Well, someone actually matched with my nonsensical Tinder profile, possibly out of morbid curiosity or possibly because she was still drunk from the night before (it was the day after St Paddy’s and our epic Grand Slam victory in the Six Nations).
Having met my goal the profile bio has now been taken down as nobody really wants to learn about the VAT rate of breads and pastries, and the Fraggle Rock theme has been replaced with a Bruce Springsteen song I really like that also happens to have a suggestive title. For all it really matters anyway, I imagine that it will be a fortnight at most before I take my profile offline again.
In the meantime I promised a poem if someone matched with me, and I’m not going to disappoint. Unfortunately due to a combination of other projects and procrastination (laziness) I’ve missed World Poetry Day (21 March), but we’ll say I’m doing this in honour of the event anyway, which means I’m either being avant-garde or a hipster.
There was an age when the world was dark
And time it was but a faraway dream,
It came after one lingering spark
Of light and sound in a flowing stream,
In aeons forgotten in the haze of morning
When the reverie fades,
And the head starts pounding.
A universe exists beyond the heavy shades
And stellar power dries the dew of night,
A hopeful promise eternally remade
In the dawning of a new day’s light,
The morning check of the social world
To see what has been said,
And what apologies might be owed
The rumour of a new connection
The teasing heart of a rightward swipe,
Surely no one could want the affection
From someone clearly a total gype,
And yet here it was really true
There was she,
And very pretty I can tell you.
So a chat there was, the sharing of a joke
And mutual agreement that someone was a dose,
An accountant she thought from my HMRC boke
I had to tell her she wasn’t even close,
It transpired she hails from a farm near town,
And soon conversation dried,
For it’s a lonely life with the charm of a clown.
Don’t anybody dare say “Aw, that’s sad,” it was one more swipe than I expected to get with that profile, which makes it more successful than the time I went on to Plenty of Fish with Hannibal Lecter as my profile picture and the headline “It puts the lotion on its skin or hosey time”.
Happy World Poetry Day everybody.
As a followup to yesterday's post, I'm now back on Tinder with the profile as promised and doing my part for thumb exercises. I can already feel my neck getting sore from all the left swipes.
But hey, that VAT information may be useful to a select few of you.
If some mad person actually matches I think I'll write another poem.
It's only Tuesday and already it has been a busy week for picking something to blog about. Trump has sacked a guy, Russia has murdered a guy, and I touched a guy. Well, it was myself but in the dry spell I'm having you've got to count every bit of contact.
So today I'm going to talk about the exciting thing that everyone wants to hear: I'm going to go back to Tinder.
Yes, ladies, get ready to swipe left so hard that you'll hurt your thumbs and give me whiplash. I like to think that my presence on that app has single-handedly created more Thumb War champions than the entire public school system in the UK, and those boys masturbate a lot.
To really capture that dynamic left swipe you need to have the perfect profile pic, something that really speaks to the lady about the bullet she is dodging. An image that simultaneously says 'That guy could be fun' and 'my reputation would never survive this'.
Luckily for me I found my lime-green mankini whilst tidying the house last week.
So, we've got the image and now we have to get the profile just right. Women claim to love comedy right? Therefore the absolute last thing that I want to do is be funny. In the past I somehow managed to get a following on Match.com for my really outlandish profile descriptions, a couple of which I've attached for your reading pleasure.
We want to avoid that kind of attention at all costs.
I think that the best accompaniment to my mankini profile pic would be to randomly copy 500 characters out of Northern Ireland Tax Law from the HMRC website because nothing says sex like the VAT rate for soda farls.
I should probably disconnect my Instagram from the account, but lets be realistic here, the only time anyone goes from Tinder to someone's Instagram is to see bikini or shirtless pics (depending on what you're into). Since I have neither the abs or the pert boobies that would lure anyone across apps I think it's fairly safe to leave it up there.
Last but not least we come to the bit in which you can bind an anthem from Spotify. So, do I pick a really romantic song or something emotional that will show just how deep and soulful I am?
Nah, you know where this is going. If the Fraggle Rock theme isn't available then the obvious choice is Mah Na Mah Na by the Muppets.
And there we have it ladies, I'm ready to be dropped like a retired Russian spy and simultaneously be the best exercise that some of you working in offices will get this week. And people said that I would never contribute anything to society.
A bit of exposition first about this post: I have a colleague in the creative industry (I am in it, shut up) who had a slightly creepy experience this weekend. She's a single mother, hard working, putting herself through Uni whilst maintaining her family and career, and is exactly what you'd picture if I was to say 'Irish beauty'... no, not the tracksuit, cigarettes and large bottle of cider along the Lagan towpath kind, that's only around a very specific part of Belfast.
So anyway, on Sunday morning a neighbour to whom she has never spoken landed drunk at her door at 4:30am hoping to make a call, because that's what ladies love, awakened from bed by a drunk guy who doesn't even know your name. Eventually after pissing off he came back at 5am to ask if she would like him if he was sober. God does love a trier.
After being my usual helpful self on Facebook (read that as 'not at all') I was inspired to write a poem in his honour:
I am in a boat lost far out at sea,
Surrounded by water yet there is none for me.
The sun rising on another dawn,
The fever of the night has not yet gone.
I need something to taste,
From this thirst to be set free,
And awake my soul from this melancholy dream.
Over there on yonder shore,
Is it a trick, mirage or something more?
Some fool of the light or maybe the brain,
A promise that I might be fulfilled again.
Streams of fire, sands so pale,
and cool waters pure for my thirst to sate,
To find this land could be nothing but fate.
Crashing on rocks and thrown asunder,
A hidden reef and waves booming thunder,
This haven of passion is not as expected,
my ardor, my thirst to be somehow rejected.
Yet maybe still the fates have conspired,
For hope there is in the waters below,
The fingers of the mermaid beckon me so.
Reaching out for that warm embrace,
I find myself now in another place,
A desert, alone, a shore with no name,
having lost my way to a growing shame.
Not merely for my journey
for I realise this land it belongs to me,
I have passed out at home, in a puddle of wee.
I did promise some dick jokes in my last post and this guy was being a pure dick, I like to be a man of my word.
Ah, St Valentine's Day.
I've had so much love this morning that I had to register my phone on a telephone preference service just so that I could take five minutes to pleasure myself and have a wash. I've had calls coming all the way from Massachusetts to India, which tells me that rumours of my sexual prowess have got out and masochism is on the rise.
That's not to say that I'm into chains and leather, but if someone makes the right offer it would give me pause for thought. At present though I'm more about disappointment followed by a cuddle.
As a single man you might expect a rant from me about St Valentines but that's not the case, I like that there's a designated day when people are supposed to at least pretend that they still love each other. And when that is the case, hate-sex is great.
Like most people I fancy myself as being great at spotting when someone likes another person but short of a dead rabbit showing up in a pot on my stove I couldn't tell the difference between someone being interested in me and them having bad gas. I've got crap sinuses too so the smell isn't even a hint.
Then there's that one thing I always forget: The Barmaid Rule.
If you aren't familiar, this is when guys think they can pull the attractive barmaid because she smiles at him because they forget that it's her job to be nice and tips are nice. Consequently I'm known as a good tipper. Although I do try to tip fellas as well, I don't know if that means I'm naturally flirtatious or if I'm just trying to give them hope.
The same rule applies to baristas, waitresses, and pretty much everyone in the service industry, although you don't see as many people going on the pull in Tesco. Round my way though if you want a classy bird you go to Lidl, nothing says romance like standing in a queue in your slippers with 3 litres of own brand vodka and a crushed soul.
I will admit that I have been caught out by the Barmaid Rule myself, I think it's something of a rite of passage for every growing boy to have that little bit of humiliation, although I maintain the last time it happened wasn't entirely my fault.
Elsewhere butchers will be rubbing their palms together today because they can get rid of all that fillet steak that has been building up in their fridges since Christmas. And off licenses will be setting up romantic displays of prosecco, sauvignon blanc, and Buckfast. And don't forget to stop in the garage for the chocolates and condoms.
You'd nearly think that St Valentine had planned his martyrdom to coincide with the January credit card bills being cleared. Maybe that's the case, he was a prophet for profits?
Oh I'm being wilfully facetious, I know personally tonight I'll be settling down to a nice steak and a bottle of wine, and staring lovingly across the room at my freshly lubed Fleshlight.
Views expressed may not be representative of reality.