IT'S just a personal theory, but I firmly believe everyone who appears on Blind Date suffers from SAD.

Not Seasonal Affective Disorder, more like Sad And Desperate.

With this in mind, I headed to Leeds feeling rather smug.

Granted, I haven't had a girlfriend for some time now, but St Valentine's Day had even seen an unheralded two mystery cards pushed through my letter box.

I certainly wasn't passionate to meet Cilla and I definitely had no desire to appear in front of 20 million viewers to be told by Tracey from Tipton that I was the most boring bloke she had ever met.

It's funny how things change.

As I arrived at the Holiday Inn, I had visions of a queue stretching the 200-yards back to the railway station.

But there wasn't a Sad or Desperate person in sight. Blind Date must be losing its appeal, I thought.

How wrong I was.

Opening the doors of the Roundhay Suite, at least 200 pairs of eyes zoomed in like a heat-seeking missile locked on to its target.

Someone sniggered. The eyes, realising I was no Brad Pitt and therefore no threat, quickly fixed their gaze on something more interesting. Like the wallpaper. Not so much Blind Date as Blind Terror.

I turned to the instructions pinned to a notice board.

Point one: "Blind Date is not a dating agency. It is not a serious attempt to match up couples."

That ruled me in.

Point two: "If you are only entering in the hope of winning a trip to an exotic location you may well be disappointed."

That ruled me out.

Point three: "Blind Date is not the means to further your career in TV or modelling."

That certainly ruled more than a few people out in the room, but not me.

I picked up an application and a numbered ticket, 194, and found a space next to Sharon from Cleveland.

I thought I'd better practice the art of chatting up a girl and started with the opening gambit of: "Have you got the time, please?"

"3pm", replied Sharon, before promptly picking up her bag and moving to the other side of the room. Meanwhile, boys with tickets numbered 164 and under were told to move next door to be interviewed.

I began filling in my application form while casting my eye at everyone around me - the old, the young, the fat, the thin, the rich and the poor. It was a sociologist's dream.

The smell of perfume was enough to choke an Avon lady and with so much cleavage on show, Saddam Hussein needn't worry about finding somewhere to hide his stockpile of chemical warheads.

As for the men, I decided there are only three types who go on Blind Date.

The 6ft 6ins, bronzed demi-gods; the weird and wacky; or the cheeky chappy who always gets dumped by the gorgeous girl for ringing his mum, but still gets the sympathy of the studio audience.

At a push I'm 5ft 7ins, and I didn't have a didgeridoo like one chap sitting next to me; so cheeky-chappy it was.

"Who would you most like to go on a blind date with and why?" was one of the questions.

Easy. Samantha Brown, my first playground love who dumped me, aged eight, for my best friend. I wanted the chance to show her what she was missing.

"Where would you like to go and what would you like to do on a blind date?"

Easy. Paris. But only if it included two tickets for the World Cup final. And to prove I'm not completely unromantic, I promised to get the tea and pies at half-time.

Meanwhile, Lisa, from Leeds, had sat down next to me. Once again, I launched into my full quota of chat-up lines.

"Who's your ideal date?" I asked.

"George Clooney," gushed Lisa. "He's got lovely puppy-dog eyes."

"Where would you like to go and what would you like to do?"

"Jamaica," said Lisa. "To swim with dolphins."

"And what's your party piece?"

"Opening a beer bottle with my teeth."

I got up and went and sat next to Sharon from Cleveland.

Within minutes I, together with another nine men, was summoned next door.

In turn, the interviewer asked questions why we wanted to go on Blind Date and what we could offer a lucky girl.

Derek was not ashamed of flashing his white socks from under his half-mast grey slacks and proudly told everyone how he "would do anything for a laugh".

He thought it hilarious that he was banned from 18-30 holidays because he once built a brick wall around the shower in his hotel room.

Derek was old enough to be my father. I felt only pity for the young interviewer.

It was at this point my competitive streak took hold - I wasn't going to finish second best to Derek.

The interviewer, seeing my form said I was a reporter, asked jokingly if I had a dictaphone.

If she didn't physically cross me off the list, she certainly did mentally.

I was crushed. It was humbling to know I'd more than likely lost out to Derek.

"We see more than 10,000 people so don't slash your wrists if you don't get picked," we were told. "And don't call us, we'll call you."

Well, like I said, I never wanted to meet Cilla anyway.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.