Ah lads. There you are, thinking that the glossy maiden you’ve just swiped is trapped in a tower (block) somewhere, longingly looking at her phone willing it to buzz with one ‘you’ve got a new match notification’. Her face will light up with her phone when she sees it’s you and the conversation will begin to flow.
Wrong. In fact what she, and every other girl, is currently doing on Tinder is quite different. And I think it’s about time you knew.
So here it is. All the things girls are actually doing on Tinder.
Judging you purely on your name.
It’s sad. I’m sorry. But it’s true.
If your Facebook dates back to circa 2005 and your still down as MC Shinzey from your Garage days, we’re probably not going to sleep with you.
Also not a huge fan of Edwin’s.
Maybs that’s just me.
Checking out how clean your bathroom is.
You know them selfies you take of your abs? Or the ones where you’ve ‘well-positioned’ that lump in your grey joggers?
Yeah, we’re just looking to see if you’ve got mould in your grouting.
Reading your bio like your English A-Level teacher.
A-hem my guy just dropped a comma. NO DATE.
Also, when guys replace s’s with z’s. We’re judging. Proper judging.
Avoiding the filth.
Funnily enough when you’re first message is along the lines of ‘do you fancy a fuck’, we ain’t running round trying to find our corset. We’re having another cuppa in our jogging bottoms wondering why you think it’s OK to say that to strangers.
Longing for you to have a picture of your shoes on there.
Because you may well be pretty, and you may well have a great job and plenty of patter but if you’re rolling round in a Burton tan slip on, we’re not gonna like it.
Yep. We’re that awful. Really are.
Getting overly excited when we see someone we knew years ago on there.
Cos it’s like the Tinder god’s have brought us together in some kind of weird shitty dating app fate. Cos we’re girls. So our brain’s work a gazillion miles an hour.
Pretending that we swiped right on our ex ‘by accident’.
Not in any way in an attempt to open up the lines of communication with him again to tell him what a turd we think he is. Nope. Not at all. Not even slightly.
When Croydon’s answer to Christian Grey rolls up on there with pictures of flogs and whips like that’s what we’re about. Je.Sus.
Getting really excited when we match a celeb.
Ok, ok the closest I got was matching the bloke that does the weather on BBC. But still. That counts.
Filtering the living shit out of all of our photos.
And pretending we don’t ever do that. Seriously, if we could Instagram our actual faces we would.
Looking up and realising that an hour of our lives had gone by.
An hour of developing RSI in our thumbs. Of wondering why some people are allowed access to the internet. An hour where we could have actually been nearer finding true love or a lay if we’d left the house like we were supposed to.