The hipster & the fascist 

Depressingly, I recently re-signed up to a dating app called OkCupid. The premise of this app is very similar to that of Tinder but with less sedated tigers. Emulating the actions of a teacher’s relationship with a four year old student, the user is given the option to ‘favourite’ potential suitors by sending them a gold star.

The quirk of this app is that it gives candidates a ‘match percentage’ which is calculated by pitting their OkCupid questionnaire answers against yours. Undoubtedly though, the flaws of this app outweigh the positives, the main one being anyone of any age from anywhere can view your profile and message you. There’s really no way of filtering out the weirdos and despite stating in my profile “Please don’t message me if you’re a creep”, it doesn’t deter them. Prepare to be inundated with messages that start “Hey sxc, jus saw ur profile. Wanna get 2 no u” or extremely frank and strangely candid messages from middle-aged men asking if you’re in the market for a Sugar Daddy.

Undeterred, I got speaking to someone my friends would deem ‘my type’ – the tall, dark-haired, beanie donning sort that spends his lunchtimes browsing A.P.C and Comme des Garçons.

For anonymity sakes, we’ll call him The Hipster.

With the not far from tragic failings I’ve recently had in the dating game, I’ve upped my age requirements for a man, hoping that by thirty their mentality is somewhat resembling that of a full-grown functioning adult.

After a very brief courting process online, I agreed to meet him the following week. Being a typical female, his arrogantly quick proposition to go for dinner and drinks was enticing. But actually, when we met in the edgy central London pizza joint, he was incredibly shy and it took my best conversation tactics to get him going.

I quickly came to regret this.

After explaining why his hand-sewn in-a-third-world-country-£200-skinny-jeans were superior to anything I will ever own, he swiftly moved onto the subject of seal clubbing. To put how shockingly off-topic this was into context, not twenty minutes earlier I explained I was an animal-adoring vegetarian when ordering my pizza.

Failing to convince me that seal clubbing is standard behaviour when in Canada, it came to the pinnacle of dating awkwardness, the bill.

Eight years my senior and certainly earning a lot more than me, I was pretty taken back when he accepted my offer to split the £20 bill – down to the final penny. Call my dating etiquette outdated but I don’t accept the developing notion that a man shouldn’t have to pay on a first date. Don’t get it twisted. You do. Especially when you suggested dinner. Girls are trained in the art of manipulation and we only offer to test you. And if you don’t pay, you will forever be known as ‘the tight bastard’ by our friends, acquaintances and strangers we tell when we’re drunk.

At this point I should have got a friend to call me and pretend they’d set themselves on fire, giving me a valid excuse to leave. But mainly out of boredom and want for more writing material, we ventured to a nearby pub.

After I purchased the first round of drinks he began bragging about how his friend’s mum propositioned him at the tender age of seventeen. What reaction was he expecting? Did he think I’d find his story about an almost child groomer impressive? And if I wasn’t already cringing beyond the realms of belief, he then made a passing comment about how I could pass for a fourteen year old. As you can imagine, I could barely control myself from pleading that he took me there and then in the middle of Soho. 

As he pathetically lingered with his empty beer glass, he slyly waited for me to finish my glass of life-support (wine) and casually requested I get him another pint whilst I’m at the bar. And, because I’m immeasurably stupid, I did.

When I returned we got into a relatively heated discussion about the Government and after I threw out some pretty inoffensive opinions, The Hipster (who ironically had an extremely fortunate upbringing) felt it was an appropriate time to loudly announce to the pub that I am, apparently, a fascist. I’d have been more offended but he’s the type that thinks Russel Brand is a philosophical revolutionary.

Admittedly, I was very intoxicated by this point and I’m not saying his overall dating techniques were bad but the word ‘abominable’ doesn’t even seem to scratch the surface. So I finally decided to call it a night and never, ever, ever see him again.

I’d also like to take this moment to apologise to all the eligible bachelors out there ferociously searching for me online, needless to say my OkCupid account no longer exists.


Instagram: @PippaBugg
Twitter: @PippaBugg

Images via Giphy.

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Ramblings of things I think about. Some insightful, some not so.

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