Speed-dating is the latest craze sweeping the nation, so who better to run the gauntlet of rejection, paranoia and alcoholic bravado than uk-fusion’s very own pin-up boy Michael

Some people just aren't designed to stumble across a night-club floor, sloshing drink akimbo as they go, to wander up to a vacant-looking blonde and shout clumsy chat-up lines that smell like rotting Stilton into her ear above the background din of Gareth Gates or Steps.

In fact, if that sounds like your idea of chat-up hell - and let's face it, hell is what it is - there may be a better way, and that better way is known as 'speed dating'.  Nothing to do with amphetamines, this is essentially organised blind dating en masse - 30 women, 30 men (note to all venture capitalists - that's 60 sets of registration fees) and three minutes a-piece.

Effectively, you get 30 "mini-dates" in the evening - three minutes with each member of the opposite sex.  At the end of each "date", you mark your score-card (which makes it a bit like golf - and, also like golf, some holes are harder work than others - sorry) to mark whether you'd be interested in seeing them again or not. Sounds painless? Of course it does. So, in the interests of cutting-edge investigative journalism, and because I'm bored with whacking off to Shania Twain videos, I decided to give it a go. 

What follows is a blow-by-blow (sorry) account of the evening's events - to protect the innocent, the names of the girls have been changed and replaced with characters from The Muppet Show.

6.30pm - Feel worse than I do before a job interview. Perhaps understandably, seeing as in an hour's time I will be rubbing shoulders (and that's all) with complete strangers of the opposite sex who have been empowered to stamp "reject" on my forehead with a branding iron. Well, not literally, but that's how it feels.  Check teeth, hair, shirt, jeans and hair again.  That's actually not unusual for me, so I do it twice to be sure.  Cross fingers and hope the men will be ugly losers with halitosis and gravestone teeth.  Cross fingers again and hope the women will be open-minded supermodels.  Slap self round face as reality check.

7pm - Last trace of "anti-nerve agent" (a.k.a. whisky) burning its way down to my stomach.  It's not too late to turn round.  I don't have to do this. It's only cost me under 20 quid.  What's that advert?  "Not having your ego trampled underfoot by a stampede of single women blatantly out of your league? Priceless."  Or something.  Arrive at venue.  Have a suspicion I'm sweating.  Great.  "Hi there! I'm Michael, and I leak like the Hoover dam!  Pleased to meet you!"  Deep breath.  Cigarette.  Deep breath.  In we go.

7:15pm - They say this is the worst bit - they're right.  It seems like everyone else has come with a friend.  Feel like a neon sign flashing "LOSER" is hovering above my head.  Have another drink and make small talk.  Nobody else smokes.  I'm sure I've seen one of the men here hanging around the local primary school. There's another who looks like he was thrown out of the Addams family for being too tall, and that's definitely the accountant from The Office over there.  This is going to be a disaster.  What am I doing?

7:30pm - My first date is with a girl called Gonzo.  It's actually pretty cool - we get chatting and just as we're getting comfortable and our arms are unfolded and the nervous laughs are put on hold, the bell rings and it's time to move to the next table.  Try to think of some great questions instead of "where are you from?" and "what do you do?"  Have another drink.  This isn't too bad.

7.50pm - Have now settled into the routine.  Decided to ask who their childhood hero was for opening question.  Becoming swiftly apparent that everyone's feeling the same as me - nervous, but getting on with it.  I believe this is what we refer to as 'The Dunkirk Spirit'.  Quite liked Fozzie Bear, not sure about Ralph or Animal.  Realise I haven't been making notes, which could make the next day's registering of "yes" votes quite amusing.

7.54pm - First compliment from Swedish Chef!  Hurrah!  This is brilliant. Have another drink.  Convinced I'm getting funnier by the minute.

7.55pm - Hey!  That wasn't three minutes!  This is getting ridiculous. Resolve to speak to her later.  Try to give her a winning smile.  Suspect she now thinks I have toothache.

8.12pm - First drinks break.  Talk a bit more to two girls I've already "dated".  They seem nice.  Everyone seems nice.  Ah.  I'm getting drunk. That's what it is.  And I still haven't made any notes.

8.45pm - First dissenting comment!  Boo!  "I don't like your nose-stud", says Miss Piggy.  Being the caring, sharing and sensitive soul that I am, I do not tell her that I'm sure I recognise her from the 3:15 at Cheltenham.  Actually couldn't care less what she thinks.  This is great! Confidence!  Woo-hoo!

9.27pm - "You're good looking," says Kermit, and I sort of go "aaah" and start foaming at the mouth.  Not literally.  That wouldn't look good.  Still very taken with Swedish Chef, but Kermit seems nice too, and I probably am only saying that because she said that to me but I don't care. Abandon all hope of hanging on to sobriety. Oh dear.

9.28 - 10.13pm - Seem to have discovered missing link in space-time continuum whereby everything that happened in this span of time is a blur.  More dating, another drink, more dating, some small talk, the impression that by now everyone's knackered and just wants to go home.  It's tiring, putting yourself through this.

10.14pm - Wander home clutching score-card, feeling pretty happy. Doubt anything will come of it, but feel pretty good about myself and that's alright with me.  Ego still intact.  Eat chicken kebab on way home, having rediscovered appetite, then throw salad around living room by accident.  Realise existential irony that this would have caused a row if I was living with a girl.  Laugh heartily.  Pass out.