Archive for the ‘dating’ Category


There’s no big talk in me saying this: one of the rules of engagement in my experiment I know I will never break. It’s Rule 7 – No internet dating.

I’ve done this quite a bit in the past, having started out with the interbobular hook-ups in spring 2007. I thought it was a good way of increasing my chances of meeting a good egg. Pretty understandable. Nothing unusual there. In the following two-and-a-half years, I made guest appearances on four different dating sites for a total of about 10 months, never staying all up in men’s e-faces for more than two months at a time.

I can’t remember exactly how many men I met. I did just try to scribble their names in a list but (shamefully?) can’t remember them all. (I can, however, remember the name of every guy who’s poked me. I think… Yes, yes, I can. I just checked.) Anyway, at a pretty reliable guess, I probably dated about 20 men.

All except two of the 20ish meet-ups were either one-date wonders or went no further than date three. One moderate stand-out made it to six dates, another to three months. Out of all of them, I think I called it a day on the majority, the minority on me, and there were only maybe three of those that I was sad about. One of them was the three-monther, which is the only one to remotely qualify for the title of relationship. Even Carol Vorderman could work out those are not exactly the greatest odds.

(Had to be done.)

But apart from the fact that, for me, internet dating has proved a spectacularly abortive method of finding a relationship, there are many, many, many other aspects which make the whole thing a bit of a fucking drag. Let me enlighten you – if you’re one of the 14 people left on the planet who haven’t tried it yet. (This does get a bit epic, so put the kettle on, yeah.)

The judgements
When I started internet dating, I came into it all shiny-happy-open-mindy, not wishing to rule anyone out for any overly-stringent reasons. But the whole set-up of internet dating forces you to make conscious judgements about people from the outset.

Anyone who knows me will know I am a pedant. A know-all and a pedant. Especially when it comes to spelling, punctuation and grammar. I’m not in the least ashamed of my status. In fact, I’m proud of it. For me, his ability to string a good sentence together was of paramount importance in my search for a nice young man. I’m also a tallist. I like tall men. I think it’s some Darwinian force preventing me from having midget offspring. So those were two definites going on my “I Want” list for internet dates.

But when faced with questions about the job, income, politics, religion, drinking levels, desire for children and number desired(?!) of my potential Eggbert, I was driven down a far rockier path of judgement. I suddenly had to answer questions about factors I’d never even considered before.

In merely putting up a profile, you have to express preferences for age, height, body type, location. Any of those is, in itself, a judgement. You could just leave all the criteria blank, but if you do that you may as well stand at Piccadilly Circus with a sign round your neck saying ‘Single. Wanna bit?’ and be prepared for all-comers. The thing is, when you get into the selection-criteria game, it’s very hard to stop. It’s like poker without the big cash prizes, although the untelling faces are definitely the same.

All sites then use the boxes you’ve ticked to generate some form of compatability score, so when you flick onto someone’s profile you’re immediately given a superficial reflection of how closely they meet your wants. It’s all too easy for your eyes to dart towards this, your brain to think “Hmph, 76%?” and your judgement to say, “Not worth your eye-time, girlfriend.” That’s if you even get to see someone, because the profiles returned in your searches also heavily reflect the box-ticking you’ve done.

Basically, internet dating makes you judge very fast whether to bother even reading five paragraphs about someone, let alone writing them an email or actually meeting them, based on a badly-calculated percentage derived from a badly-defined set of criteria clicked on by a badly-in-need-of-a-shag you. And, remember, for all the open-mindedness you employ – or want to employ – chances are those who are on your receiving end are probably judge-judge-judging away based on their own handful of shoddy tick boxes and a few well-angled snaps.

The Hobson’s choice
Internet dating is fun for a couple of weeks. Really fun. Scrolling through hundreds of eager faces, chortling at their jokes, reading their tales of derring do, learning of their unusual pastimes or left-field taste in music – it’s like you’re in a good bar that’s rammed with people and you’re absolutely guaranteed a comfy seat to look for the best. People will also look at you, maybe send you a few messages, you’ll send some yourself and await their replies. Will they, won’t they, do they, don’t they – it’s all tantalisingly exciting. At first.

But after the first couple of weeks, it feels more like you’ve wandered onto the set of Cheers, because in this bar everyone knows your name. And you know theirs. And their photos. And their unimaginative headline. And their dullard hobbies. And their same-as-everyone job. And their “I hate talking about my self”. And their “I never know what to say”. And their total inability to spell – OH MY GOD! THE SPELLING! And their complete ignorance of even half-decent grammatical constructs – JESUS! THE GRAMMAR!

Get your house in order, big man

I feel a smiting coming on, and it ain't from up above.

It’s like being stuck on the most uninspiring fairground ride that just keeps going round and round and round and round and round and… Within a couple of weeks you’ve seen (and maybe done if you’re a slag) it all, so all there’s left to do is sit and wait for the newbies to arrive which, given the trickly pace at which they do so, you may as well go and do in an actual pub.

The repetitiveness
So all this dodgy-dating, identikit-browsing and judgemental-searching has been going on for a few weeks. Every day you log on to your email. You might have a few alerts from your site telling you about new messages or indicating percentage ‘matches’. You click through. You log on to the site. You go to your inbox there. You read the few messages. One might be interesting. The rest will be dull. Or odd. Or ctrl-C/ctrl-V. Or dirty. Or from a septuagenarian with five kids. A dirty one.

The one that’s okish you’ll follow up on, click through to their profile, check out the compatability score, flick through the pics. If they’re moderately attractive you might read the blurb. You’ll see a glaring spelling mistake or a liking for Michael Bublé or a “Where to start? I never know what to say”. You’ll hit the ‘new search’ button faster than your snappiest snap judgement. You’ll click on another profile, check out the compatability score, flick through the pics… Now repeat this process 20 times a day, every day, until you get it right. Yes, you’re a young, attractive Bill Murray and this is Dating Groundhog Day.

The people
Let’s not be too theoretical about things though. Here’s some good, real-life evidence in case you’re still unconvinced: a brief précis, a few lowlights if you will, of some of the people who’ve sapped hours of my valuable life on internet dates. Gawd love ’em. Someone has to. I’ve given them all appropriate film and TV pseudonyms, as much for my own amusement as their anonymity.
Ensemble cast: Left it to me to have the conversation because, although they remembered their fancy suit and clean shirt, they forgot their fucking personality.
Incredible Hulk: Three stone heavier than in his clearly ancient pictures who, after eating bar snacks, sat back triumphantly in his chair and picked his teeth. For 10 minutes. Right to the back.
Private Frazer: Sulked through the first bottle of wine and, as he cracked open the second, informed me, “I’ve had a shit couple of weeks.”
Dirk Diggler: So focused on his prime objective he nigh-on rammed my head into his lap before I’d finished my first drink
The Hooded Claw: Confirmed my belief that blurry photos in which faces are partially obscured by beer bottles indicate huge insecurities about appearance.
Astro Boy: Had a bit of the former-child-star about him, if you know what I mean. But then he was the former child star of a kids’ sci-fi TV show. My advice: no actors, especially those whose careers are dead.
The Man Who Cried Wolf: Keen-beaned through the first date then rang the next day all over-emotional to treat me to a 20-minute diatribe on how he’d not got over his perfect ex.
Dr No: Wouldn’t take no for answer. Still wouldn’t take no for an answer. Didn’t take me pushing him off me for an answer either. Just about took no for an answer when I wriggled to the floor and grappled to my feet, giving him the look of death as I pulled my hair out of my face. After accusing me of frigidity, as expected, he then announced as I opened the door, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” “I’m not,” I tersely replied and pushed it in his face. (A six-month break from internet dating ensued.)

So yes, as you can see, it’s no e-picnic out there in Interbob-datey-land. I don’t deny that it can be fun and I don’t deny that other people have found love through it – I just happen to find it more unfun than fun and I just happen not to know personally one single internet couple that has stayed the course to marriage/house-buying/civil partnership.

If you disagree with me, tell me about it. If you want to know another – extremely funny and well-worth-reading – side to the internet dating story, go and pay my friends over at The Dates of Wrath a visit. Get your info and make up your own minds, just remember that I’ve tried it extensively and, well, look what I’m doing here now. And if that doesn’t convince you…


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Day Two Situation Report.
FAILs: at least 14.

If I’m honest, I stopped counting. Not a good not-looking day, not good at all. A day of fails and a day of disgruntling realisation.

FAIL #1 happened 25 minutes after leaving home. Twenty minutes of that time I was riding my scooter. Obviously I was looking, but it’s a completely different kind of looking. Gawpface-lechmonger-looking and scooter-rider-looking are – and forever will remain – mutually exclusive activities. I like my innards where they are, not doused liberally across the tarmac of Elephant & Castle’s double roundabout hell.

That'll take more than a little Vanish

Today, as yesterday, I was caught out by an early Rule-1-breaching eye contact sesh, this time with a bloke who wasn’t even worth the ocular muscle movement. I marched on fail-free until lunchtime, aided and abetted by the barren man-wasteland that is my workplace. Then one little meerkat slipped out of the burrow as I went to fetch a sarnie. FAIL #2.

FAIL #3 occurred at the gym, potentially dangerous ground for rule-abiding citizens of Notlookingshire. Or it would be if my gym wasn’t in a very gay part of town and packed to the gunwales with hot, toned, well-dressed, good-smelling men with absolutely no interest in my lil’ piece of straight-girl ass. But it seems, even then, I can’t help myself. So yeah, FAIL 3: meerkatting gay guys. Way to go, girlfriend (finger shake, head waggle).

The remaining nine – nine, for fanny’s sake – were yet more breaches of Rules 1 and 4. I am absolutely, positively no good at this game. But the thing is, most of the blokes I’m looking at don’t even warrant my attention. I mean, I’m no Kelly Reilly (little known but she’d turn me) but I’m no Lorraine Kelly either.

I’ve realised it’s not that I’m looking, and failing, out of intrigue; I’m doing it purely out of habit. Male outlines are to me what bells were to Pavlov’s dogs, except when a man comes into view I look him up and down, not dribble everywhere. But then, there is no cause to dribble – most of the men I look at, and fail for, are only ringing bells with Quasimodo.


But there’s something these gym-buffed gay boys and ugly-stick-hit straight men have in common – they both raise the question: are all forms of looking unacceptable? That is, does anything fall outside the boundaries of looking? Or, what are the exceptions to the Rules? Alternatively, can I cheat?

It’s an important question; one that requires consideration, consultation and possibly a public inquiry. Your local authority will get back to you.

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