I Went to ‘The Date’, Which Is Like ‘First Dates’, But Live and Extremely Awkward

I’m sitting in a basement bar in east London, watching a first date.

There are none of the usual telltale signs, like one of them furiously texting when the other goes to the bathroom, or anyone pretending to be enthralled by what a “marketing manager” does. Instead, they’re onstage, blindfolded, and necking shots, presumably to help them manage the anxiety of being watched by a crowd of 50 paying spectators.

While it might sound like it, this isn’t an elaborate torture experience organised by two horny masochists; it’s the first instalment of “The Date”, a live dating show where strangers meet for the first time in front of an audience, and probably the most squirm-inducing form of dating-as-entertainment I’ve ever come across.

Of course, as a genre, watching people fumble around a conversation is nothing new. From Blind Date in the 1980s to the slew of shows now offering every conceivable spin on the format – First Dates for the standard set-up, Love Island for the drama, Naked Attraction for those who agree that true love cannot be found without first judging five exposed penises – as long as there is some kind of dating involved, people will watch.

The initial appeal lies in discovering whether the couple makes it or not, but you can now also keep a close eye on their social media accounts months, even years, after their television appearance. Will it be a Notes app break-up declaration or the diamond-ring-on-finger grid upload? As journalist Yomi Adegoke writes in The Guardian, “The universal appeal of many dating shows is that they hold out the possibility that it may all go wrong, that the fantasy of true love is just that.”

The Date was founded by Hannah Frankson, a fitness instructor from London, and works like this: two people who have never met have a ten-minute blind date onstage at The Book Club in Shoreditch. They’re supplied with their drink of choice, a few shots and encouragement from the host, Nicky G King, as well as the crowd shouting any questions they have for the couple. When the date is done, they separately talk to King and the audience about their thoughts. Finally, they’re put back on stage together, and just like Roman emperors, signal with a thumbs up if they want to go on a second date. If both daters are into each other, they’re armed with a £50 voucher and sent off to Nando’s.

Watching someone else’s date live rather than through a screen is gut-wrenching: there’s potential for maximum public embarrassment, and absolutely nowhere to hide. Usually the ego bruise of disinterest happens through a softly written text message, wishing the other person all the best in finding The One – or, worst case, a ghosting – and you’re able to process it at home in your comfies. Here, it’s right there in front of you.

“I've given up on myself, so why not help everyone else in London find love?” says Frankson ahead of the event. “It could be an absolute nightmare, or it could be absolute genius.”

Back in the basement, actor Oli and lawyer Rianna are brought out onstage. The date gets off to a slow start: Oli asks about the process of becoming a lawyer and makes multiple jokes about being a failed actor with a rich dad. Rianna asks the audience whether he’s good-looking. Once the date is over, the pair finally see each other for the first time. Although Oli says Rianna is “too good looking” to be a lawyer, they each give a thumbs up and dinner at Nando’s is confirmed. 

A large part of enjoying dating shows comes via talking about them and swapping stories. It’s why the Love Island hashtag is constantly used by people sharing their own dating stories, and why so many people listen to the many “Love Island” themed podcasts the series has spawned (including VICE’s very own). 

So, between dates, Frankson and King ask the audience to share some of their bad dating experiences, prompting laughter to erupt through the crowd. One woman talks about accidentally going on a date with a Satanist and being forced to sit through a flight with him. Another just describes going on an incredibly boring double date. It’s a bonding experience.

Most of the second couple’s date – including their names – is drowned out by one of their friends in the front row yelling out numbers. They have access to the guy’s Apple Watch data and his heart rate is at 133 and quickly climbing.

Suddenly, the vibe in the room turns when the man – who I will refer to as Gaston, because I do not know his name – says that enjoying Love Island is a deal-breaker. Judging by the way the crowd erupts into booing and heckling, they are unhappy. They have missed an episode to be here, after all. 

The date ends, and the woman – who I will refer to as Belle – struggles to find the words to describe her date with Gaston, and settles on calling him “vanilla”, before they give their final verdict. Although Gaston gives an enthusiastic thumbs up, Belle does not, and he leaves the stage, the Nando’s voucher still up for grabs. 

“Does anyone want to go on a date with Belle?” Frankson asks the audience. Quickly, a man who introduces himself as Will jumps out of the crowd and is seated in the chair opposite her. The audience applauds, and a conversation and two thumbs up later, the Nando’s gift card is theirs. 

So, maybe the potential for public embarrassment or heartbreak is worth the risk if something good comes out of it. And sure enough, as I walk upstairs from the basement bar at the end of the night, I spot the first couple huddled together, away from the crowd, laughing over drinks.