The last few weeks have witnessed the most horrific dates I've ever had to endure. Ever. Not sure if it's the change of season, or general weirdness in the air, but my recent experiences have been enough to put me off dating for good. And that's saying something.

I can't complain that I haven't been popular with the gents, as I've been asked out loads - it's the quality of the male species that has been a little poor, and that's an understatement.

The first in this series of dating disasters was a chap called Jason, whom I met a party in a hotel room. He was short but cute in a Danny Devito kind of way, and his idea of a first date was taking me to a Flashmob pillow fight in Trafalgar Square. Hello?!

Next up was my mate's cousin whom during a night drinking pints at our local pub was the funniest bloke I'd ever met in my life. The sober date that followed revealed some interesting facts about my witty hero - the gold tooth I had deemed as positively adorable was, in actual fact, rotten.

And the final nail in the dating coffin  was a sweet handsome musician called Joe. He took me out dancing and in a drunken state confessed he liked wearing women's clothes. Dry patch, I welcome you - come get me.