A very blind date

No, luckily not something involving me, but rather a horrible live-on-air incident that happened on a show called Blind Date in the UK in 1997.

We all know the format: a guy or girl chooses a partner for a blind date by listening to the responses of three “invisible” hopefuls. In Blind Date, the losers, boy or girl, are dunked in a pond on their way out. The winner gets to go on a blind date — the better end of the stick, one would think.

But it wasn’t to be for an unfortunate New Zealand fellow who found himself chosen and whisked away with romantic music on a date with a confident and attractive blonde woman on his arm. The host, Sixties Liverpool singer Cilla Black, was very good at extracting the twinkle of romantic promise in the build-up to the date.

“Go off and have fun now, you two,” was the general mood. “And come back next week and tell us all about it …”

So, it was a week later and the previous week’s couple was back in the studio.

On came the footage of their date. Hadn’t gone too badly, it seemed, though the location was a bit “careful” — a daytime excursion to some farmyard zoo. Romance was in the air as the couple fed ducks and stuff. Lots of smiles and laughter. The cameras followed the jolly couple around as they rode on donkeys. The New Zealand chap looked a bit awkward, holding on for dear life. There were funny little ditties on violins. The live studio audience shared in the light mood of excitement, prompted by host Cilla Black.

The solo interviews came on. Here now was what they really thought of one another, confessed in privacy for all to see. On the TV screen one saw the interview snippets, with a block right next to it to show the affected partner’s immediate reaction: a rather ingenious, if somewhat cruel, television device.

First up, the sensitive New Zealand fellow. He had had a wonderful time, we heard. Cheering from the audience. He was really keen to see her again (aahhh), wouldn’t say no to romance if it came to that (wooooo). Oh, very sweet. The woman looked mildly uncomfortable at these nakedly honest revelations.

It was over to her now; a mood of expectancy as the interview came on …

Yes, she had had a wonderful time (big applause).

The man had a hopeful and almost relieved expression.

She continued: “He is a really special guy.” Cheering and whistling. He started smiling, relaxing. Things were looking up, emotions being confessed.

But then came the words that no man wants to hear in the context of a woman’s potential romantic feelings, particularly simultaneously with millions of viewers: “I think we could be really good friends …”

Aawww, went the audience.

He was not quite sure of where this was going now. The subtlety of that age-old brushing off by a female is part of the collective male’s most hurtful and needy repressions and difficult to deal with, particularly in public. Once the carrot gets thrown into the dustbin, it stays in the dustbin. He was trying his best to cope, trying to disguise his disappointment, find his suit of armour, put on hard exteriors just in case.

The interview was now over and she had said nothing, absolutely nothing, of any possible romantic feelings for him. She wasn’t even clear on whether she wanted to see him again. That was the cold finality that studio and guests were now pursuing. Cupid’s arrow had shot its load, but misfired for all to see. The string was limp in the bow and the arrows were spent, trampled on. Everywhere in the studio frilly decorations in pink fluffed around — prominent, light kisses blown in the air in the show’s romantic homage to itself.

But pink had gone sour for him.

The audience had sensed that his chances had weakened, indeed were almost over. There was a drop in the mood of expectancy and excitement, replaced by a quietly sympathetic oh-shame tone. The cross-examination in the studio was something that no one was looking forward to now, least of all the serious New Zealand fellow.

It was embarrassing, yet almost inevitable, that they had shown his interview first, where he had confessed so openly and recklessly that he had completely fallen for her, smitten. But as I’ve said before on these pages, coping with rejection in public is never fun. Promises of a happy-ever-after outcome were left behind in the duck pond by now.

In case there was still any doubt, suddenly there arrived further distressing news. Cilla Black, normally a sweet and tender host, announced with a biting tone that this woman was not who she was claiming to be. She had, we heard, gone and “spoiled everything”. The studio fell ghostly silent and waited, the revelations apparently not yet over.

We heard from Cilla that the female contestant was an undercover reporter who had entered the show for the sole purposes of doing an exposé for a magazine. Booing started gathering in the audience. The woman was trying to justify herself, in a very tight spot. She started uttering weakly that she had had a “wonderful time” and thanked Blind Date for a lovely time. But her comments were drowned out by the hissing of a betrayed audience. The atmosphere had changed to that inside a courtroom. It did not take the camera long to find the New Zealand fellow’s face, helpless and speechless in its agony.

His date, then, had been with a journalist-in-disguise who had prostituted herself on television for the sake of a story. Shocking, inexcusable, hurtful.

But then came the bombshell — she was married too! The booing that now erupted was so savage one could almost smell it. The poor man sat in disbelief. The credits and theme song were up two very long minutes later.