I am horrendously drunk in pretty much all of mine, so have to wait till the dead of night to upload an album of acceptable pictures to Facebook, select them from Tinder, then frantically delete them all before anyone clocks the fact that I am, very obviously, making an online dating profile.
Once you’re underway, the first thing you notice is that everyone on earth is on here.
Many of the advantages and opportunities of online life, the app ingeniously bypasses.
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If I want to meet girls from, say, Brixton, I actually have to go there - a concept only my dead grandparents could understand.
I grew up in the eastern end of Zone 6 - Towie country - and now live in Whitechapel, which as far as I’m concerned sits flush against the edge of my own personal sexual Berlin Wall.
Occasionally, someone not too shabby looking emerges, pictured by the roadside in a pretty obscure bit of Uganda and you get all excited and want to message them and say, “Bloody hell, I’ve been there too. In that respect (and not only in that respect) Tinder is a giant leap backwards in the boundaries of the possible.
Despite having her stare out of the phone at you, a fellow user of a social networking interface, you are divided by an enforced wall of silence.
Michelle, 29, in a trilby hat with her arm up the arse of a Bengal tiger seemed genuinely lovely, but I was carrying a tray at the time, pressed the wrong button and that’s that, gone forever.