I have never been much of a hit on Tinder. So, I decided to become something new. I changed my bio and photos to those of a humble spud, a potato. Everyone likes potatoes, right? Maybe when the chips were down I’d have more luck in the dating scene as a hunky Jersey Royal.
Sadly declaring myself pan-fried sexual wasn’t an option, so I opted for demisexual and uploaded a few photos: a bowl of spuds to pass as a group pic, a shot of my potato on a bus seat (since potatoes can’t drive) a half-peeled bathroom mirror shot - my answer to the cliched topless selfie - and started swiping.
In two days, I received more matches as a potato than I had in two months as me. They all wanted to see if we’d mash. I envisioned my potato’s voice as quiet and distant, almost like I was talking out the side of my jacket, so I mixed-up the vowels in my messages to reflect this.
One girl asked me how a spud can type. “It tokes ages,” I replied. “I hove to jump off my bed onto my phone and lond on the letter I wont.” Another girl messaged me saying, “I’m intrigued.” I replied, “Hullo intrigued, I’m a potato.” Even potatoes aren’t above doing Dad jokes.
I matched with plenty of men too. One messaged me saying, “Boil ‘em, mash ‘em, stick ‘em in a stew.” I replied, “Thot’s not funny, 3 of my fronds died that way.” When I didn’t get a message first I’d ask random questions. “How mony genders are there?” I asked one girl. When she confessed that she wasn’t sure I told her there were 3, “mon, woman and potato.” I was much more popular as a potato. I had visions of arranging a date and turning up in a homemade potato outfit. Of matching with a girl named Maris and asking if her surname was Piper. Maybe taking a photo of an oven chip and announcing that my new diet was going well.
Unfortunately though, just as the idea was gaining steam, my account was banned. Spoilsports. Who’d have thought Tinder would end up becoming my starch nemesis. Next time I’ll try my luck as an aubergine on Hinge.
