One of three things will happen, depending upon the number of lights still in play at any given time: he will be rejected by all of the women; he will be chosen by one of the women, or, at the very end of the game, he will get the chance to choose between two or more women.
Imagine that the stock exchange traded exclusively in the concepts of self-esteem and dignity, and that its traders were all angry monkeys on heat. The man begins the game by ‘dancing’ for the ladies' delectation.
The buzzer makes a horrible, heart-breaking sound, which evokes a dying robot, a comically wilting erection in a Carry On film, or Piers Morgan climaxing.
The man's aim is to convince the ladies – through the sheer force of his poise and charm - to keep their lights on for the duration of the game.
That's rather apposite, because Blind Date was undoubtedly the light entertainment equivalent of a peck on the cheek: nice, wholesome, earnest, comforting, and always leaving a faint but pleasant impression.
Each week on the show, three grinning imbeciles were asked fluffy and meaningless questions by a contestant who was perched behind a partition, in reply to which said imbeciles recited a series of quips so cheesy they could be garnished and served as starters in a French gastro pub.