Tonight is my first date in a year, having had to spend the past twelve months getting over the flaky pastry debacle. It might seem a tad hypocritical that I’d get prissy over another’s drunken behaviour (never allow me near a speakerphone after three pints), but I’d sooner not end the evening with a paralytic date who can’t button up her own coat, let alone walk. A date that is unable to walk or talk for thirty minutes, but then is able to spontaneously recover and tap me up for money in a kebab shop. And eat all my chips.

However, tonight is going to be difference. My theory is simple: be prepared for every eventuality. Cover every angle. Be etiquette-versed like Pat Bateman, minus the homicidal stuff.

Check this prep:

I have been doing 500 press-ups an hour. One handed press-ups. I’m totally ripped, dude. Beefcake!

I’ve learnt to juggle. Chairs.

I have memorised the entire oeuvre of Plath, Anna Akhmatova and Phil Larkin. I am totally down with post-feminist theory, Lacanian concepts and Spaced plotlines.

I will ride to the date in my own air-conditioned tube carriage. A string quartet will play Funkadelic tracks on the way.

I’ve had the paving stones re-layed between the tube station and the bar. It is impossible to trip or stumble along the way (and, yes, they are earthquake proof. If you’ll excuse the pun, I really have left no stone unturned).

It will not rain or be windy. The natural elements will not fuck with the Dude’s coiffeured locks.

Security will be frisking patrons on entry to the bar to check they haven’t concealed baseball caps or cameras about their person.

I have my special table reserved, the seats are cushioned and it’s free table service all night.

Barack Obama has my number. We’ve arranged it so he’ll call me at the start of the date. I will put in him on to voicemail when he does, turn to my beau and say: “it’s just Barack. Again. He can leave a message. Now tell me some more about yourself”.

The jukebox only has music on it I like. It only accepts special pound coins (with Richard Ashcroft’s face on them, instead of the Queen’s).

There will be no cigarettes on sale within a one-mile radius of the bar. Anyone smelling mildly nicoteny will be refused entry to the pub. Nicorette patch wearers are also banned. Offering me a ciggy is a capital crime.

I have been classically conditioned so as to no longer want to talk about football. Just hearing the Champions League theme is enough to make me nauseous.

As we leave the bar, shooting stars will cascade across Old Street. I will charter a hot air balloon and fly us across the London skyline.

Now with all that preparation done, what could possibly go wrong?