In 1989 I went on Blind Date. It didn’t go to plan.
For those who didn’t grow up in Britain, Blind Date was a Saturday night dating show on ITV, hosted by Cilla Black, and back then it felt like the whole country was watching. One contestant sat on one side of a screen and asked three hopefuls on the other side a string of cheesy questions. They never saw them. They picked one on the answers alone, the pair were sent off on a date, and the following week they came back to tell everyone how it went. Usually badly.
I was watching it with my flatmates one Saturday night when they decided I should apply. So I did.
I was number two in the line-up. I’d love to tell you what she asked and how brilliantly I answered, but it was a very long time ago and I can’t remember a word of it. Judging by the result, neither could she.
She didn’t pick me.
Somebody else went off to Gibraltar. I’ll never know what I missed, and I’ve had thirty-seven years to get over it.
I did have hair back then. Proper hair, the kind you could actually do something with. It’s gone now, along with whatever dignity I had left that night, and I don’t expect either of them back.
It did cure me of something, though. I was number two that night, and I’ve refused to be anybody’s number two ever since. Three marriages suggest I haven’t always been brilliant at the picking part, but I’ve never again stood behind a screen hoping to be someone’s backup option.
That’s where a blind date and a blind box part company. Open a blind box and you always get something, even if it isn’t the one you wanted. Blind Date gave me a story and a video, and that was it.
The video stays in the drawer. But here’s one picture, so you can see the hair for yourselves. I still miss it more than I miss her.
