One Year Swiping on Bumble: A Response to Dolly Alderston

By Georges Tibet

Hands up if you have ever used a dating app? Raise them a little higher. Don’t be shy now! The yearning for easy access to sex on the men’s side, running parallel to the non-stop stream of attention and validation on the women’s side, have made this new form of dating somewhat addictive. From Tinder to Bumble. OkCupid to Hinge. Match.com to Badoo, the perfect partner is only one swipe away right? That is of course if you have managed to get over your ex. A mental leap eluding Georges who, swipes desultorily whilst craving a sign of acceptance from the true love of his life Laetitia. One Year Swiping On Bumble sees Georges weave together stories that will Red Pill Blue Pill men, shock feminists, and defibrillate incels. The unspoken side of female nature is laid bare as the microphone, for so long monopolised by the likes of Dolly Alderton (author of Everything I Know About Love) is finally placed into the hands of men. And not one mention of Andrew Tate nor Jordan Peterson was needed!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brown Dog Books
• Release date: Aug 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781839526879

Book preview

Chapter I: The One Who Got Away

Pretty obvious is it not? Jilted man who was either dumped or rejected by his soul mate now writes a book making outlandish claims about women. At the core of his literary diarrhoea is a railing against feminism, all sprinkled with a dash of toxic masculinity to make even Andrew Tate blush. Perhaps burly Romanian policemen need to kick down my door next. Let us not ask ourselves how dare such a book be allowed to circulate let alone be published, rather who hurt this man? Hey Georges, who hurt you? The short simple answer is nobody. And to presuppose that it is only after suffering a heartbreak or two that a man can so brazenly make such iconoclastic suggestions about his opposite gender is wrong. It was neither the rejections nor the ghosting that caused me to pour thousands of hours into writing this book, a book let it be stressed that I have written in my second language English, as opposed to my mother tongue, that being French.

Birthing the idea was easy enough. Everybody would like to write a book, would they not? Short of that, everybody likes the idea of seeing his or her name blazed in Times New Roman, font size 16 at the bottom of a well-designed front cover. All your ideas, all your creative literary skills coupled with the idiosyncrasies of your imagination materialised into 300 pages of wonder. Pleasurable at times it most certainly was not, just as much as it is not a figment of my imagination. The veracity of every experience garnered after one year swiping on Bumble vouchsafes what I had for many years prior always intuitively known. Do not ask me how. I just did. Thousands of right swipes with varying degrees of success served to vindicate this voice within. My votive was as clear as the summer solstice: see what all the fuss anent to dating apps was about, with the goal of sleeping with as many women as possible at a reasonable level of attractiveness a close second. Both were to be attained before our wonderful planet completed its annual orbit around the sun, its source of sustenance. At times it felt like a race. My libido was unable to keep up with the giant yellow ball that has watched over our home for the best part of 4.5 billion years even as I swiped faster than the speed of light through a vacuum.

I was some eleven months in by the time I matched with a Korean woman on the app called Sungho, thirty-two, who, upon describing her most useless skill wrote ‘having prehensile feet’. I knew then that I was pretty much done with Bumble. Weeks earlier I had driven over three hours up the M11 to Lincolnshire to hook up with a new match. She was obsessed with me but me less so with her. Nevertheless, driven by my little head as opposed to my big head I made the 212 kilometre (132 mile) trip to what seemed like the edges of the galaxy to disastrous results. She looked significantly worse in real life compared to the app, moreover, that lengthy drive tired me out. By the time we actually got into bed, freshly showered and all, I could not perform sexually. I had by then hooked up with so many women preceding an immeasurable number of matches that I had become somewhat inured to it all.

The women with whom I was drowning my sorrows with felt no better. Emily, thirty-nine started her ‘about me’ section with the words ‘I feel like I am selling my soul on this app’. Another called Nicola talked movingly about how many times she has had her heart broken. To her I say unfortunately that happens a lot. More than people know. Women have their heart and emotions stamped on by many males from their early school days and beyond. Factor in the pressures from society anent to carving out a fulfilling career, being an eight-armed octo-mum, still looking sexy for the impromptu reflection in the mirror every time said woman hotfoots it past a shop window, and one can see the societal weights of expectations befalling mostly women in the Western world. All this assuming that she has popped up a couple of sproglets by thirty with a wedding ring to boot. It is clear that life as the so-called weaker sex can be mentally draining. For some women, even being on a dating app feels like a failure.

Is that the mindset of a Bumble veteran? Is that the mindset of the archetypal Bumble oldie still on the app years later quite unsure as to exactly why he or she has allowed his or her dignity to sink to all-time lows? Perhaps, yet despite this, 365 days into my Bumble adventure the right swipes coupled with the many ‘likes’ that I received continued to be dished out like crêpes on the Champs Elysees. Add to that the free weekly spotlight feature thrusting me to the front of queue every Friday night, and it was clear that the busy bees behind the Bumble machine were trying to keep me at the dating app honeycomb. And they were using the sweet smell of nectar and honey to do so. I had by then metamorphosed into a giant hornet. Large eyed, voracious with an almighty sting in the tail for every woman who dared stumble into my garden.

So here comes the admission: I became a hornet to every other woman except one. Her name was Laetitia, and but for a few mishaps, but for a few moments of misfortune on my part, the Covid lockdowns beyond our control and a car crash engagement to my then fiancée Devine, she, gorgeous, semi-perfect Laetitia would be without question my girlfriend, my long-term partner, the mother of my future children, possibly even my wife. Fiercely critical of modern-day divorce laws I would nonetheless willingly consider marriage and all the risks concomitant to it if it meant Laetitia become a permanent fixture by my side. No woman save my mother and aunties could make me happier as I continue to navigate my way on the highway of life.

In my three decades here on God’s green earth, I have loved but one woman, Laetitia. Indeed, I can truly love only one woman, Laetitia. It is as simple as that. Her spiritual propinquity at times felt closer to me than my own heartbeat even before I threw myself into the nectareous world of Bumble. Yet, no matter how syrupy the goo (and believe me I came across some amazing women with relationship and sexual tales to last a lifetime), all my interactions and the image of Laetitia in all her corporeal magnificence were etched firmly in my mind match-after-match, date-after-date, hook-up-after-hook-up, and relationship-after-relationship. Had Laetitia been by my side there would have been no one year swiping on Bumble. Minus Laetitia by my side to iron out my philanderous ways, you now have the pleasure of reading my one year swiping on Bumble rollercoaster subconsciously done in the hope of finding her doppelganger. Hop inside my taxi, put on your seatbelt and fix your eyes carefully. This book shall prove to be Rubicon rather than ruinous.

Chapter II: My Journey on Bumble Commences

$149.99! Quite dear if you ask me. But then again a quick examination of the options before me showed that it was the best financial package going long term. Entitled ‘Bumble Premium’, it was available at $19.99 for one week or $39.99 for one month. Unlimited use came at a pricey $149.99. With Bumble Premium I was able to openly see the profile of anybody who bravely swiped right on my hideous visage, I would be granted the power to rematch with expired connections and even extend any matches had by a further 86,400 seconds, 1,440 minutes, or simply put twenty-four hours. Just enough time for them to be scurrying away on the nearest flight to Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport. Or Neverland. Whichever came first.

Throughout my time on Bumble, I called London my home. However, Lyon is where my origins lie. My father recounts with both alacrity and heightened enthusiasm the feelings of sheer wonder befalling him when the airport was inaugurated by the now deceased President Valéry Giscard d’Estaing on 12 April 1975. Why? Because ‘mon père’ was one of the hundreds of men working day-and-night, sometimes double, often triple shifts within the parameters of French working laws to ensure that its ‘jour de gloire’ would arrive on time as demanded by pre-agreed contractual obligations. Such strenuous working patterns I myself have also come to live by. More of that later. Nevertheless, whereas the British capital is my temporary home, Lyon is my spiritual home. Has been and forever will be. I know the Lyon-Part-Dieu Business District as well as the ‘demi-heure’ Rhônexpress shuttle ride ‘comme ma poche’ to use our very French expression. To have a ‘connaître comme sa poche’ means to know something so intimately so as to navigate around and within it with tremendous ease. A bit like me with women then.

Lyon. Auvergne- Rhône-Alpes. Lyon Metropolis. Vieux Lyon. Le 6–9. 69500. Lyon-Gang! That’s me, although embarking on this voyage into the world of dating apps, namely, one year swiping on Bumble, took me predominantly outside of France into l’Angleterre (England), le pays de Galles (Wales), L’Écosse (Scotland), L’Irlande du Nord (Northern Ireland) and even Irlande (the Republic of Ireland). Putain! What stories have I for you there!

The day I downloaded the app, created my profile and then paid for its premium feature is one I shall never forget. With much hesitation I begrudgingly placed my thumb over the large circle button situated at the base of my then spotless iPhone 7 twinned as it is to my Monzo Bank account. I awaited the blue tick confirming that the purchase was successful and then voila, I was in. I could have chosen the free route, a la, pay no money, be limited to a daily swipe limit and worse still not being able to see who exactly was mad, bad or sad enough to swipe right on a thirty-year-old Frenchman from the third largest city in France, however, that would have been most frustrating. Moreover, I would not enjoy being limited by rules, regulations and especially the bureaucracy imposed from above. I am French after all. Rallying against authority is our magnum opus. Insert guillotine joke here.

Although I can write free-flowing English, I find speaking it a lot more difficult. In fact it’s a struggle. My mother tongue is French and it will forever be. I am indeed one of those Frenchmen who speaks with ‘ze French akzent not too dezeemilar to Arsene Wenger’. The same French accent as the angry Frenchman in a New York apartment who in Everything I Know About Love told Dolly Alderton to ‘get ze ferk out you little beetch’ as she scurried away ashen faced after another night riding the cock carousel when alone and broke in the Big Apple. What is it with dozy Dolly and Frenchmen? Only the pathetic excuse for a president, Joe Biden, is more ‘tête-en-l’air’ than dippy Dolly. Does anybody know if Jean the stockbroker actually called her back?

As for sleepy Joe Biden, never has the United States known such a disgrace of a leader, mired as he was and still is in corruption scandals, lies, deceit, weakness of government and an excessive promotion of American militarism the world over. All encapsulated at the expense and blatant disregard of his own people. By late February 2023 the fabulist, obsessed with shaping public perception, was gallivanting around Eastern Europe as poor Americans in the great state of Ohio were hit by a toxic train derailment in East Palestine. Simultaneously, a well-attended Rage Against the War Machine rally took place in Washington DC as the geriatric’s opinion ratings sunk to an all-time low. Yet we are told that the draft dodger from Scranton, Pennsylvania received more votes than Barack Obama did back in November 2008. A man unable to even navigate his way off a stage minus the help of his handlers.

Anyway, much like Jean’s irascible flat mate who berated dippy Dolly in New York, as soon as I open my mouth you will suss that I am French. At the very least you will assume that I am a French native. Paris is pronounced ‘Pahhriieee’, Lille is pronounced ‘Leeeel’ and Marseille is pronounced ‘Mahhhsay’. Each and every time I utter the word Perpignan it sounds like I am choking on a petit goblet, as my mother used to say. I was well aware that my very French-sounding name (designated in France as your ‘prenom’) coupled with my even more French-sounding surname (designated in France as your ‘nom’) would axiomatically tell people that I am French. Later on in this book you shall come to understand why being a Frenchman using a dating app in Britain made things harder for me than if I had been English.

I could just about get away with proclaiming myself English. And I stress just about. Caucasian with a clear Mediterranean tanned pigmentation. Dark hair, brown eyes, dark stubble when unshaven, large expressive eyes, small lips, pointed nose and well-aligned teeth. My pearly gnashers I feel are my most favoured aspect. At least that is what the ladies tell me. Such features are typical to somebody who spent much of his youth in the southern regions of France and who lionised the French Riviera. The English actor called Toby-Alexander Smith looks extraordinarily similar to me. He is the man who played Gray Atkins in the London-based ‘feuilleton’ called EastEnders, which I watched and continue to watch desultorily.

I inputted my height, a scientifically confirmed five foot ten and three-quarters. I so badly wanted to put six foot, or 1.80m as we would have it written in France. Most women would be unable to tell the difference between a man standing at five foot eleven, five foot ten or six foot. Never mind the fact that globally only fourteen per cent of men are six foot or above. That stat is irrelevant to most women though, who have fixated themselves on this idea that the golden height for a man to be worthy of their interest is the beloved six foot. I fall short of the golden six foot, however five foot ten and three-quarters is well above the average height for a man in the ‘monde occidental’ – that is French for the Western world. Despite this, I knew that by not transcending the six-foot barrier, I would be cut off from a large proportion of women who have set up their profiles to match them with men six foot plus only. Still, there was no point lying about something as basic as my height, right? Well, I did exactly that to certain women who I deemed shallow enough so as to not warrant my honesty. All except a lady I matched with whom I dubbed Princess Nala. More about her later.

The rest fell into place naturally. General interests included crafts, football, café-hopping, spa weekends in addition to being romantic. To reiterate, I started this peregrination with a romantic mindset from which it was my every intention to settle down with Laetitia’s doppelganger or Laetitia herself, whichever came first. Enjoying bedroom frolics with as many women as possible came a close second. Yet I contrived to finish it stunned and surprised how little value women added to my life, just how sexual most women truly are when the curtains are closed and how much money, energy, attention and time it takes to deal with modern-day women.

Next came profile prompts. Three particular questions designed to showcase your personality and tell the world about you. They ranged from ‘if I had three wishes, I’d wish for …’, ‘my plans for a zombie apocalypse’, ‘I’m a real nerd about’, ‘my perfect first date’, ‘swipe right if …’ and my personal favourite, ‘a pro and con of dating me’. Fair enough. I chose three particular ones of notoriety and wrote funny blurbs underneath to grab attention and create giggles for all onlookers. I was just eager to get the silly app up and running. I uploaded two photos of myself. One being a selfie, unedited, untouched of me in good lighting in front of a random building. The second being me sat on a yacht book in hand. There were no photos of me holding a fish or a monkey in captivity. There were no photos of me posing like Arnold Schwarzenegger in a skimpy top in front of a misty mirror. Both are the bane of women everywhere who have the displeasure of sifting through hundreds and hundreds of piss poor dating app profiles. I verified my profile a short while later and after a brief wait, basta! I was in. It was a cold, muggy morning sometime in February 2021.

Chapter III: Welcome to Bumble

When a person first joins the Bumble app, or any other dating app for that matter, as a newbie they are propelled forward in the viewing queue by an algorithmic burst viewable to others by the ‘new here’ box highlighted in yellow. All new joiners are placed at the front of the swiping queue for two main reasons. Reason number one lends itself to financial motives whilst reason number two is driven by sentiment and feelings. I likened a woman joining a dating app to a juicy, well-marinated steak being dipped into a tank full of hungry piranhas. Metaphorically speaking of course. The piranhas represent the men already on the app. Those piranhas become more frenzied the juicier, better marinated the steak is. That is to say the more attractive the woman joining it is. Add said juicy steak to a tank full of hungry piranhas and watch them go berserk.

Statistics show that men predominantly outnumber women on dating apps. Therefore a good-looking, even a modestly attractive woman, ‘une meuf basique’ as we said growing up in France will be swamped with an avalanche of likes within hours of joining. Every woman can attest to this. They signed up, lazily uploaded some quite ordinary photos of themselves, wrote barely anything of noteworthiness on their bios, affirmed that they are seeking a relationship, pegged their profile to their Instagram account but were still quickly floored by the as hitherto stated avalanche – and I stress avalanche – of likes flooding them. Some women turn off their notifications and for good reason. She can be wonky-eyed, grossly obese, sixty years old, married, a four-foot dwarf, a single mother of seven, barely legal or on the other side of the world, yet men somewhere and everywhere will still swipe right on her. The algorithmic boost upon first joining ensures that she upon jumping into the mosh pit is pushed to the front of the queue. The same happened to me. Literally, within sixteen minutes of nose-diving into the world of Bumble I had two matches and a hook-up lined up with a story ready to tell the world. Oh là là.

Men receive this ‘new here’ propeller too. That partly explains how a slim, black-haired German woman in her thirties pounced to swipe on me mere seconds into my transportation into Bumble heaven. There were thirteen other likes which came throughout the next few hours, however, by then I had eyes only on this German woman living in Euston, Central London. In hindsight my newly created Bumble profile was minimalist, basic and dare I say it, poor. I said nowt about what I was looking for in a woman nor least revealed anything about myself. Woman would have been swiping right off the strength of my visage. Or would they? My visage coupled with my torso whilst sat on the yacht book in hand looked terrible. Looks-wise I score myself a 2/10. More Quasimodo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame as opposed to Captain America from The First Avenger. More Boris Johnson with his top off as opposed to the hunkiest of all French hunks Sébastien Chabal. The rugby legend is the apotheosis of French male sexuality. Chabel I am not. Thierry Henry I most certainly am not. Of course I am joking. Speaking objectively and add to that what other women have rated me as in previous relationships, I can comfortably say that I am a 7/10 in looks with a 7/10 physical body. But it is all relative. Do the English not say that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder?

One day back in the spring of 2005, I was on my way home with three then very close friends Diego, Mensu and Liame. There was nowt of significance to report of until a trio of older girls, boisterous and for us scrawny, shy little boys, intimidating, split us into two groups as we sat oh so quietly at the back of the bus. In France, notably in the large metropolitan cities, there is so much fraud on public buses (RATP) it renders bunking them banal. In fact, you are not a true Parisian until you have leaped a metro barrier or climbed onto a bus without paying. As many buses have three points of entry almost anybody can embark and disembark freely without being challenged. This reached its apogee in the mid-90s, so says my father. These three girls in question had obviously not paid, having leaped onto the bus via the last set of rear doors.

They seemed so tall and so manly. The three witches in Macbeth could not have concocted a more toxic triumvirate of XX chromosomes if they tried. The ringleader gave me a death stare. A deathly death stare. A mortal stare so cold you’d think that she was part judge and part executioner. Sententious, surly, scary. Throw in any adjective and you will still be unable to encapsulate the fiery gaze her eagle eyes shot at me. The ringleader was particularly menacing. On memory she stood at about five foot seven inches tall with short black hair, pale skin all marked by numerous red spots. On reflection they could only have been borne from eczema.

‘Move yourself over there,’ she demanded with a pitch deeper than mine has ever been.

‘I can’t,’ I replied, half shocked and pensive.

Remember, we were secondary school teens in Lyon, hence the entire conversation was undertaken in French. She muttered and murmured amongst her two friends for several seconds before once again shooting her gaze firmly at me. I was still unable to move for she had literally wedged herself between my friends and me. Attempting to push her seemed as futile as Sisyphus at the bottom of the mountain. Her well upholstered backside was immovable.

‘You’re cute my little one,’ she said pointing but not at me, rather at my friend Diego. ‘You’re cute little re-noir (blackie),’ she boldly stated then pointing at Mensu. ‘And you too,’ she ended, pointing at Liame, as heads began to turn towards this quite unforeseen incident playing out at the back of the bus.

‘But you,’ she began whilst turning her back to me. ‘You’re just ugly!’

Her words pierced my sides like a verbal javelin thrown by Jan Železný. The entire bus burst out in rapturous laughter. I was in so much mental anguish that muster a response I could not. Yet, if that left me in reeling in invisible pain what happened next left me shaken. Lapping up the attention whilst playing up to her role as head of the insults department, the girl swivelled one hundred and eighty degrees to once again face my direction, stood up over me and then mimicked a sexual, thrusting manoeuvre. Her private parts were literally millimetres from my visage. I could see and smell the fabric of her pink knickers. Aged just thirteen I found this to be extremely disturbing behaviour. I leaped up in a panic, pushed myself from between her legs before running off the bus in tears to a crescendo of laughter. My heavy backpack made every stride feel agonizingly miniscule. In the distress I had not even the foresight to get her name so that I could ‘porter plainte’. In France to porter plainte is to report somebody to the police. It was the first and last time I ever saw that girl. Never has a sexual incident so profoundly scarred me as that one did.

Chapter IV: Bumble Premium

The features afforded by Bumble Premium also included the ability to swipe in other locations using its ‘travel mode’. In a globalised world a woman living in one part of the planet is literally able to match with a man on the other side of the planet. Quite a fun little hack that. I would often set my location to amongst other cities Lyon, San Francisco, Paris, Milano, Cape Town, Bogota and Dubai. It was quite something seeing the kaleidoscopic array of women the world over with various shades, differing ideologies, ever-changing fashion trends and best of all varying degrees of physical beauty. Furthermore, travel mode opened up the possibility of long-term relationships which, incidentally, I fell into with a lady from Paris called Chelle.

We matched sometime in April 2021. Her look, her personality, her eyes, her charm were all underpinned by the ease in which she engaged in free-flowing conversation. Such Parisienne sweetness of heart enchanted me. Scratching beneath the surface I could find no obvious red flags except for the fact that she was neotenous. Very neotenous at that. At times I felt as if I were speaking to a teenager. Her, ‘Hi, how are you?’ greetings as we spoke almost daily were as softly uttered as my tiny cousins before bedtime. At times she revealed a being so delicate that the wind could blow her away. At first I pinpointed it as a potential problem going forward, however, I would later come to realise that Chelle was on the higher-quality spectrum compared to other women found in the cesspit of dating apps.

She lived in Parc Monceau in the VIII Arrondissement of Paris. ‘Paname propre’ as we call it is a city that I know tremendously well. The problem lay in the fact that I lived and continue to live in London, and being self-employed with a full-on timetable there was little chance of me flying over to stay with her, at her place, for the extended length of time that she so yearned for. Fortunately she was neither confrontational nor sulky.

‘It’s fine, mon amour. I will wait for you. Just be good,’ she would repeatedly ask of me.

Words uttered with such sweetness of tongue it was enchanting. Her every musing dripped with neotenous stupor. A stupor that was itself both engrossing as well as odd. Nevertheless, it was submissive femininity potentised to a level I had never experienced and it was alluringly attractive. Three or four weeks later we just fell into a quasi long-distance relationship. Chelle became my girlfriend in Paris whom I had never met physically but added much value in my life in terms of a focal point of ease, mental encouragement and laughter. Oddly enough we rarely talked salaciously. In fact, I knew little of her sexual preferences nor much of her dating history. Being as sensitive as she was meant that she was easily dominated by both colleagues and friends. Amongst the denizens of our rapacious modern-day world, she struggled to make an impact in her environment. Her every touch was softer than silk. In group photos amongst her friends she was always awkwardly lurking in the back despite her radiating smile. Putain! I told myself, the day that I stick my meat in her with full gusto might be, well, earthshattering for Little Miss Muffet.

I was good to her. Exceptionally good to her. The strength of my personality, the enveloping nature of my charm coupled with my ability to placate her concerns about life kept the invisible antahkarana tying us together intact. The distance between London and Paris is 344 kilometres (214 miles). The driving distance from London to Paris is 456 kilometres (283 miles). Despite this, the distance between Chelle and I felt more like one metre as opposed to 344 kilometres by air.

Bizarrely, Chelle said that she only swiped right on me on the strength of my visage. Nothing else. Naturally she assumed that I was, quote, ‘rotating multiple women’. She needed not assume. I was and forever will be rotating multiple women. If not rotating multiple women then at the very least speaking to multiple women. A man should always keep his options open, especially on a dating app. If he is in a relationship he should make it clear, be it covertly or overtly, that he is still attractive to other women and that he can walk away from her at any given moment. A woman must be made to know that other women also find you attractive. Forget not that women make better girlfriends than wives. I knew in my heart that long-distance relationships do not work so Chelle’s intuitive fear expressed in her constantly asking me to ‘just be good’ was merited. I was still swiping away dutifully in London, going on dates, hooking up for one-night stands and even managing on-off relationships or two just as she began informing me that she couldn’t have children due to ovarian complications. Her request for me to move to Paris to be by her side never ceased.

‘I am so sorry if I am being pushy,’ she stammered over our one millionth video call. ‘I do not want to drive you away so early on. I just want you here with me,’ she added wailing falsetto.

‘Ne t’inquiète pas,’ was my typical response. Loosely translated as do not worry and written in its slang form as ‘tkt’.

Chapter V: Meet My Fiancée, Devine

The great American President Franklin Roosevelt’s description of 7 December 1941, as ‘a date which will live in infamy’ has been immortalised among political historians. Indeed, whether Roosevelt was forewarned or not, rarely has such a life-changing event as Pearl Harbour so impacted a man’s preceding actions. My personal Pearl Harbour event occurred when I first met Laetitia when she was working as a sales assistant in a perfume shop. I thought that I was in love to Devine, my then ‘petite amie’, or ‘meuf’ as so commonly used in France nowadays. Devine was literally presented to me sometime in mid-December 2013 by a close friend of my father. Literally his best friend.

‘I want your son to look after my daughter,’ he stated boldly.

Devine and I were born in the same hospital ward twelve months apart. We were even delivered within the same hour and cared for by the same midwives on the same bed. On the other hand, her mother was and remains my mother’s best friend. It was an extraordinary twist of fate. My childhood is a blur, although the constant shrieking from my mother from the balcony to look after Devine still has my eardrums ringing to this day. Mind you, Devine had a very tomboyish older sister whose name I shall not disclose, yet, the responsibility of being Devine’s guardian angel always fell on my shoulders. She used to literally follow me around when seconded by her father to stay by my side. At that age of juvenility hormones are not raging therefore the purity of every interaction had with girls is proper. Devine felt this.

As we grew into our teens she would at times just stare at me from the bottom of the apartment blocks we resided in. She was the second of three girls and without doubt the prettiest as well as the best known. Her friendship circle was as wide as it was deep, perhaps because she was a prominent member of the running team. Forget 10,000 steps-a-day. During those years Devine was averaging one hundred thousand steps-a-day.

I played football at a relatively high level so fitness levels were high on both our parts. She realised her dream of running local marathons, competing against the best Lyon had to offer and best of all, having the status which came with that. Her teen years were a blur to me. All I ever heard was Devine has gone to Grenoble with her running club. Grenoble is a small city in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region of south eastern France. I myself have never been there nor have I ever actually seen Devine run (which I later heard saddened her), yet felt so proud for her whenever word would come back to me that she came first in this race or finished in the top ten in that half-marathon.

Several years passed before I would next see her in all her glory. Now having navigated the gamut of puberty into womanhood, by the time December 2013 rolled around, Devine and her older sister were at their physical peak. It was late in the afternoon and I was in the kitchen counting the amount of euros my mother had left for me to do the shopping with. She tended to leave a little extra as a thank you, the better for me to buy some croc miel cereal and steak haché all for my gluttonous pleasure. The keys to the front door then began to turn. No cause for concern as in came my father closely accompanied by his amigo Mares – Devine’s father.

‘Alors mon fils,’ my father said gently before I could even shoot him the respectful bonjour Papa as I had become so accustomed to doing. ‘Aujourd’hui je te presente ta femme,’ he added with a peculiarly happy smile. ‘Viens mon amor,’ he continued, hands gesturing with so much animation you would have thought he was Italian. And through the door stepped Devine.

It had been at least three years since I had last seen her in the flesh, so diverging were our life schedules. I had to squint a couple of times to be sure that it was actually her. We stared at each other in silence, the incident resembling the opening scene to French singer Alizée’s now classic July 2000 French pop hit Lolita. You know the scene where her mother shoots an unbreakable stare at a nervous Alizée, who was simply trying to win over her approval. Makeup, glitter on her cheeks, tight-fitted clothes accentuating her deliciously toned body, perfume, lipstick, neatly woven hair, an amazing midnight blue checked Burberry scarf and light eye shadow. I had never seen Devine like this. Ever.

‘She belongs to you now young man. Look after my daughter and bring me back some children in a few years,’ her father confidently declared (in French of course).

Again, we stood there just staring at each other. I specifically remember Devine folding her hands over her private area below, red with what seemed to be a concoction of nerves and embarrassment. She was for sure taken aback by my newly established height. The last time she had seen me I was no more than five foot eight inches tall (1.73m). My growth spurt had shocked even her. Ironically enough I cared nowt about Devine’s quite overt attempt at impressing me with her lipstick or her makeup et al, although admittedly she did look nice. Best of all she had maintained her toned, slim figure and perky derrière, none of which I complimented her on.

‘Je prend mon sac et tu me suis (follow me, I am going to get my bag),’ the eight words needed the break the silence.

We left together under the impression that both out fathers were viewing this like a first date, grinning gleefully as I closed the door behind me. In the elevator down Devine asked me with the softness of a mouse whether it (her makeup) impressed me.

‘Ça te plait mon maquillage? (Are you impressed with my makeup?)’

I could barely make out what she said so soft were her words, meaning that I responded with a terse ‘pardon?’ Yes, I was still metaphorically floored by this new look Devine. She had blossomed into a young woman. This was the apex of her womanhood at least on a physical level. Gone were the terrible baggy tracksuits. Gone were the awful fake rings on her finger and those damn bangles she used to wear with her Mauritian friend. She had even had her teeth straightened and shaped up her eyebrows to boot. Moreover, she smelled lovely. Those were the smells of eau de parfum that people like us only smelled at l’agora Paris or at Galeries Lafayette. If we weren’t bombarding ourselves with the testers, we were putting them in our pockets and walking out innocently.

The elevator hit the ground floor and we walked out into the light of day. There began a wonderful life journey together. Or so she thought. Twice she tried holding my arm. Twice I recoiled for that would have slowed us down exponentially. We needed to be home for 15:00. My team Olympique Lyonnais were due to kick off that evening.

An hour or so had flown by and Devine and I were all but done. The necessary items were either crossed out as unavailable or ticked off as obtained from the list faster than hitherto envisaged. Perfect! Well, not quite. We had only my sole bag as a means of packing the many items numbering our list so were forced to purchase two extra. I carried my bag as normal but made Devine carry the extra two sacks. They were heavy ones at that. So much for chivalry. To be fair it was her who insisted on the extra canned vegetables, the extra soya milk and the extra merguez. I actually stole a couple of cartons of soya milk from behind her back, which prior to everything falling apart between us she blamed on the old man in front of us at the checkout.

On the way home I insisted on stopping by the commercial centre. To steal another tester bottle was too risky with Devine lugging a massive bag around. Furthermore, my friends were not around to provide cover. I decided to spray myself down instead. This served as the only time throughout our impromptu first date that I actually tried to impress my future wife. Something inside me just told me that I had spent the first of many afternoons with the woman who one day I was going to have to make my wife. The constant gazing at me during our adolescent years, followed by the various questions she used to pose about me to people within my social circle was proof if any that she liked me. Whatever. Que sera sera.

We arrived outside the perfume shop within commercial centre. I cannot get prosecuted for admitting today that it was my friends and I who stole bottleloads of half-filled testers all those years ago can I? Best I not expose the name of the shop in question. I told Devine to wait for me outside, leaving her with two weighty bags as well as my much lighter backpack. She obliged almost too willingly so keen was she to impress me. I headed into the shop where is found the scene of my many crimes.

‘Think of me, my love,’ Devine squeaked just as I passed the scanners at the entry and exit point. ‘I am here for you.’ She complied admirably to my every request.

I had partaken in this walk so many times I knew the number of steps needed before I would land squarely in the YSL or Prada Sport perfume section. Not even the minotaur navigating his labyrinth of doom filled with dead man’s bones and all things ghoulish knew his maze as well as I knew said commercial centre. I walked in with the confidence of King Minos surveying Crete, although instead of sending little boys and girls to their demise at the hands of the half-bull-half-man monster, I would take with the intention to permanently deprive one baby-sized tester bottle of the finest Prada or YSL perfume going. Failing that Jean Paul Gaultier would be a worthy substitute. Today was not a day to do that, however, so I dowsed myself with lots and lots and lots of eau de parfum instead. I smelt like the son of Zeus that King Minos actually was. Mission complete. I neatly placed the bottle back amongst its neighbours with pernickety-like precision and then oof, waouh! Lifting up my head I saw her, Laetitia, for the first time ever. She was a saleswoman sporting a fine black suit. Ponder on that, whilst we wait at this red light junction.

Chapter VI: Meeting Laetitia for the First Time Ever

‘She was a European dress size 32 at max with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, trimmed eyebrows, a slightly tanned complexion and 1.60m (five foot three inches) tall,’ was how I first described her to my friends. ‘She tried selling me some perfume but instead we spent twenty minutes talking about life, love and linguistics,’ I ended. Never had my friends seen me so excited when talking about a woman.

I had left the shop looking back one last time like Orpheus did Eurydice. The temptation to refrain from doing so was too great such was the beauty and splendour surrounding the object of my desire and affection. Laetitia, Laetitia, Laetitia. I recall reciting her name over and over again as I slowly made my way to the exit. Orpheus himself was instructed by Hades to not look back until he had successfully navigated his way out of the underworld. Had he done so Eurydice would have been his forever. I could only imagine the excruciating sense of anxiety bedevilling Orpheus as he meandered his way to the very tip of the exit. I felt something similar and I barely knew Laetitia so unsurprisingly, like Orpheus, I looked back one last time as I reached the other scanners denoting the shop exit. Luckily for me and unlike Orpheus I was safe in the knowledge that I would be able to see her again. In that moment I knew that she was the one and only woman for me. It was instant and intuitive. We hugged prior to the conversation ending. The whiff of fine perfumery smothered both our noses, causing us to extend the embrace for a few more seconds.

‘Good girl,’ I whispered in her ear. Her eyes lit up as I slowly broke the hug.

It was almost 14:30 and kick-off was in thirty minutes time, so I grabbed Devine and headed back home. In the haze of meeting Laetitia I had forgotten about her. We ate a scrumptious early family dinner at the table with the Lyon match playing in the background. The menu, all freshly cooked by my mother prior to my and Devine’s return, comprised of croziflette, fries, legumes and salad vert specifically for my father. Devine, keen to ensure my wellbeing, would break moments of pause by asking if I was okay or if I wanted more food. That was sweet of her but frankly she was trying way too hard to come across as a caring wife.

When the time to say goodnight befell us, I walked Devine to the door where her father also stood beaming with delight. After what seemed like one thousand thank yous followed by a very sincere did you enjoy your time together interrogation, they both left. Devine looked back at me one last time, again, like Orpheus did Eurydice. Only this time I was Eurydice, the subject of Devine’s affection. She looked at me the way that I, Orpheus, had looked back at Laetitia a few hours earlier.

Chapter VII: Swipe, Swipe, Swipe!

In her pomp Chelle was a solid 7/10. Aged thirty that had dropped to a 5/10, although her body, backed up by the sweetness of her being, boosted her to a light 6/10. In any case it mattered not as I kept swiping away desultorily on the app. Bumble Premium permits the user to an unlimited amount of swipes, five SuperSwipes per week and a spotlight feature. This was akin to giving a hungry man a $149.99 ticket to a gourmet buffet at his leisure. All you can eat when you want on any day of the week. Often my friends and I would play swiping games to spice things up. We would set a stopwatch to ring after 60 seconds and when the timer commenced we (sometimes we did it within a group format) would swipe right as frantically and as furiously as possible for the entire minute. We would then put ourselves in ‘incognito mode’ for three hours so as to remain unseen by any new suitors. The one who received the most new matches after the three hours had elapsed won with the loser having to order the victor a takeaway of his choice. In a group format, the winner was promised drinks and food for the upcoming weekend. It was fun to both play and to witness.

I set my age parameters between twenty-one and fifty. Why fifty? I knew not. Easy targets I suppose. The problem with the game above was that long after the three hours had elapsed you would receive a notification from the app that Shelly, Karen, Milly, Tanya and Mahalia have matched with you. Then you open the app to look curiosity abounding only to find, that ay yi yi she is horrendous. She is not your type. She is not attractive at all. She is thirty-two but looks sixty-two. Worse than that she is blatantly using photos that are fifteen years old. How some of the women even thought that they qualified for me was puzzling at best, delusional at worst.

For both genders, venturing onto dating apps in the pursuit of relationships is akin to dumpster diving. It is akin to going to Carrefour or Tesco after 22:00 in the hope that the hot chicken from the freshly cooked counter is still hot, the baguettes from the morning are still crunchy and the avocados from the evening prior are still ripe. Good luck! At that time of night what is left are stale lettuce, brown bananas, bloated fruits on top of little to no hot chicken. If you wanted the best of what Carrefour Lyon Part Dieu can offer you for that moment, you need or would have needed to have gotten there long before the close of business.

As most people age, the blank white sheet that made them so adorable as a growing child becomes ever more stained. By the time the average person reaches settling down age, they are so handicapped by the emotional as well as mental baggage accumulated down the years that a healthy relationship is nigh on impossible. For women in the Western world that age to settle down is forever rising. They have chosen to delay their fertility in the pursuit of a career and to embrace the worst of hedonistic hook-up culture. For the men, settling down is littered with great difficulty. Most men struggle to get even one girl let alone one who is loyal, attractive to him and more importantly, meets his requirements for being a suitable long-term partner. On the other hand, you get the men who have gone through the ringer of relationship, break-up, re-entering the dating wheel, being left frustrated, commencing a new courtship, progressing it into something meaningful, getting engaged, married, becoming a father, getting divorced, losing custody of his kids then becoming angry at women and the system created to empower women at the expense of men. Eat, sleep, repeat. Said men then become misogynistic. They become short tempered.