Internet dating? How about just getting drunk like normal people?

Internet dating? Had enough of it.  Exes? Had enough of them.  Male friend who keeps muttering about leaving his wife for me but is never going to? Had enough of him. Other male friend who occasionally deigns to flirt with me, but is currently bragging about his "super hot date"? Had enough of him.

Having tired of the inane pointlessness of searching for an articulate, affectionate and available man, I spent the rest of the summer in the more entertaining company of my dissertation, and accidentally hit on a novel plan to find a man the old-fashioned way: booze.

Firstly, the plan was not to find a man. The plan was simple: to get eye-wateringly drunk. And at that, by gad, we succeeded!

 I do have photos from that night. They are worse than this, and I'm not putting them up.

We decided to go to a burlesque night. Three bottles of wine later we hit a bar. No one else was in burlesque attire. Kate realised that beneath her mac she had basically come out in her underwear. I hazily recall telling her to feel my boobs to confirm they weren't fake, but I'm not sure whether that was post-grovelling on the toilet floor looking for the missing lens from my glasses (indicated to curious onlookers by poking my finger through the frame, in what would have been a highly sexual gesture were I a 15 year old boy), or indeed before or after men started requesting photos of us with our fingers in our mouths, etc (photos with which we were only too happy to furnish them).

You'll find this is me, actually.

I had the requisite sobbing fit at some point around 1am ("I broke my tooth again!" Kate's reply: "In that top, do you think anyone will be looking at your face?!") but this was quickly quelled by the sudden realisation I was snogging an extremely hot youth who had a not even elementary grasp of English.

Through the medium of gesticulation I ascertained he was approximately ten years my junior. However, as previously noted, extremely attractive and a most rewarding kisser! He seemed to be trying to tell me he liked my eyes. I also remember him courteously asking permission to put his hands inside my basque ("Is ok? [gesture]"). I recall finding it unaccountably quaint that he would even ask. And yes - we were still in the bar.

I'd prefer not to tell you how the evening ended. However, as I have little sense of shame remaining, I will do so anyway. We went back to his house on an endless bus ride, where once ensconced in his student flat I treated him to the twin horrors of my actual age, and the sound of me vomiting (in the toilet with the door locked, at least). After five minutes of fervid squeezing-tube mimes I managed to procure toothpaste (it's not the same in Spanish!), and then passed out on his bed until sheepishly waking up and trying to sneak out at around 7am. At which point he kindly led me to the station and dispatched me towards home.

Give me more of that creamy goodness!

And that, my friends, is what I call a successful night out.