The art of cheesy chat-up

Even though the Havana club in Fulham is packed, I know with a sinking feeling that the man with no neck, wearing an England rugby shirt and charging through the crowd, is making his way straight for me. There is a steely determination on his face and he is trying not to spill his pint down his already-stained shirt.

"Oh no," says my friend, Helen. "Why do you always attract the drunks?"

He puts a sweaty hand on my shoulder and slurs into my chest: "I'm a love pirate and I'm here for your booty."

Helen and I look at each other before collapsing into hysterics. Michael, 31 and a quantity surveyor by day, it turns out, is quite the master of the chat-up line and he comes to Havana every weekend. His current favourite, he says, is this: "Have you ever kissed a rabbit between the ears?" Helen and I look blank, Michael pulls the pockets of his jeans out and says: "Would you like to?"

He says that line works every time but somehow I don't believe him. "I like lines that make girls laugh," he says. "I don't care if they're cheesy as long as they get results. So, are you coming home with me tonight then?" He takes the rejection well; he's already spotted another girl. I see her in the ladies' loos later and ask if he used the rabbit line. "No," she laughs. "He told me he had three months to live. You don't think he was serious do you?"

The Havana is among 17 bars and clubs that a new online guide, Itchy London, claims are the best places to find love, or at least a drunken fumble: from the fun but tacky - Cafe Sol in Clapham and Costa Dorada in the West End - to the more hip, such as Hoxton's Mother bar and the Vibe bar on Brick Lane.

They cater for all tastes and levels of desperation. If cleavage, fake tan and skintight clothing are your thing, head to the Wessex in Battersea. For ironic hairstyles, Hoxton is still the only place to go. If you're not fussy, you can't fail to pull at Havana. So, in the interests of the lovelorn, I hit the town with Helen, a 23-year-old student teacher.

I haven't entertained hopes of meeting anyone halfway decent in a bar since I was 20. I shared a house in south London with two friends and we loved being single and lived for the weekend when we were convinced we'd meet the right man, or at least have fun looking.

A quick poll of my friends reveals it's rare to meet someone in a bar who becomes a long-term boyfriend or girl-friend. One of the few boys who bothered to call me back after taking my number in a bar, I saw for a couple of months afterwards. He was a model and so good-looking, I could never understand why he was going out with me. He was confused, too: towards the end of our relationship, he started sneaking out in the middle of the night to gay clubs. Admittedly, the signs were there from the start - he ironed his socks and used my concealer - but I thought that's what being a New Man was all about.

But back to the business in hand... At Alphabet in Soho, where we start our search, everyone seems a bit too cool and the 11pm closing doesn't help - nobody was drunk enough to lunge at someone they liked the look of.

So Helen and I head for the Wessex in Battersea. Dark and sweaty, with groups of men lining the walls, watching the girls on the dancefloor, if this is a meat market, then the four men standing next to me were grading the livestock.

"She's a seven," said one, whose open shirt revealed a chunky gold necklace, as a girl in a tight, backless dress walks past. There are large groups of men and women - this is about hunting in packs - and the desperation is palpable.

In the ladies' loos, two girls are reapplying their lipstick and one is asking her friend if she should go home with the boy she has just met.

Another, Lucy, 24, an estate agent looking for a date for Valentine's Day, explains where men go wrong. "Everyone knows any girl can pull, no matter what she looks like. It's harder for men. I don't mind chat-up lines as long as they're so awful, you know they can't be serious," she says, drawing a thick ring of ruby lipliner around her mouth.

"The men who are too shy to approach you tend to be nicer than the ones who do, so if a girl smiles at you, she's interested and wants you to come over. Don't be shy, don't try to be too cool but try to say something funny, which most girls will respond well to. Flatter her but not in a sleazy way - saying 'nice tits' is not going to work. And don't suggest she comes home with you unless all you want is a one-night stand."

Across the river in Fulham, the postpub crowd are still queuing to get into Havana at 12.30am. Two boys are begging the doorman to let them in but they're wearing trainers and are turned away.

When we get in, we realise why they were so desperate. This is the place where, as long as you're not fussy, it is impossible to leave empty-handed. A couple at the bar are snogging so furiously, it looks painful. Helen, who is from Grimsby, says it's as bad as the tackiest clubs of her hometown.

The carpet is tiger print, the music pure Faliraki nightclub and the clientele is bizarre: forty-something men, students, foreign tourists, women wearing not very much at all and thick-necked young men in rugby shirts.

When Helen goes to the bar, she is followed by a man with waistlength curly dark hair and jeans so tight, it was a puzzle that he could walk, let alone gyrate against her, which he does, to her absolute horror. On the dancefloor, a group of drunk South Africans start groping us and when we run into Michael again, more desperate than ever, his chat-up lines having failed him tonight, we know it's time to go.

Havana is a pulling paradise, but only if you don't care who you get, as long as they're breathing (though I doubt this would even rule out the comatose boy I saw slumped under a table).

We hope for better luck at the Elbow Room in Islington. As it is a pool hall as well as a place for late-night drinking, we think there must be a lot of men there, and since it's supposed to be quite laid back, they're probably better than thick-necked men in rugby shirts with wandering hands.

Happily, we're right, or maybe it's because by now, Helen and I are fairly rosy cheeked ourselves. I try to perch, in what I think must be a terrifically seductive way, on the edge of one of the pool tables and promptly slip off.

Helen persuades me to approach one man in designer jeans and too much hair gel who is standing at the bar. Having never chatted anyone up before, I suddenly realise how terrifying it is and mumble something lame about buying him a drink.

He says no but then, feeling sorry for me, he says he was surprised that I asked. "I've never been approached by a girl so directly before," he says. "I think girls who do must be psychos or desperate. Or both. So, no offence, but I can't help thinking there has to be something wrong with you. You look like you've had a few too many as well."

He's far too cool and I'm crushed, which is precisely when the man beside me, who has been following my embarrassing rejection, makes his move. "I don't mind if you buy me a drink," he says and, pathetically, grateful for the attention, I do, even though he's quite sweaty.

By now I've realised that the bars the Itchy guide suggests are fun but not the kind of places you'll find anyone to have a deep and meaningful relationship with. Or maybe it's just the type of men - drunks, as Helen rightly says - I seem to attract.

And could someone tell me when cheesy chat-up lines made a comeback? The man I have just bought a drink for, who by now is leering down Helen's top, says: "What makes love like a tiger and winks?" He starts blinking furiously.

Helen has collapsed into giggles. "Are you okay?" I ask him, worried that he has something in his eye or suffers a terrible facial tic. Then he grins and says: "Grrrrr". It's time to go home - alone.