Hand me that shovel.
I like the idea of using an app to date, particularly for those who lead busy lives or don't fancy meeting someone on the floor of a night club. Specifically, my problem with Tinder is with the people using it. Actually, it's just people. I hate people.
Thanks to smartphones, we've all become a bit of a needy, demanding bunch. Years of ordering our devices around like a dog has given us a false sense of entitlement; that we should be able to get whatever we want whenever we want it. Now, as well as being entitled to the latest weather report and cat meme, we're entitled to string along some horny strangers whenever we want some validation. Oddly enough though, this etiquette slots perfectly into the broken world of modern dating.
For those unfamiliar with modern dating, here's how it works: You talk to as many people as you can and date them all at the same time (three in a day, if possible). This goes on for about six months, when you pick one you're not entirely bored of and strike off anyone who hasn't quite measured up. If, along the way, talking to someone grows a bit tiresome, you can just ignore them - just like you do your friends in a restaurant when you get a Snapchat message.
Apparently, this is all normal. I have genuinely been on dates before where, no sooner had we sat down, I was asked to look at a "hilarious" message someone had just sent her on Tinder, and - following that - advice on what she should say back to him. I thought this was pretty out of line, so responded in the most horrific way possible; splitting the bill.
And that brings us to the most bizarre ritual of modern dating to date: the "exclusivity question". I, for the life of me, cannot envisage a situation where a couple need to sit down and say: "shall we not cheat on each other?" I fail to believe anyone could be so devastatingly stupid as to not realise it's time they stopped shopping for sex and started to exercise an ounce of romance.
And are people genuinely such terrible judges of character it takes six months to decide if someone's worthy of a "girl" or "boy" -friend prefix? After a month, I know if they're marriage material. After six, I could recite their dental records.
Over the years, Tinder's gone from being a humble dating app to a casual hook-up app, and has added some exciting features along the way to cater to the more discerning polygamist: You can now search through your matches (search through them!) because, of course, you should always have a few hundred in the bag. Helpfully, Tinder even removed the feature showing others when you were "last active", so you don't have to worry about all those dates knowing you're still skulking about.
You can lie about your location too, so, if you need a Tinder fix while you're away on holiday, you can carry on swiping and build up a consortium of bitches ready for you when you get back. The most useful feature by far though is that you can 'undo' your swipes, because you'll be so busy flicking people around like playing cards you'll be too braindead to realise you've accidentally liked a short person.
The subtle tone of the app bothers me a bit too. When you match with someone, Tinder asks if you actually want to talk to them. If not, you can opt to "keep playing", and carry on piling up matches like houses on Mayfair. When you reject someone, and you've wiped them off your screen like a disease, Tinder will whack a socking great 'NOPE' on their face to empathise how audacious they are for appearing on your phone.
Some singles find this quite liberating (as does the occasional married person, apparently), and why shouldn't they? Nothing empowers you quite like hoisting yourself up on a throne, casually casting away suitors, and doing so safe in the knowledge that someone without any imperfections is probably just another swipe away.
Sadly, this westernised form of dating is now the norm, but, along with 'Black Friday' and claim culture, I think we're better off without it, thanks. So now, I've decided I'd rather be single than allow strangers to wipe their fingers over my face.
And now, I probably will.
I like the idea of using an app to date, particularly for those who lead busy lives or don't fancy meeting someone on the floor of a night club. Specifically, my problem with Tinder is with the people using it. Actually, it's just people. I hate people.
Thanks to smartphones, we've all become a bit of a needy, demanding bunch. Years of ordering our devices around like a dog has given us a false sense of entitlement; that we should be able to get whatever we want whenever we want it. Now, as well as being entitled to the latest weather report and cat meme, we're entitled to string along some horny strangers whenever we want some validation. Oddly enough though, this etiquette slots perfectly into the broken world of modern dating.
For those unfamiliar with modern dating, here's how it works: You talk to as many people as you can and date them all at the same time (three in a day, if possible). This goes on for about six months, when you pick one you're not entirely bored of and strike off anyone who hasn't quite measured up. If, along the way, talking to someone grows a bit tiresome, you can just ignore them - just like you do your friends in a restaurant when you get a Snapchat message.
Apparently, this is all normal. I have genuinely been on dates before where, no sooner had we sat down, I was asked to look at a "hilarious" message someone had just sent her on Tinder, and - following that - advice on what she should say back to him. I thought this was pretty out of line, so responded in the most horrific way possible; splitting the bill.
And that brings us to the most bizarre ritual of modern dating to date: the "exclusivity question". I, for the life of me, cannot envisage a situation where a couple need to sit down and say: "shall we not cheat on each other?" I fail to believe anyone could be so devastatingly stupid as to not realise it's time they stopped shopping for sex and started to exercise an ounce of romance.
And are people genuinely such terrible judges of character it takes six months to decide if someone's worthy of a "girl" or "boy" -friend prefix? After a month, I know if they're marriage material. After six, I could recite their dental records.
Over the years, Tinder's gone from being a humble dating app to a casual hook-up app, and has added some exciting features along the way to cater to the more discerning polygamist: You can now search through your matches (search through them!) because, of course, you should always have a few hundred in the bag. Helpfully, Tinder even removed the feature showing others when you were "last active", so you don't have to worry about all those dates knowing you're still skulking about.
You can lie about your location too, so, if you need a Tinder fix while you're away on holiday, you can carry on swiping and build up a consortium of bitches ready for you when you get back. The most useful feature by far though is that you can 'undo' your swipes, because you'll be so busy flicking people around like playing cards you'll be too braindead to realise you've accidentally liked a short person.
The subtle tone of the app bothers me a bit too. When you match with someone, Tinder asks if you actually want to talk to them. If not, you can opt to "keep playing", and carry on piling up matches like houses on Mayfair. When you reject someone, and you've wiped them off your screen like a disease, Tinder will whack a socking great 'NOPE' on their face to empathise how audacious they are for appearing on your phone.
Some singles find this quite liberating (as does the occasional married person, apparently), and why shouldn't they? Nothing empowers you quite like hoisting yourself up on a throne, casually casting away suitors, and doing so safe in the knowledge that someone without any imperfections is probably just another swipe away.
Sadly, this westernised form of dating is now the norm, but, along with 'Black Friday' and claim culture, I think we're better off without it, thanks. So now, I've decided I'd rather be single than allow strangers to wipe their fingers over my face.
And now, I probably will.
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