Let's just say, our milkshakes bring all the idiots to the yard.
Some say your friends know you better than you know yourself. They will offer words of encouragement when they spot a connection happening, and they will be the ones to warn you against falling into a fuckboy's mirror-selfie-lined web.
Georgie and I decided to test this theory.
For two weeks, we took over each other's Tinder accounts, taking control of the other's bio, pictures and dating arrangements to see if we could help each other meet our matches.
Here's what happened.
Tristen Steps In For Georgie:
Despite the urge to change Georgie's bio to something witty but slightly derogatory (such as, "I'm the good thing that small packages come in"), I refrained.
After all, this was serious research we were conducting. Instead, I went on to describe my best friend as "an all-round 10 that enjoys setting fire to stuff." She scrubs up well and she's a performer, so it's entirely true.
The first guy I matched her with was a brunette, well-muscled architect named Adam.
"You remind me of someone," he wrote.
"Who?" I replied.
"My next girlfriend." Ugh, I was ashamed by my misjudgment. "Not today, Satan," I thought.
Instead, I decided to set Georgie up with a bartender, a sexy fireman, and a sultry musician.
Georgie's First Date: Laurent, 30, Bartender
Laurent WhatsApp-ed me the day before our date, and after a bit of old-fashioned stalking, I discovered that looks-wise, he was literally my dream man.
Even in conversation, he seemed genuinely interested in me, which nowadays, is such a rarity. Tristen had done well. Or so I thought...
An hour before our date, he cancelled, saying he had to do inventory at work.
We rescheduled for the following day, but once again, he cancelled less than an hour before we were due to meet. His sister needed him.
On the third day, a record 20 minutes before, he cancelled stating he had checked his train ticket and had to go back to France early the following morning.
A few days later, I found myself dancing at the bar that Flakey French — as I now call him — worked at (I'm not a stalker, promise). I decided to ask every member of the staff about him.
Turns out, he doesn't work there at all. His brother does.
Laurent was either lying about his job, or his brother was the one I was talking to. Either way, I never heard from him (or his brother) again.
Georgie's Second Date: Evan, 27, Fireman
I met Evan in a bar in Victoria Station, and he was clearly drunk when he arrived.
After a while, I said I was going to the loo, to which Evan responded,"Don't escape." I laughed unconvincingly, and, of course, proceeded to run.
Hours later, Evan texted me to say that all his friends had left him and the trains back home were fucked. In reality, he had no friends, and the trains were not fucked — he had just missed them all.
I received an apologetic message from him the next day, saying we should try again and do something more civilized. I decided to decline.
He may be a fit fireman, but it's safe to say I won't be sliding down his pole anytime soon...
Georgie's Third Date: Si, 32, Musician
I met Si at a bar in central London, and was initially blown away by his chiseled features and amazing style.
After a slow start — where Si appeared to take life far too seriously — he finally started to loosen up. We even shared a cheeky make out on the way home (wine was involved).
We messaged constantly afterwards and arranged a second date for the following week. All seemed to be going well.
A few days before date two, I bumped into him and some friends at a bar while out with Tristen. We were acting really couple-y and everyone had a great night. But the next morning, I received a text message which said, "Sorry, I'm not into you anymore. Mainly because I don't deal with girls in porn, and your best mate's looks didn't match how much of a cunt she was."
I have no idea why he had suddenly decided that I work in the porn industry, or why he hated Tristen so much, but something clearly took the jam out of his donut.
And they say women are crazy...
Georgie Steps In For Tristen:
I decided to keep Tristen's bio relatively the same. She had already done a great job of making herself sound like she keeps frogs in her pockets and owns 10+ cats...
Despite the colorful biography, the matches came flooding in.
One particular gentleman, Jayden, was determined to get her address, and had a slightly disturbing obsession with heels. As a good friend, I declined his weird advances.
Instead, I decided to set Tristen up with a fit data analyst, a quirky marketing executive, and a hot sales executive.
Tristen's First Date: Mark, 28, Data Analyst
I met Mark at a nice pub in South London. He immediately gave me a hug and asked me what I wanted to drink.
At the bar, Mark flashed a smile and said, "You look like your pictures, so this round is on me." I laughed, but he just looked confused. Apparently, this was not a joke.
*Cue painfully long, awkward silence.*
As the drinks flowed, Mark's stories became more and more elaborate. He bragged about being friends with Good Charlotte (why?) and about his supermodel ex-girlfriend who doesn't like her photo to be taken... which is why there are no photos of them together.
After a while, I texted Georgie who, thankfully, made a rescue call.
On the way out, Mark asked if I'd like to see him again. I gave a nonchalant "maybe," to which he replied, "Next time I'm gonna get you so fucked up, you'll be in the hospital."
Romance, ladies and gentlemen, is not dead.
Tristen's Second Date: James, 34, Marketing Executive
From our initial correspondence, James seemed like your average Londoner, talking about the weekend and his love of music — a mutual interest. "He seems nice," I thought.
However, as soon as James got a hold of my full name and number, something changed.
It was a full-on assault on my social media platforms. It would only be so long until he would discover my Twitter.
Fearing this may be another Mark situation, I postponed our date. This led to a barrage of prank calls at various times of the night, coupled with a succession of "ha" and "lol" message requests on Facebook.
It became apparent very quickly that James might not be my knight in shining armour, but rather a dickhead in tinfoil.
James might not be my knight in shining armour, but rather a dickhead in tinfoil.
Tristen's Third Date: Leon, 29, Sales Executive
Leon was a 6-f00t, brunette, fashion sales executive from Manchester. He was really easy to talk to and had a great sense of humor. We arranged to meet at a pub in central London, but the day before our date, he completely disappeared.
Several weeks later, after deleting his number and assuming him a write-off, I received a message out of the blue from Leon saying, "I can explain."
Intrigued, and wondering whether this was some kind of catfish situation, I messaged back.
We arranged a date for two days later, but an hour before we were due to meet, Leon messaged saying, "I think I'm just going to have one tonight, I'm feeling a bit ropey. I'm not bailing on you, though, promise!"
"Sure!" I said. Knowing exactly what this meant, I continued working for a bit, only to receive a second message just half an hour later saying his work had "dropped something" on him last minute and he had to cancel.
A car? A vat of volcanic ash? A large segment of Table Mountain? Whatever it was, I never heard from him again.
After weeks of swiping and setting up dates with not even one success story, we've come to the conclusion that it's actually really difficult to have a date on Tinder that doesn't leave you rocking backwards and forwards in your bathtub — even if you had your best friend's help all along.
And for the record, whoever says all women are crazy has never experienced life as a straight woman on a dating app.