My name is Bethan Smith and I'm ashamed to admit I'm a Tinder user.
I've sort of fallen into a relationship ditch, where I'm too young to attend my local speed dating event (25 and above, the sods!) but too old to meet people through my established friendship group, and definitely too old to do that "we just said hi, held hands for a bit, now we're officially a couple" thing that I did at age fifteen (and I suppose, embarrassingly, in my first year of university, with a guy who was as shy and stupid as I was at the tender age of eighteen).
Not to be melodramatic, but dating post-university seems to be a barren wasteland of hopeless despair. If there's one thing I've sussed in the months since I took my last exam, it's that I'm probably going to die alone in a bedsit somewhere, probably while a sad trombone plays in the background. Not even with a dog or cat to slowly eat my corpse. I'll be so poor, I doubt I'll be ever able to afford a flat with a landlord that will accommodate a pet.
Having graduated, I now live in my hometown of Essex, specifically Thurrock, the land from whence Russell Brand originated (not to brag, we went to the same primary school, though obviously not in the same year) and officially the most depressing place to live in Britain. There's nowhere to "meet" people here, let alone people who might also be interested in spending an evening drinking moderately priced wine in a somewhat nice bar discussing films and books and praying that they find you cool enough to meet again.
Hence, Tinder is both the saviour and bane of my romantic life. It's the app that seems to be both casual enough for those not necessarily interested in getting seriously linked up right away, but not limited to "have you met my friend Dave? He's got a squinty eye and he's a tad racist but he's lovely, really." You just swipe, and occasionally, if the fates align and one of you isn't painfully shy, chat awkwardly about favourite films and ice cream flavours before never speaking again in a comfortable silence. I would say that on this app, I've had in-depth, decent conversations with three people. All of these eventually fizzled.
The one problem, as I'm sure you're aware, even if you've had the fortunate to never have to use this app, is it's a choppy water filled with unfortunate man-sharks. Douchebag sharks. Douchebag sharks that work in finance and make Snoop Dogg and unironic 4:20 references. With dick jokes. And topless pics. And fedoras. Pink fedoras. EVERYWHERE. Finding a non-douchebag-non-fedora-non-shark is like panning for gold in the Thames.
So I decided that, in order to have a successful dating experience, it would be useful to do some number crunching. Armed with the ultra-scientific clicky-counter thing pictured below, a notepad, and an A* GCSE in maths, I'd figure out the statistics associated with my average Tinder experience, warts and all. I would make a badass tally chart, and in the process figure out where I'm going wrong on this rubbish, douche-bag-fedora-shark attracting app.
For context, like most women with hideously unphotogenic faces, I only have two profile pictures I am happy to use. One obscures over half of my face, so instead I use one that is a weirdly huge close-up of my smiling mug. Better a weird close-up than one that shows my weird looking face in its usual incarnation.
Moreover, my profile lists me as the following:
Not to be melodramatic, but dating post-university seems to be a barren wasteland of hopeless despair. If there's one thing I've sussed in the months since I took my last exam, it's that I'm probably going to die alone in a bedsit somewhere, probably while a sad trombone plays in the background. Not even with a dog or cat to slowly eat my corpse. I'll be so poor, I doubt I'll be ever able to afford a flat with a landlord that will accommodate a pet.
Having graduated, I now live in my hometown of Essex, specifically Thurrock, the land from whence Russell Brand originated (not to brag, we went to the same primary school, though obviously not in the same year) and officially the most depressing place to live in Britain. There's nowhere to "meet" people here, let alone people who might also be interested in spending an evening drinking moderately priced wine in a somewhat nice bar discussing films and books and praying that they find you cool enough to meet again.
Hence, Tinder is both the saviour and bane of my romantic life. It's the app that seems to be both casual enough for those not necessarily interested in getting seriously linked up right away, but not limited to "have you met my friend Dave? He's got a squinty eye and he's a tad racist but he's lovely, really." You just swipe, and occasionally, if the fates align and one of you isn't painfully shy, chat awkwardly about favourite films and ice cream flavours before never speaking again in a comfortable silence. I would say that on this app, I've had in-depth, decent conversations with three people. All of these eventually fizzled.
The one problem, as I'm sure you're aware, even if you've had the fortunate to never have to use this app, is it's a choppy water filled with unfortunate man-sharks. Douchebag sharks. Douchebag sharks that work in finance and make Snoop Dogg and unironic 4:20 references. With dick jokes. And topless pics. And fedoras. Pink fedoras. EVERYWHERE. Finding a non-douchebag-non-fedora-non-shark is like panning for gold in the Thames.
So I decided that, in order to have a successful dating experience, it would be useful to do some number crunching. Armed with the ultra-scientific clicky-counter thing pictured below, a notepad, and an A* GCSE in maths, I'd figure out the statistics associated with my average Tinder experience, warts and all. I would make a badass tally chart, and in the process figure out where I'm going wrong on this rubbish, douche-bag-fedora-shark attracting app.
For context, like most women with hideously unphotogenic faces, I only have two profile pictures I am happy to use. One obscures over half of my face, so instead I use one that is a weirdly huge close-up of my smiling mug. Better a weird close-up than one that shows my weird looking face in its usual incarnation.
Moreover, my profile lists me as the following:
"Twenty-something Essexonian who enjoys the following: being a bibliophile and chocoholic, watching BBC television, going to the cinema, avoiding gender stereotypes, quoting films at any opportunity, having a somewhat dry sense of humor, enthusing about Victorian literature and wearing Doc Martens.
Hello to Jason Isaacs!"
(Fun fact: I have decided that all wittertainees on Tinder who recognise that last reference and acknowledge it are automatically eligible for one free date, if they choose. So far no one has got it; I remain dateless.)
I gave myself about half an hour to swipe 200 people and see what results I could find.
The Basic Results
Number of Total Swipes: 200
Number of Swipes Left (Nope); 181
Number of Swipes Right (Like): 19
Number of Matches: 9
Number of Messages: 1
Average Time Spent on a Profile: 9 seconds
Putting my statistical "I'm going to sound like a scientific twonk" hat on, I approved of about 10% of the "sample", about half of which in turn also approved of me. I only received one message, about that classic Tinder staple, "what films do you like?".
Put in real terms: Out of two hundred random sods, I only liked about 20 of them, and only one of them wanted to contact me in turn.
Now for the fun, analytical part:
The Figures:
Number of City Financiers/Bankers: 25
For context: Essex is notorious for being the home of comutting bankers and other sorts. Tinder in Essex is equally notorious for being said bankers preferred method of obtaining what I presume they call "the wenches" and/or "the females", or if we're going to be vulgar but accurate, "the p*ssy". Hence, I was surprised that city idiots only made up one eighth of the sample.
Number of profiles that listed "Working Out" or "Working On My Guns" as a Dead Serious Top Hobby: 11
Regardless of location, this kind of behaviour is commonplace on Tinder. Again, the number was surprisingly low. That said -
Number of Topless Profile Pictures: 28
A similar number to the bankers, no? On the Venn Diagram, the Edward Woodward style "Oh Jesus Christ, no" holy grail of commonplace Essex Tinder moron would be an intersection of these three categories. I don't care how fabulous you think your abs are. I don't get to waltz around with no top on, nor do you. Put a shirt on.
Animal-Based Profile Pictures: 11
A rare instance of Essex improving on the Midlands with a surprisingly lower count than expected. Perhaps bankers have no time for that? I've noticed that a favourite tactic of men on Tinder is to pose (often topless) with a helpless and cute pet or animal as a kind of weird shorthand for "I'm as sweet and loveable as this adorable tabby cat, even though I list snorting crack as a legit hobby".
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I love minature schnauzers. I certainly don't love you.
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"Just Here for The Banter" or Similar count: 7
None of these men made my swipe right list. #JustSaying
Number of Dope References: 7
Also unsurprisingly, levels of Banter corresponded to levels of unironic dope and weed references, also accompanied by millions of weird emoticons I never even knew existed and Snoop Dogg quotes. I'm getting old.
Clangers and Downright Offensive Chat Up Lines: 10
Not that type of clanger (i.e., "I can tell you now you might look like a tiny clanger but I am most definitely not small"), and not even a standard groany cliched comment, but the type of clanger that makes you want to headbutt a wall in despair and wonder how these men will ever reproduce. I won't name too many in case they're detected and recognised, but highlights included "no fatties allowed" "vegan sluts only please" and "can't take a joke? Then don't expect a poke".
Also unsurprisingly, levels of Banter corresponded to levels of unironic dope and weed references, also accompanied by millions of weird emoticons I never even knew existed and Snoop Dogg quotes. I'm getting old.
Clangers and Downright Offensive Chat Up Lines: 10
Not that type of clanger (i.e., "I can tell you now you might look like a tiny clanger but I am most definitely not small"), and not even a standard groany cliched comment, but the type of clanger that makes you want to headbutt a wall in despair and wonder how these men will ever reproduce. I won't name too many in case they're detected and recognised, but highlights included "no fatties allowed" "vegan sluts only please" and "can't take a joke? Then don't expect a poke".
The "I Can't Tell Who You Are From This Profile Pic" count: 7
More an annoying habit than anything else. Having multiple men in a shot means I can't tell which one of them is "you", the person actually on Tinder. Particularly if your profile picture shows you with a girl. Who is clearly your girlfriend. Please find your "player three" on some other app. That's just shady.
Actual Racism or Sexism: 3
All three of these genuinely shocked me, but one guy particularly topped it by having a profile picture of him at a fancy dress party - dressed in a Hijab with a sign saying "death to the west. He was also a banker. What a ***.
More an annoying habit than anything else. Having multiple men in a shot means I can't tell which one of them is "you", the person actually on Tinder. Particularly if your profile picture shows you with a girl. Who is clearly your girlfriend. Please find your "player three" on some other app. That's just shady.
Actual Racism or Sexism: 3
All three of these genuinely shocked me, but one guy particularly topped it by having a profile picture of him at a fancy dress party - dressed in a Hijab with a sign saying "death to the west. He was also a banker. What a ***.
Scientific Conclusion: Tinder is every bit as rubbish as you would expect it to be. But now I have the stats to prove it.
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