Velvet Cloak, Zero Chemistry: My Night Smirking Through Twelve Rounds of Manchester Speed Dating

There comes a point in every Moan-a Lisa writer's career when the smirk has to go out into the world and fend for itself. Mine came last Thursday, in a basement bar off Deansgate, where a speed dating event promised 'twelve dates, two drinks, zero pressure' — a slogan that turned out to be roughly as accurate as 'La Gioconda: it's basically a nice landscape'.

The rules were simple. Twelve rounds of four minutes each. Bell rings, everyone shuffles left, repeat. I would be attending not as myself but as the persona this site was practically built on: enigmatic, faintly amused, painted-by-numbers. Velvet cloak. Smirk calibrated to 'knows something you don't, possibly about your bins'.

Round One: The Warm-Up Wipeout

My first date was a scaffolder called Gary who asked what I did for a living. I said, 'I sit. Occasionally I smile.' Four minutes is a long time when you refuse to elaborate. Gary filled the silence by telling me about his nan's conservatory, which — credit where due — was more engaging than anything happening behind my eyes. He scored me a three out of ten and wrote 'weird but polite' on his card. Honestly? Fair.

Rounds Two Through Five: The Smirk Meets Scepticism

Round two was Debbie, a teaching assistant from Kirkby who clocked the cloak before she'd sat down. 'Alright, Batman,' she said. 'What's the story?'

I attempted smouldering ambiguity. She attempted not laughing. She won. 'My mate said the quiet mysterious ones are either brilliant or on telly,' she told me, 'and you're neither, love.' I wrote 'devastating' on my scorecard. Not about her. About me.

By round four I'd developed a system: open with the smirk, hold for eight seconds, then crack and offer a fun fact about Leonardo. This worked on exactly one person — a PhD student who said my 'commitment to the bit' was 'weirdly attractive', which is the nicest thing anyone's said to me since a car boot sale in Wigan.

The Stats Bit (Because Someone Has To)

Here's the thing about speed dating in 2024: the odds are genuinely not terrible. Events like this typically see around 60–70% of attendees match with at least one person, which is a far better hit rate than the apps, where the average UK single swipes for upwards of an hour a day for roughly one decent conversation a fortnight. Four minutes of eye contact, it turns out, does more heavy lifting than six weeks of 'sorry, just seen this!'

The catch, I learned, is that the eye contact has to come from an actual person. Renaissance mystique, it transpires, reads less as 'mysterious' and more as 'unclear if blinking'.

Rounds Six Through Ten: Peak Ambiguity, Diminishing Returns

Somewhere around round seven I stopped being a persona and started being a man in a cloak who'd had two warm lagers. My smirk had developed a cramp. A nurse named Priya asked if I was 'doing a character' and I said yes, and she said, 'It's going really well, keep going,' in a tone that meant the opposite.

Round nine was the highlight: a bloke named Steve who was ALSO in disguise — a full Regency outfit, cravat and all. We sat in silence, smirking at each other like two portraits that had escaped down the same fire escape. The bell rang before either of us broke character. The room applauded, briefly, then went back to ignoring us. Steve matched with four people. I matched with zero. The cravat, I can only assume, was the difference.

The Verdict: Does Smouldering Ambiguity Count as a Personality?

No. It does not. I have the scorecards to prove it, and several of them just say 'why' in different handwriting.

But here's my defence of the smirk, written from the train home with the cloak stuffed in a tote bag: ambiguity is only charming when there's a person underneath it worth un-ambiguating. Leonardo's sitter had the advantage of being painted rather than having to make small talk about conservatories. Gary's nan's conservatory, for the record, sounded lovely, and I regret not asking more.

Would I do it again? Absolutely — next time without the cloak, with the smirk dialled down to 'fondly amused' instead of 'haunted by the Renaissance'. And if a Regency gentleman named Steve is reading this: you were the true masterpiece of that basement, and I hope the cravat is thriving.

Final scores: Matches: 0. Compliments on the cloak: 3. Compliments on the smirk: 1 (ironic). Requests to 'do a normal smile': 7. Renaissance rating: ★★☆☆☆ — beautiful, impractical, best admired from a distance.