Last Friday the guy doing my new bathroom locked me out of my own flat. He wasn’t waiting for me inside (we’ve all seen that movie……. another sex joke), he just locked the bottom lock when he left that day and I don’t have that key. So I was stranded in Hackney with no where to sleep…….. obviously I called my best friends to let them know what a fantastic martyr I am (I imagine Jenna Maroney will play me in the movie version of this story). My poor mother got the brunt of my foul mood. F this and F that. So many Fs. It was like my GCSE year all over again but with a less shocked mother. 

So armed with the clothes on my back, a belly full of Macdonalds chicken and a bottle of Sainsbury’s Malbec I booked myself into the finest establishment that would have me at that time of night ‘The Hackney Travelodge’. I lay in my plastic fantastic pseudo-bedroom and naturally turned my slightly tipsy/shaking hand to the dating apps. An Argentinian red is somewhat heavy to pair with Friday night Grindr, it pairs very nicely however with the light frivolities of Tinder. Nothing like a night in the Travelodge to get your Tinder profile in order. Sort your pics. Keep up with your correspondence (I’m a lazy gay, lots of swiping, not so much engaging). Tindr brings about brand new versions of emotions that we didn’t experience ten years ago:-

  • The feeling you get when you swipe right with a hot guy and it doesn’t make you a match immediately. Like the sad emptiness of getting picked last in P.E (gays, you know the feeling)
  • When you match with a guy WAY out your league. Like the wondrous excitement of getting picked first in P.E (gays you know the feeling……. that day the year 9 boys had rhythmic gymnastics)
  • When you’ve mindlessly swiped left atleast 100 times because secretly you know no one is good enough for you/you’re not good enough for anyone and will die alone. Surrounded by cats. And lube. 

The girl pictured above is my spirit animal. 

Half a bottle of Malbec in and I find myself having fairly witty banter with a guy……. for privacy sake let’s call him…… Bavid. Bavid’s funny, his profile says he has a great job and he lives in Dalston. Tick, tick, tick. But you and I both know this Hackney Gay will never meet Bavid. I want to. But if truth be told I’m an old fashioned gay (that doesn’t mean I have sex in the gym)(anymore), it means I like to meet guys in clubs, pubs, queues for the Cheryl Vernandez Versini book signings for real (please note this was her name when this article was published, god know what she’ll be called by the time your read this). 

In fact, the two great loves of my life were met in Balans and Metropolis. In person. In real life. No filter. No pretense. Reality. It’s a dying process. 

So if you and I have matched on Tinder or Chappy would you mind casually stalking me (really casually guys, I can’t afford the legal fees) so we can meet ‘accidentally’ in a pub/club/Anastasia fan club meeting? If you don’t have the energy for all that then i’ll settle for extreme pressure/gentle bullying on said apps into meeting for real. 

Oh and don’t call me fella, mister or stud. (Ok you can call me stud)

Must dash, got some swiping to do!




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