The very best and worst of humanity can be found in one place: Tinder

Chatting to my friends for research, I have unearthed all kinds of wild tales – I did ask men as well, but, unsurprisingly, most of the horror stories came from women

It’s been a whole decade since Tinder first arrived on the scene. Before then, singletons either had to pay huge subscription fees for classic dating sites, hope an eligible bachelor would magically approach them in some uber chic bar à la Sex and the City, or they relied on friends to play matchmaker. The only dating app of its kind on the market at that point was Plenty of Fish – and while there’s plenty to say about that, the less said, the better.

Tinder was revolutionary in many ways. Not only did it introduce us to the concept of “swiping right”, providing a (seemingly) endless conveyor belt of options, it broke the taboo of internet dating. No longer was it reserved only for leathery-skinned, linen-clad elderly people in search for a beau to spend their retirement years with, it was suddenly cool – to the point those in relationships started to live vicariously through their single pals to see what all the fuss was about.

However, it didn’t take long for the app to get a bad rep. Realising its potential as a digital playground, Tinder became synonymous with sleazes, unsolicited d**k pics and those unabashedly DTF (down to f***). And while I am no prude and actually think it’s great that people felt sexually liberated (still not an excuse to send unwanted snaps of your appendage in various stages of an erection), it seemed to consolidate the fears of those seeking meaningful connections about the state of romance: it was dead.

Detailed bios went out the window in favour of (inflated) measurements, gym itineraries and the words “looking for fun”. Hell, some guys did away with uploading photos of their faces all together and opted for decapitated images of their oiled-up torsos and snail trails. (I would love to know if anyone has ever matched with a guy based on his pecs and his pecs alone.)

Now, I would be remiss not to mention that I know several people who have actually met their life partners on the app. My college friend Jo met her husband on Tinder back in 2016 and the pair now share two children, aged one and three. Likewise, my former colleague Rich met his wife on Tinder in 2014, they moved in together a year later and they now also have two kids. But I can’t help but feel as though they were The Lucky Ones; the ones who caught the first wave of decent human beings using Tinder before everything descended into chaos.

As for me, I downloaded the app in 2014, shortly after moving to London. I uploaded overly-saturated selfies and artsy pics of me at coffee shops and exhibitions to demonstrate what a cultured, well-rounded catch I was (lol). Being attracted to personality and charisma more than looks, I really struggled with the window shopping – at first. But I soon relished the ease with which I could set up dates and meet new people in my new city.

After about a month, I started to get carpal tunnel from all the swiping and set on meeting up with an Australian guy – let’s call him John – with a penchant for good coffee, anime and cats. We hit it off and soon started meeting up on a regular basis. I even used to trek across the city to the Place Where Dreams Die (Canada Water) to spend time with him. Then, one day, as we were sat on a park bench round the corner from my flat, his face changed and he very seriously told me: “I think we should stop seeing each other. I think you’re developing strong feelings for me and I don’t want to hurt you.”

I have actually seen “John” since then and every time we do hang out (which, admittedly, is few and far between) I seize the opportunity to tell him what a d**k he was and how audacious it was to assume I – clearly an emotional woman – was hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him after a few weeks.

“Not this again!” He protests, smiling. Though he also concedes his behaviour wasn’t great and that he messed up a good thing.

Soon after our fling – but not before I was asked by a man if he could do a life drawing of me like he was Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic – I deleted the app.

Chatting to my friends for research, I have unearthed all kinds of wild tales – much more tantalising than mine. (NB: I did ask men as well, but, unsurprisingly, most of the horror stories came from women).

My close friend Nicole* was not only catfished by her Tinder date (he didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to his photos), he proceeded to sing The Lion King’s “Circle of Life” to her on the street, while dancing around her and making animated hand gestures, before he pointedly joined a separate queue in Maccas so as not to pay for her bacon double cheeseburger.

Ellie, meanwhile, went on a date with a guy that was so jealous of the attention the waiter was giving her at dinner (and by “attention”, I mean doing his job and asking her what she wanted to order), that he stole the tip money she had left – and refused to give it back to her. They then awkwardly stood at the train platform together in silence, before he asked if she was down for a second date.

After the guy she was supposed to be meeting called to cancel last minute, Jessica* decided to keep her booking and go for dinner with a friend – only to find him sat at her table with another woman. Naturally, he denied it and was so butt hurt about being called out that the restaurant staff had to eject him from the premises. The three women kept the table and the meal was on the house.

Taking a more sinister turn, Sarah* went for drinks with a guy who insisted she’d get along with his mother and that the two should meet… before revealing that his mum was, in fact, dead.

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With all this in mind, then, it’d be easy to cast assumptions about the impact Tinder has had on the world of dating. It’d be easy to assume that its legacy and all the apps that came after it are responsible for dashing our hopes of finding love. But to those of you who believe that’s true, I say to you this: what if we’re looking at the world BT (before Tinder) with rose-tinted glasses? What if the dating scene was actually pretty dire before Tinder came along?

I mean, when I look at my own dating past, just months before I took to swiping I was stalked by a handsome barista whom I met in a Hollywood “meet-cute” fashion. We spent time getting to know one another without risk the other person actually looked like a blended foot IRL. But despite all of this, he ended up being one of the creepiest guys I’ve ever encountered. So, it’s hard for me to blame apps alone for the demise of dating.

No, I think it’s much simpler than that. Dating apps haven’t broken the system or taken a metaphorical dump on love; they’ve just provided a platform for all the weirdos to come together and flaunt how messed up they really are.

*Some names in this article have been changed