I think Tinder may be cheating on me. Each time I sheepishly reach for my iPhone, emboldened by a couple of pints of Brooklyn brew, Weasel Stout, Abbot’s Prostate or whatever beer / ale / fairy liquid substitute I have been served at my local, the Bearded Artisan, I am careful, choosy about who I am going to swipe right.
I study each new face and, if I haven’t recoiled in horror and hurled my phone across the room while shouting “oh, god, no!”, I plunge my thumb into her face to see the full profile, and the enigmatic comments below.
“I promise I won’t say we met on Tinder”; “you can call me Brenda”; “satisfy me and I’ll never let you go”; hmm, tempting, each one in a different way. Sweating profusely, guts churning, my fingers twitch involuntarily in a clockwise direction, and the self-loathing begins. Mercifully, I pass out altogether.
You have a new match: “my ass your face?”. No. This time it’s for real. So who could it be? Deirdre, the friendly Scot who likes swimming at night and date movies. It’s not her. Brionna, not sure if it’s her or her mate…perhaps it’s both…nope, that one was always a longshot. Pauline, looks a bit like someone I knows’ mum…the five pinter (note to self…change the age settings back)…not her. Brad, 32? That was random, he just popped up, I swear!
It’s Karen. Karen, you know, went to that party that every female member of Tinder ever went to when they all painted their faces to look like cats…Karen, looking for a relationship, no timewasters please, that pic of her jumping in the air at the beach and the one where it looks like her mate is standing on her outstretched hand but it’s just perspective (no man has ever thought of doing that). Hmmm…ok…there’s just one thing.
I. Did. Not. Swipe. That. Person.
Tinder you complete fraud! Are you messing with me? Me! After 4 pints of Boiled Cribbage at the Bushy Comedown Alehouse? Who do you think you are? You are telling me that the swiping means nothing? The agonising wait as face upon face flies past in an orgy of lip, cheek, buttock and thigh, like being at the frozen meat counter at my local butcher, it’s all a lie!
Algorithm my elbow, mate. Sophisticated pixelating technology – you mean spotty geek locked in a warehouse conversion basement watching David Attenborough’s Life of Mammals, cackling demonically and pressing match, match, match!!
Ah well, my IPhone camera is rubbish anyway…wonder what she’s doing Wednesday. Distance 5 metres. Oh crap. It’s my girlfriend.