What – Cilla Black? Cheap set? Catchphrases? Wonderfully grim and awkward holidays in Bognor Regis? Unfortunately I didn’t in fact take part in a revival of the hit dating game show, as much as that is my wildest dream (Cilla’s resignation in October ’02 was a dark, dark time for the twelve-year old me), but despite the ill-fate of the aforementioned TV show, it is evident that the dating business is bigger than ever – a quick google search yields over 27 million results for ‘dating sites’, and over 14 million for ‘speed dating’. It seems that every pub and town hall in the country now holds bimonthly singles’ nights.

But what are they really like? Do they work? Sceptical, but spurred on by the will to rid myself of my probably appalling snobbery towards such events and the people that attend them (and a creeping realisation that we could all very easily end up alone and middle-aged ), I went to see what my future dating life could consist of, hopped on the Oxford Tube, and arrived at Dans Le Noir in north London for ‘Dating in the Dark’, which promised me an entirely pitch black dating/dining experience.

I won’t deny that once over my initial reservations, serious excitement about this very latest of dating crazes set in (it was totally going to be just like LivingTV). There was going to be intriguing conversation, after an initial twinge of vulnerability, there would be an intense and moving feeling of liberation in the darkness, and not least I was going to create an exotic alter-ego, Flavia, a half-Greek, half-Italian, sexy-accented post-grad, lonely and looking for love with someone who wasn’t going to judge her on looks alone. All in all I was expecting, not to find ‘the one’, but a genuinely thought-provoking experience that would force me to question our fickle judgements of outward appearance.

Alas, I was to be disappointed, first and foremost by the fact that all the ‘daters’ were herded into a far too brightly-lit bar on arrival that was more like being back on the dance floor at school socials than the relaxed and sophisticated soiree with a twist it was billed as. And I chickened out of my Flavia act. Damn. It was all men and women standing uncomfortably on opposite sides of the room, bottles of Becks and glasses of house white in their respective hands, until one brave soul dared to cross the looming divide and introduce themselves to a member of the opposite sex, after which the rest gradually followed with overwhelming relief that they didn’t have to be the first.

Any chance of post-darkness surprise on the appearance front was thus scuppered, and I knew exactly which particular slightly socially inept but perfectly nice bloke I was sat next to once led into the restaurant, (which really was 100% light free).

Not to be deterred, I plodded through various predictable conversations, always hopeful, and apart from anything else, the darkness was pretty incredible. I had a distinctly greater than average amount of fun eating the mystery menu with all the decadent slobbery fingers I liked (cutlery was provided, but quickly given up on – too many forkfuls of nothing).

Still, that’s as naughty as it got, and once the novelty of spilling kangaroo and pureed celeriac on my lap wore off, the fact that conversation was even more stilted than earlier became agonizingly apparent, despite assertions from my neighbours that they felt more confident under the cover of darkness. We’d already done the job/family/hobbies sequence, where could we go from there? Discussions of ‘how weird the dark is! How amazing! How do you feel about it?’ is where. And that certainly won’t get you through an hour and a half, let me tell you. More often than not it was just plain difficult to talk; the greater reliance on hearing meant that volume of chatter increased to unpleasant levels, and lack of eye contact meant that I definitely answered more than a few questions that were not directed at me – embarrassing, but of course no one could see my blushes. Striker.

I’m being harsh. It really wasn’t that bad, and everyone there was varyingly nice, interesting, attractive, etc and some of them I even genuinely clicked with. Fulo the former student of chemistry and pharmaceuticals turned bingo hall manager was great fun, as was Paulo, dapper Italian silver fox at large, complete with deep tan, open shirt, hairy chest, fitted waistcoat and red ‘party’ trousers.

But still, I couldn’t help wondering what exactly the appeal of these dating events was. The answer given without fail by my fellow guests, very nearly all of whom had speed dated more than once before, was that it was ‘a fun evening out’, which ‘no-one takes too seriously’, and is ‘a great way to meet new people’. You can’t deny the latter, as inevitably, if you go, you will meet some, if not all, of the other 30 odd people there. The real question is whether you meet anyone you actually like. And of course, this is down to chance. Jill, an accountant for whom speed dating had previously produced a four month long relationship, readily accepted that there would naturally be ‘a lot of duds’, but maintained that willingness and an open mind would eventually yield success. Hmm.

As I made my exit at the reasonable hour of 10.30pm, I suddenly felt guilty for judging them all. I had been sociable enough throughout, but still secretly harboured my sense of superiority over those for whom organised dating is an idea of fun. Surely your own friends would do a far better job of entertaining you, or at least at choosing someone suitable to do it for them? But then again, I am clearly not the target audience – even they probably think that 19 year-old students shouldn’t really need help finding someone to bump and grind with (although I’m not so sure – Oxford can be a barren land) – and I certainly don’t have such a busy and stressful work life as they clearly did.

Indeed, there’s a reason why ‘the dating industry is absolutely huge’, as the lovely Jenny and Nicola of SlowDating explained to me, and that is the mere fact of modern life. All work and barely any play makes efficiency the key. We all know that there’s no supply where there isn’t demand, and delegating our love lives to computers and professionals, though perhaps unromantic, is really very practical in terms of sheer probability if nothing else.

So. Organised dating. Entirely understandable, but fun? Really? Not an evening of UNfun exactly, but only ever mildly amusing, and I don’t think that was on account of my relative youth – I’m sure banal small talk will still be banal small talk in fifteen years time, even if I’m more practiced at it. And as Paulo (the only other speed dating virgin there) pointed out to me, nowadays, in this world of instant gratification, where we don’t take the time to get to know people before dismissing them out of hand, it is rather ironic that we have turned so readily to speed dating as the answer. Perhaps we should simply learn to be more comfortable with being alone, or at least just hope and pray that your friends never run out of people to set you up with.

David Mitchell and I have one very pressing thing in common. We are both ravenous. It’s two in the afternoon and neither of us has eaten. Mitchell then corrects himself. He actually had a biscuit for breakfast. He then apologises, feeling as though he has furnished too much detail. This is characteristic of his endearing awkwardness. In our brief time together he oscillates from being very self-assured and quick-firing on the subject of work, to anxiously choosing his words and correcting himself on more personal matters.

Just before the PR woman leaves, she asks him quietly if he’s going to be alright by himself with me. At this early stage, I feared he might not be. Eye contact so far was minimal and he kept repeating ‘great’, ‘yes’, and then ‘great’ again, whether or not a question had been asked; a steadying mantra of sorts.

He is slimmer and, dare I say it, better looking than I had expected. He is far more cheekbones and unusually large eyes, than double chin and pallor, as in some early episodes of Peep Show. Renowned for being a world-weary fuddy-duddy, he is actually fresh-faced, clean-shaven and, judging from our handshakes, has very soft skin. This, of course, is set against his history teacher-esque sartorial choices. Today he is in his typical outfit of brogues, a navy shirt, velvety-looking trousers and a jacket.

Only an hour ago, he had a room full of people eating out of his hand as he argued Ed Vaizey, the Shadow Minister for Culture, into a corner during an Orwell Prize debate on the BBC. He was on classic form and would have made an excellent lawyer, had comedy not worked out so brilliantly. Ed Vaizey wants to cut current waste at the BBC which sounded very sensible until Mitchell punctured it, explaining that they were hardly spending millions of pounds on cake. He was confident, witty, and, whenever he felt like it, able to make Vaizey sound silly. Usually king of sarcasm and irreverence, before me now was the flipside; the insecurity and the painstaking politeness.

Reverting to childhood tactics, I decided to try and make things less tense by offering him some of my sweets. He took so long to answer that I put the packet down on the table and then he paused before picking them up. Hesitantly, he started crunching through my Mini Eggs, not taking more unless I offered them again. He suggested that on an empty stomach the E numbers might go to his head.

While waiting for him, I had helped myself to a complimentary gin and managed to spray myself in tonic. Beginning the interview, I was still trying to cover the damp patch with my cardigan. So there we were; two embarrassed strangers not really looking at each other, with stern instructions not to overrun our five minutes, one gin and tonic between two, and some Mini Eggs. I imagine it’s what a speed date might feel like.

Having read many interviews in which he has described his loneliness, anxiety and single life with his lodger in Kilburn, I wondered if he had revealed too much about his private life. He didn’t agree, but conceded that, as a general rule, in the past he has been compelled to fill gaps left by interviewers with ‘something entertaining’. This seems like a good tip off

, so I don’t speak. He resists the urge to fill the silence and we both start laughing – ‘it won’t work on me anymore’.

He does acknowledge that ‘inevitably’ he has ‘hit a groove’ in his comedy persona that is ‘a caricature’ of himself and insists that really he is not ‘a complete Luddite when it comes to popular culture’. So I wondered if his anxious nature was also part of this comic persona, but he banishes any sense of it being synthetic when he starts describing his feelings of ‘doubt and, well, self-loathing’. I wasn’t expecting such openness only two questions in to the interview but he explains that dark emotions are part of his job – ‘one thing comedians do well is express their own depressed or doubting feelings in a way that other people can identify with. There are no real jokes about feeling great’. I feel that he has more to say on his own ‘depressed or doubting feelings’ but I didn’t want to be so intrusive.

Slightly taken aback by the self-loathing, I thought I would turn to a hard-core set of middle-aged women who I had noticed following him on Twitter: we’re talking David Mitchell as their wallpaper, pictures taken with him, daily rounds of sycophantic tweets about every show he has been on, and pleas for him to tweet hello back to them. I thought this would be a lighter topic but he finds these people alarming, and he shifts around for a while in his chair. For someone so articulate, this topic of fan attention throws him into some verbal difficulty as he slowly explains, ‘I mean it’s all very nice, really. It’s nice that people are supportive but, yes, I’m not used to forming that fan relationship. I don’t know how to be appropriately grateful for the support and not sort of inappropriate… but still keep a sort of distance. It’s difficult. These aren’t people I really know. What I’m at pains to do is to focus people on my work, not focus on me as a person’. Such discomfort seems reasonable. I can certainly see that for someone like him, who is polite but distant, it must be tricky to get levels of familiarity right – ‘I want people to like the comedy I do, that’s great, that’s what I want, as long as that doesn’t spill over’.

I move onto a Not The Nine 0’Clock News sketch called ‘The Two Ninnies’ which parodies The Two Ronnies. Not The Nine o’Clock News was a show that launched the career of Richard Curtis and Rowan Atkinson, and I thought it was worth a bet that Mitchell would be an aficionado – luckily he was. I asked whether there was anything within comedy left to rebel against, in the spirit of that lampoon of The Two Ronnies’ puns-and-innuendos-reliant humour. He names My Family as a possible contender, ‘It’s not very good. No one likes it, including the people in it. Why are we making that? We’re patronising the audience’. However, he does not believe it is suitable for a send-up, ‘certainly not’ out of conscience, but because it is unquestionably bad. Warming to his subject, he enthuses that ‘The Two Ronnies was a brilliant show, so what is interesting and edgy about ‘The Two Ninnies’, is that they’re having a go at an institution that had a lot of merit. It didn’t have the cutting edge of Not The Nine o’Clock News but it was a good show – that’s why the sketch was ballsy. My Family, by contrast, is just plain dreadful’.

Just when I think we have moved sufficiently far from the self-loathing, I inadvertently bring it up again. As readers of his Observer column will know, he claims to have an incredibly limited knowledge of popular music and only two albums in his collection – Phil Collins and Susan Boyle. When I put this apathy to the arts to him, he responds by wailing in mock distress – ‘I’m not unmoved! I like the cinema and the theatre, but having said that, I have been rather busy for the past few years, and I hardly ever go’. Then a pause, ‘I find art galleries a bit of a drag and I sort of… hate myself about that’.

Wanting to move again from this murky world of self-criticism, I try for a cheerier angle and ask him what he finds life-affirming, if the arts don’t seem to figure much. However, this triggers the most pained reaction of all – ‘Oh that’s a hell of a tough question. Oh, oh. I don’t know, I mean I love performing. I find jokes life-affirming and I find getting laughs life-affirming’. He apologetically adds, ‘I know that sounds a bit hollow’. Hollowness? S

elf-loathing? I feel ill-equipped to respond to all these emotions within my five minute slot and all I can do is proffer my trusty Mini Eggs by way of diversion.

With about thirty seconds left, I decide to go for broke in the awkwardness stakes and ask him about that camera angle in Peep Show, when the characters are kissing each other and it zooms right into their faces. I ask if he ever thinks about that camera angle when he’s about to kiss someone in real life. He starts beaming, ‘That would be very unhealthy! No, no. It’s not actually like kissing because you’re just leaning in at the camera, and jiggling your head around, because one imagines there is jiggling involved. You’re leaning in like this…’ To my delight, he starts moving forward in his chair.

At this inopportune moment, the PR woman rushes back with merchandise for him to sign. Our five minutes at an end, I wasn’t sure what I had seen. He basks in attention but is easily embarrassed, is strident but self-doubting, reserved but not at all evasive. With a second handshake, he hurried back to the safety of polite platitudes and they tumbled out, one after the other – ‘Marvellous. Very nice to meet you. Yes. Thanks. Wonderful’.

“I would’ve preferred to be confronted by National Socialism than complete apathy and that’s what we were faced by”.

On Tuesday of 1st week, the Instigate Debate, which seeks to counter the tabloidization of popular culture, came to the Oxford Union. But were Carl Barat (Libertines), John McClure (Reverend and the Makers) and Drew McConnell (Babyshambles) successful in instigating an energized political debate?