Dating in London is an awfully precarious affair. With 6 million people living here you’d think it’d be relatively easy but instead it’s one of the most agonising experiences. Back in the day if a girl caught your eye you’d walk straight up to her and ask her out for a drink. If you do that now, she’ll stare at you as if you just shat on the floor…
Dating has evolved. Welcome Tinder, Bumble, Happen, and many more. Swipe, swipe, swipe, match. Its fatal attraction based on a few photos and more importantly terrible chat up lines. With the main difference between boys and girls being…boys swipe everything. Dating’s not only exhausting but dangerous with repetitive finger strain a swipe away! And then there’s the small talk. EUHH.
Anyway, Tinder has warped my ego. Whereas before I’d admit to being a solid 6, and happily, almost gladly have dated a 7. With so much potential and opportunity it’s 10s or nothing. Obviously heavily influenced by the self-help books and all that bullshit. But just a warning, firstly if you follow the above you’ll probably never get a match and will most likely die a desperate and lonely death buried in old newspapers and baked beans tins. Ok maybe not but eventually you’ve got to meet her and you’re still a 6. A solid 6 though so its ok. But take a bit of comfort that its guaranteed the girl who turns up won’t look anything like her photos. False advertising right there.
So, I’ve been on a few dates and my favourites are the Irish girls. They’re just, to test my Irish, a great crack. Then there’s the bunny boilers who lose it if you take longer than 10 minutes to reply to a text and the one you go for a thirsty Thursday drink with because you’ve got nothing better to do. Cruel but true. Not forgetting the ones who you never hear from again. But don’t worry because dating’s like buying a car, you always test drive before you buy, and not hearing back just means they’ve decided you’re more similar to a battered Volvo then the sleek Porsche you propositioned yourself as. Fair play. And during every date you’ll hope to God not to bump into someone you know, and constantly wonder whether you should kiss them goodbye or split the bill. Ah did I pack my proverbial wellies?!
So after hours of playing ping pong chat, Rosie and I finally arranged to meet. But not after a thorough Facebook stalk, just to check…But where to take her? Not somewhere too intimate or she’ll think I want to steal her skin. I needed somewhere suave and sophisticated. Somewhere where I could showcase my intellect, wit and undeniable humour. The Falcon by Clapham North station it was then. After so much promise and a few drinks down, conversation was getting desperate and I found myself asked “what’s your favourite colour?”. My response. “Beige”. I don’t think she got my sense of humour and it only went downhill from there as I made things worse by bringing up Brexit (Note. Always. Avoid politics on the first date). So, it turns out she was a erm…hidden fascist with master plans of world domination. I must admit I kind of dosed off here and was only bought back by the proposition of going back to hers. Hey, I’d be doing her a favour…maybe even shake the dictator out of her. Do a service to humanity. We entered hers in pitch black and as she went to change into something more comfortable (thought that just happened in films?!) I flicked the lights on. WHAT THE HOLY FUCK HAD I GOT MYSELF INTO!?! Sheer panic. There were cats everywhere. I mean there must have been at least 10 of the critters, and that was just in the living room. She was a crazy, cat worshipping, right wing nut case and I was probably about to be some sacrifice to her gods. I can safely say I got out of there as bloody fast as possible. Admittedly I may have overreacted and probably should have put my trousers on first. But lessons learnt. Onto the next one!