Pick-up schmuck

I AM standing before eight of the most beautiful women I have ever seen – a Russian ice-maiden, a curvaceous Brazilian, a svelte Swede, an English rose with thorns, a German with the eyes of Dietrich, a Finnish feline with manicured claws, a girl so slender she could have walked straight off a catwalk, a natural blonde who towers so high above me she seems to be on a stilettoed pedestal.

The venue is a trendy bar in Piccadilly and I have to chat up just one of these beauties. I will achieve my goal, because I have been learning 'The Natural Art of Seduction'. I know all the moves and, just as importantly, all the lingo. This is exercise seven, on day one of a two-day Pick Up Artist (PUA) Bootcamp, and professional models have been hired for this test.

Any sensible person would ask: "What am I doing here?" The honest answer is that, after a dizzying day, I am no longer sure. Do I want to pick up girls? No, that was a past life. Not so long ago I had more girls than I cared to count – each picked up with nothing more than a brass neck, gallons of booze and absolutely zero artistry or technique. So I'm highly sceptical that any of these 'skills' can ever be taught.

Furthermore, I have a beautiful, smart-as-hell girlfriend and no desire to screw things up. In fact, if any screwing is going to take place, it's going to be me exposing the so-called Pick Up Artists for the scam merchants I assume they are. That was the plan. However, now I'm here I am deeply confused.

Thankfully, they judge my chat-up technique favourably – my nervous wittering about how playing bagpipes can make you better at cunnilingus was a hit – and I fare better than many of the others. For I am not alone: nine other blokes have paid £549 to learn the secrets of seduction by the self-styled guru of the pick-up, Richard La Ruina, aka Gambler.

Pick Up Artist training is an internationally expanding business, with a best-selling manual called The Game by the American guru Neil Strauss. Ruina's personal story follows his rise from inept geek to sexual stud and social climber. His bootcamp brings together the other 'gamers' he has met over the years as our tutors: Beckster, Reflex and, the only female instructor, Kezia. This is no corporate franchise, even though Gambler has already put 1,000 men through his system.

With the model test behind us, our first real-life challenge, 'The Day Game', begins. All ten bumbling amateurs have to go on to the streets of London and pick up total strangers. This will be followed, after another three hours of exercises, by the 'Night Game', where the aim is to get a girl's phone number in a crowded nightclub, because on day two we will be taught how to turn a 'number-close' into a date.

As the fear mounts and we queue by the door psyching ourselves up, I take stock of my peers. Already one has bottled out – he will sit on the same chair till the end of the course, never leaving his ever-shrinking comfort zone. He is challenged in many fields of life: height, weight, age and hair follicles. The trainers have nicknames so, from here on, I think we deserve the same. I hereby name this man Stasis.

I had assumed everyone on the course would be even worse off than him – Triple Fs (Fat, Forty and a Failure); the usual beer-swilling monosyllabic morons who, after 20 years of crushing defeat, blow their last financial wad on professional help.

But I am wrong. After Stasis, I, at 39, am the second oldest of the group. Seven of them are under 28. One is only 22. Professionally, money is not a problem for these guys. There are designer labels and gym-trained bodies, four of them are 'consultants' with their own businesses, two work in accountancy. One other works for PR in a major multinational corporation.

On the negative side, eight out of ten claim they get stuck in the 'friend zone' with girls; everyone, that is, apart from me and Stasis (I can count my friends on one hand and any woman who has ever had anything to do with me is no longer a friend). I detect strong strains of social awkwardness in the group. I suspect at least one of us is a virgin and is using the course as his first experience, not his last ditch.

A further three characters stand out in the group: Neuro, a smart but casual mid-20s Mancunian with a banking job who has done courses like this before, most notably NLP (Neuro Linguistic Programming) – the founding tenet of which is that you can re-programme your entire life through 'positive imaging' – and talks in nothing but the lingo. Unfortunately his best chat-up line goes something like: "Hi there, my name's X and I've got a positive self-identity and I'm trying to overcome being too outcome dependent."

Next comes Woodie. It's as if he is there to illustrate one of the points Gambler keeps reiterating: you can be a millionaire or a male model, but if you don't have confidence you won't get the girls. He has a torso and sculpted features that could grace a magazine cover, but as soon as he moves or talks his self-consciousness overwhelms him and he becomes catatonically wooden. He suffers from 'Approach Anxiety' and has difficulty recognising and 'forcing' an 'Indicator of Interest' – non-verbal contact, waving, smiling, playing peek-a-boo etc – as was demonstrated in our first exercises, acted out in pairs with us taking turns to be the girl.

Then there is Borderline. So called for several reasons. First, he comes from a town near the border between Scotland and England, and second, because it is borderline whether he will be utterly destroyed by this course or whether he will become the next tutor. He has a high-profile job and an impressive disposable income. He looks and acts very much like Hugh Grant, but finds it difficult to relax and chat to a girl. I am worried for Borderline.

As for me, my name is Nerd. No reason, it's just how I feel as I face the prospect of picking up a stranger on the street. Before we are unleashed on the world of women, Gambler gets us to write down our 'Canned Opener' (a ready-made chat-up line). It goes like this: "Hi girls, I've got a question for you. It's my mate's girlfriend's birthday tomorrow and he's too busy to go shopping, so he's given me £200 to buy her a present. Have you got any tips on what I could buy her?"

Before I know it, it is me, Borderline and a trainer called Alex and we're out the door and standing in Leicester Square, 'the pick-up Mecca of Europe'.

If the artist formerly known as Prince had a diminutive younger brother of possible Turkish extraction, with flared shirt lapels and matching (slightly) hairy chest, topped with 1970s 'cool' shades, he would look a lot like Alex.

Having watched him in action, it is clear he is a force of nature. As we look on, he stops a group of six lovely Latinas. I hear his lines and cringe, but suddenly we're having our photographs taken with the girls, arms round each other, and Alex is touching everyone, hugging them, kisses on the cheek. "See," he says when they have waved goodbye. "Your turn."

"C'mon guys," he shouts, as he pushes me towards the first two approaching girls. They turn out to be lesbians and shrug me off. But somehow the adrenalin rush from failing forces me to try again – a short, tanned girl with something strange in her backpack. Miraculously, the opener works, I get her to stop and she offers me tips on what to do about my friend who's just been dumped by a text message. Then Borderline and Alex are beside me and everything is quick-fire jokes and silliness and all structure and goals vanish. She is just a very lovely, chatty girl, Australian. Even though she fancies Alex, she takes my number and promises to meet us in the club later. I am left thrilled at having met such a lovely person. I couldn't care less about pick-ups.

"People are so bored and lonely," says Alex. "Talking to a stranger can make their day."

On the way back to bootcamp, Alex gets us to high-five every girl on the way. We somehow manage to pull it off. Borderline and I have crossed a border. This course is great. I'm high on life. I feel like kissing Alex.

Back at the workshop we have a new trainer – the infamous Beckster. He asks for our game results. Our team was the only one to close with a number, and it was mine, I announce proudly. Beckster is unimpressed. Giving your number never works: it leaves a woman a choice – she won't call back. We have to learn how to manipulate women into thinking they have made a choice.

We have already been primed by Gambler to be intimidated by the survival-of-the-fittest-life-force that is Beckster – we know, for example, that he has been gaming for 11 years and that in adapting NLP techniques to his own ends he has slept with over 600 women. He boasts that he once had four in 24 hours.

I tell myself that quantity is not quality, that Don Juan was ultimately a tragic figure. But there is no trace of loss, only gain on this man's animated face. He may have crafty-cockney good looks, the predictably short, cropped hair, the trendy clothes and wide-boy image, but he works the room like no salesman could. I don't even want to buy what he's selling, but he has me. These social skills, this confidence. This guy could sell you your own mother.

Over the next two hours, Beckster, through quick-fire talk, jokes, physical demonstrations and exercises, reveals tricks of his trade. The man is an evil genius. He demonstrates how you can fool everyone in the bar into thinking that everyone else there is your friend (girls, he claims, want to belong to higher social groups and be with Mr Happening). How you can trick the barman into thinking he really does know you. How you should always 'warm up' on some less attractive girls before going for the ones you really want. He has routines and tricks that can get a girl to kiss your arm in under three minutes (you are conducting a test on lipstick density). Showing you her underwear follows after a cunning segue.

He asks for a volunteer, so I step up. He does a chat exercise with me and when it's done asks me how many times I noticed him touching my body. I laugh nervously and reply "none" and the others in the circle roll around in hysterics – everyone confirms that he touched me three times. I can't believe it. Then he repeats it with Woodie and I see how he distracts him and steals little touches, even one on the belly. This is not about 'copping a feel' but about setting up contact, he explains. It's NLP – the brain can only process five sensations/thoughts at once.

The "genius" of it is that the woman doesn't notice, and can't tell why it is she starts to feel physical towards you. He demonstrates with assistant Natalia how to coerce a girl into a kiss by talking about hair care products and using non-verbals and covert kino (touch). If you can get her to let you sniff her hair, then rub your mouth slowly over her ear – let her feel your breath and tug her hair slightly – she will feel you taking control and melt. Women, he claims, secretly want to be controlled.

I find this deeply disturbing. As a student, I studied the history of feminism. All around me the others, apart from Stasis, who has come without pen and paper, take notes.

To prove the power of covert kino, Beckster gets all of us to practise touching each other's ears. I shudder as Borderline strokes my lobe. "Does it feel gay?" Beckster laughs and there are embarrassed coughs in the room. "If it doesn't, you're not doing it properly."

At the end of this, I feel simultaneously aroused, ashamed and sick to my soul. Is this what women are subjected to all the time? Is this even legal? When my daughter is old enough, I shall warn her about the Becksters of the world. I am still trying to work out where Beckster touched me, without my permission, while worrying about the fact that I find him so compelling.

But there is no time for moral quandaries because now is our ultimate test, 'The Night Game'. We have to put all we have learned into action in the nightclub. The tutors will be shadowing us, but we are on our own. Stasis gets up from his seat and excuses himself. He will not be taking part.

The nightclub is heaving with high-calibre heels and high-stacked cleavage. This would usually have me heading for the bar, but as Gambler says, PUAs don't drink on the job, so it's water. Even with water though, I have regressed to the inept pub-man stance we were warned about in exercise: pint glass held just below my chin, peering over the top, creepily eyeing the talent. I have no idea why I am here and why I have bought into this.

The trainer I am with is not Alex, and has none of Alex's charisma. He is, in fact, a student PUA and I have never seen him in operation, so I resent it a little when he shoves me toward a set of three attractive girls at the edge of the bar and says: "Go on, open it up." I am frozen to the spot. I explain that, being a long-winded cerebral chap, I can't pick up in nightclubs because all my sentences are too long. "What?" he shouts over the music, then shoves me again. "Go on, open up the set."

I sidle up to them, running over the canned opener in my head. It's just not feasible. I can't do it. I can't even make eye contact. One of the girls looks up at me and I turn and walk back. The feeling is now shame – I am stupid, worthless and I desperately need a drink. Then comes anger – what am I doing here? I'm not even a real student. I have absolutely no desire to pick up anybody. I skulk in the shadows planning my escape. There is no sign of our Australian girl. Beckster was right – we have been stood up.

I watch in horror as Neuro 'amogs' us by opening up a table of ten (amog > alpha male of group). They are all in pink, plastic mini-dresses, fishnets and hen-night love-heart wired antennae. He is explosively loud and has all the girls' rapt attention. It is at this point that my negativity descends. It may be the latent alpha male in me that envies another man doing something better than me, but I rationalise it. The guy is on a loser – no one has ever got a girl's number at a hen party After 15 minutes witnessing Neuro at work, the nausea takes me to the toilet and when I return my team has vanished. I check the dance floor, the lower bar, the hen party. For 20 minutes I'm clawing through sweating, dancing, flirting bodies, searching for just one of the guys in the team, not even looking at the females under the flashing lights. I see the rest of my night (nay life) ahead of me – all the other men will be picking up while I shall be searching through the darkness for my trainer. Then I spot Woodie under a flashing light and he seems more alone than I have ever seen a man. After my eighth pint of water I catch sight of my face in the bar mirror – frozen in aged stasis while happy nymphs dance around me.

I'm heading for the door when I'm stopped by a revelatory vision – Borderline is chatting up three girls at the same time, two look like twins, all three are very sexy and he has their total, undivided attention. I stay and watch from a distance, he's moving in for kino, he's touched an arm, he's escalating and isolating. I can't believe what I'm seeing. Some line about hair care products must have been made because now Borderline is running his hands through her hair, as if assessing the quality of conditioner, then he leans in – the sniffing, the little tug, she pulls back but I register the arousal. Borderline whispers something, she nods, and he goes into his jacket pocket. Someone bumps into me with a drink but when I look up again Borderline has crossed another border – she is leaning on his shoulder as she takes his phone and types what could only be her number.

I am in shock. This system actually works. I sneak out of the club early, text my girlfriend goodnight and start walking back to my hotel.

I tell myself I will not return for day two, but I do. I must be hooked, or maybe I just want to find out the results. The scores are impressive. Eight out of our ten (even Woodie) closed with phone numbers last night, which means that only me and Stasis – who wasn't even there – failed. Failure is my vibe of the day, as the rest of the team sail through more tuition on following through with text messages, getting a girl back to your place and faking it till you make it. For reasons I can't grasp, this utterly depresses me. Perhaps I don't like the idea that all you need to be successful and happy in life can be learned through a system, or perhaps it's simpler – that I have failed every exercise and test there is on day two and am being resentful. I skip the second Night Game, thank the tutors, say my goodbyes and head back to my temporary comfort zone – the hotel.

Walking back through the bright lights of Leicester Square, thousands of people pass in their sexiest nightclub clothes. Thirty Hari Krishnas sing and dance past me, bashing their cymbals and repeating their words. I think about how they have been neurologically reprogrammed with language. Beneath my feet are flyers for city-centre prostitutes. One offers a "new service" called "kissing".

All I want in the world is to be with my girlfriend and to banish all thoughts of people manipulating others. I text her to tell her I love her. No reply; she is already asleep back home. Then the strangest thing happens. Two girls in their twenties walk up to me and ask for directions to a nightclub. I have no desire to pick them up, but I catch myself making them hold eye contact, giving them both equal attention, improvising a joke and touching an arm as they laugh. I find myself using pauses to make them speak, turning the conversation towards clothing and sexuality, escalating and isolating. I catch myself at it, apologise and excuse myself, and as I turn to leave, they ask me to come with them.

Back at my hotel, I have a chilling thought: had I been reprogrammed? When I get home and kiss my girlfriend, will a voice in my head say: "Good, now brush your mouth against her ear. That's it, escalate, escalate." Will the world ever be innocent again?

As I climb into bed I feel dreadfully alone, glimpsing a future world in which instruction manuals teach us how to pick each other up. Then I realise it isn't the future at all; the world is already like this. Either you know the rules of this game and have a chance of winning or you're not in the game at all. This game isn't really a game; it's a matter of survival.

Ewan Morrison is the author of the novels Swung and Distance (out in June). See www.ewanmorrison.com. For more details of pick-up artist courses, log on to www.puatraining.com

TOP EIGHT PICK-UP LINES

1. 'Hi there, have you seen my friend?' The woman, confused, can't say, 'no', without seeming rude, so will ask – 'What does he look like?' At which point you say 'About half a foot long, with red fur and bushy tail.' This is a never fail laugh and is named 'The Squirrel.'

2. 'Hey, excuse me, but are you the kind of person that keeps a journal?' 90% of women keep a journal of some kind, but they don't know this. The woman will feel flattered and a little unnerved/fascinated by your acute perception.

3. 'My girlfriend thinks you're hot' point to some random girl in the night club as your 'girlfriend', later you can admit she's just a female friend and you're single – although you're friends with lots of girls. This endears women and your target will want to prove that she is more attractive than the others.

4. 'Hey there, sorry I'm late' (for big tables). A good ice breaker, takes a lot of guts to pull off but you can keep it running with jokes about traffic jams, aeroplanes etc. If things are flagging you can pretend you've suddenly realised these are the wrong people, if this doesn't make them all laugh then you have a good excuse to leave.

5. 'Hiya, my mates just been dumped by his girlfriend by a text message' - wait for reaction ('Oh, that's just awful.' etc) then ask- 'What should he text her back?' This shows how sensitive you are and cuts to the chase on matters of the heart. It also sets up how loyal you are to a friend, which indicates how you will be in a relationship.

6. 'Hey, I have a policy of meeting the hottest girl in the club when I go out. My name's X' (shake hands), 'so do you know her then?' (point to another girl). It's cheeky and difficult to keep a straight face throughout, but if you can make it work you will have moved from flattery to a neg (a playful put-down), in a matter of second and have her ego like putty in your hands.

7. 'Hey, a guy at the bar just tried to pick me up. Is it my hair? Do you think I look gay?' A vintage pick-up line. There is no way a woman will say 'yes'. Before she realises it, she will be assessing you from head-to-toe, telling you how straight and attractive you look and asking her friends what they think. Keep it going with 'Is it my jeans?' 'Is it my hair?' so that they are prompted to touch you all over. As they do, do the same - and escalate.

8. 'Hi, I just wanted to let you know that I think it's appalling the way men behave round you, trying to pick you up.' A clever post-modern self –reflexive strategy that wins over even the most knowledgeable feminist. The difficulty is in moving to the real pick-up, after setting yourself up as superior to all the regular blokes.