want - a man who's rapt.'

She was easily pleased, was our Mart.  At twenty-two, she was not a virgin but still had yet to attain true 'girlfriend' status with someone.  Most of her friends were loved up, some were even engaged, while she was lonely; missing out.  Well she'd had enough!  And since her trawls of time-honoured 'pull' venues, like clubs and work, had proved fruitless, she was employing less traditional methods of bagging That Special Someone.

'Why did I have to arrive so damn early, though?' she huffed, glaring at her watch again and stamping her feet as if she could pound the numb chill out of them. 'And I wish that old goat over there would stop leering.  Ugh - as if!'

Her view was suddenly beautified by a trio of lads, the first people she had encountered that afternoon who were of a non-ugly persuasion.  They didn't see Martine, but she scrutinised their every feature with her Damian radar on red alert: mmm, early twenties, nice friendly grins, uniformly lanky in their studenty jeans and dark brown, Britpop hair; all jostles and banter. 

And then one of them - the best-looking, swarthiest, woolliest-eyebrowed one, Martine noted with keen interest (she had - if such a condition existed - a bit of an eyebrow fetish) - started to lope out of the group, announcing: 'I'd best get going now, lads.  Been great meeting up with you again, though.'

'Yeah, look after yourself mate.  I'll text you soon.'

'See ya, Daymo.'

And while his mates made tracks in the opposite direction, Eyebrows strode towards the railway, the pub - and Martine.

Daymo!

'Daymo's short for Damian!'  Mart was so pathetically elated, she actually yelped this out loud and pounced on the poor lad, causing those shrubby brows to take up residence in his windswept hairline.

'Yes, I suppose it could be,' he spluttered, with a mix of amusement and alarm.

Martine's heart flipped like a dolphin in a sealife centre show.  He was gorgeous!  She thought defiantly: 'I'll show you, bitch-Lisa - you and your Mr Bean comments!'

'I'm Martine,' she gibbered, still clinging on to him, 'as you'll no doubt have gathered!  Oh, it's so great that you're early, Damian!'

'Early?'

'Yes, it's still only half-one, and you said two in your e-mail.  I do like a man who makes an effort.  Obviously I'm mega early myself, but that's because I just couldn't wait to meet you.  Your advert was so great, Damian!  Well, now we've got this extra half-hour to get to know each other better.  Oh, I knew this was Fate!'

'Er...'

'Anyway, what are we waiting for?  Let's go for a drink!'  Martine brazenly linked arms and starting manoeuvring her new companion towards the shabby pub.

For his part, Damon Edwards was too flabbergasted to protest.  This was turning into the most surreal Saturday of his life.  This Martine, or whatever her name was, was a definite fruitcake (even if Damon didn't know this area well enough to assume she was a hooker, like the other men who'd gawped at her today had).  He rarely ventured into the city at all, in fact.  He'd only come today to buy a Mother's Day present and meet up with his old uni mates Chris and Sean.

But then Damon looked again at Martine - really looked at her - and decided she was actually a rather pretty fruitcake.  He had absolutely no idea what she was burbling on about, with all her talk of adverts and e-mails, and calling him 'Damian,' but she didn't seem the dangerous type. 

It was, he deduced, a simple case of mistaken identity.  He would enlighten her about it over a drink, and they would enjoy a good laugh over it.  She seemed the type who would see the funny side, after an initial flush of embarrassment.

Damon couldn't help a grimace, however, as he noticed his surroundings.

'Actually, let's not go in this pub.  It looks a bit rough.'  He grabbed Martine's arm and diverted her away from the Station's dingy doorway.  She was surprised - after all, this was the very venue Damian had suggested in his e-mail - but didn't protest.  In fact, she took it as a compliment; a sign he thought she belonged in smarter places.

Damon took Martine to a wine bar, where they spent a wonderful afternoon.  Five years later, they got married.

'See - Internet dating does work,' Mart told her nonplussed bridesmaid, Lisa, 'well, sort of!'

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Whilst Damon and Martine had been falling in love that Saturday, the 'real' Damian was lurking in his incongruously sleek Jag outside the Station.  Well, he was Damian today ('the Devil himself,' as he was fond of chuckling to his most faithful companion - his mirror) - who knew what mantle he might adopt tomorrow?

He tapped his steering wheel a touch irritably.  The lassie he'd arranged to meet today (what was her name again - Martine, or something?) was late, and he did so hate to be kept waiting.  Especially with a car like his in an area such as this.  Never mind, if she didn't turn up, there would be plenty more where she came from.  And if she did, well she would just have to be punished for her unpunctuality...

It was turning into quite a hobby, this Internet dating.  He had lured shoals of girls with these ads.  First, he'd seduce them with his humour and lonely bachelor charade.  All that Cliff Richard rubbish!  Then when he arrived to collect them, they'd be seduced by the Jaguar and the classy aftershave, and forget all about wanting a self-deprecating man who could make them laugh. 

And forgive him for fibbing just a tiny bit about his age.

Then he'd whisk them off to his apartment (the bachelor pad he kept for weekend use - far away, of course, from the house where he kept his wife), soften them up with a slug of whisky, and then...well, whatever...

And Martine would never know what a lucky escape she had had.