From adult Disney lovers to Gluten Free Singles: A week of dates from the UK’s most niche dating sites
Embracing the unique dating scene in the search for true love
I DON'T do online dating.
My phone has been dating app-free since the great Tinder disaster of ’14. When my date turned up a stone heavier than his pictures indicated and having “forgotten” his wallet.
Account deleted and my online dating career over before it even started.
Since then dating apps have evolved; Tinder caught fire, Bumble buzzed on the scene and Happn happened. But alongside the uprising of the “swipe right” apps came a number of lesser publicised niche dating sites designed to aid very specific groups of people in their quest for love.
Could a mutual wheat intolerance be enough to ignite romance? Could a dating site for adult Disney lovers be harbouring my knight in shining armour? Or perhaps a shared admiration for outdoor pursuits could see me hike into the arms of my one true love? There was really only one way to find out.
Armed with my iPad and smartphone I set about on the challenge of trialling seven of the UK’s most unique dating resources in seven days in the hope of infiltrating the untapped world of niche dating.
Day 1 – Tastebuds
Dipping my toe in the shallow end, I sign myself up to Tastebuds, the dating app, which identifies your local love matches, based on mutual music tastes.
Photo uploaded and profile created I select my favourite artists and bands. I opt for Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson and Queen, and as I click OK I am slightly concerned that I am about to be introduced to slightly effeminate version of my dad.
Like Tinder, suitors swipe love matches right to accept and left to reject but unlike Tinder each picture is accompanied by one of the dater’s favourite songs.
After five minutes I turned the sound off. What a racket.
The matches were plentiful and the crowd reasonably normal so I struck up a few conversations and finally agreed to meet a Queen fan with a kind looking face (hereafter referred to as Freddie). We set up a casual Monday night drink. As I walked towards the pub I felt nervous, this suddenly didn’t feel like such a good idea.
He texted to say that he was there and to look out for a guy in a red checked shirt, the modern replacement for a red carnation. Freddie was relaxed and friendly. Conversation flowed and we covered the obligatory first date topics, holidays, work, family.
There was nothing offensive about anything, the evening, the conversation and Freddie himself were all agreeable. It was the Margarita pizza of dates. All small-talk exhausted we called it a night at 10pm. An agreeable hour.
Day 2 – Beautiful people
On creating a profile members surrender themselves to a 48-hour period where their attractiveness is shamelessly ranked by London’s pre-determined “beautiful people”. In an attempt to play to my audience I select a heavily made up selfie taken just before a Gatsby-themed wedding. I complete the basic information, which includes my weight (minus the three pounds I’m planning on losing anyway) and send it off to the vultures.
My self-confidence and perception of my own appeal could be boosted or shattered by an anonymous set of judges. I log on after an hour to check on my progress, 2 “Absolutely not”, 2 “No”, 3 “Beautiful” and 14 “Hmmm… OK”. Well that’s reassuring.
Over the next 48 hours I am secure enough to tell you that my insecurity got the better of me. I check my ranking 27 times, that’s once every 1 hour 12 minutes after accounting for sleep. Two anxiety-filled days later and I am in, I hold a strong position between “Beautiful” and “Hmmm… OK”, my membership is secure.
I pick a couple of prospects and start messaging. The conversation is stunted and as the “Hi, how are yous” start trickling in I realise that no one is injecting much personality into this. Maybe good-looking people don’t need to be interesting.
Momentum gains with a guy, a chiselled beefcake who grew up in my area (hereafter referred to as Beefy). The Tuesday night date is set. In anticipation of my evening of basking in our mutual beauty, I Google the app to see if I can benefit from the wisdom of users before me. My research uncovers rumours of women’s profiles being deleted for gaining weight. I start to regret omitting those three pounds.
Apprehensions aside I went to meet Beefy. There was no denying he was attractive, in true Ronseal fashion “Beautiful People” has done what it says on the tin. I didn’t know if he was uneasy but he couldn’t make eye contact with me. His eyes darted nervously between my face and over my right shoulder.
I decided it was endearing and attempted to ease him in gently with work-based small talk but he was really struggling to hold a full conversation. It was at this point that he let out a small shriek. Portugal had scored. The football was on a screen behind me.
Unimpressed I soldiered on but this time with football-related chat. If you can’t beat them join them. When the final whistle blew and I had his full attention, he was charming. Surprisingly unburdened by the arrogance you would expect from a “beautiful person”.
Unfortunately for Beefy, I was tired and while competing with other women is a fact of life, I don’t have the energy to tackle 22 men and a ball every time I go for cocktails so we called it a night before romance got the chance to spark.
Day 3 – Mouse Mingle
Not even half way and the fatigue is starting to kick-in. But tonight is Mouse Mingle, possibly my favourite niche-dating site available in the UK- exclusively for adult Disney fans.
Once again, mindful of my audience, I dig out pictures from a Disneyland Paris trip in 2014. Nothing says dedication to Disney like fluffy Minnie mouse ears.
Filling out the form I cite Mulan’s “I’ll make a man out of you” as my favourite song and log my Star Wars preference (I am in the Meh… not really into Star Wars category). I am good to go.
Disappointingly the UK presence on Mouse Mingle is low, with the site dominated by abrasive looking Americans. Conversation eventually flows with a pleasant enough London-based Disney buff (hereafter referred to as Flounder).
At 21 years old, Flounder is younger than my usual dates, but of the seven male London-based users he is the only one who responded to me, so options are limited. We set up casual Wednesday night drinks.
At 4pm on Wednesday, I receive a message: “Lauren to be honest i am a little concerned. ive been thinking that we don’t know each other that well and we have only just met online. This is something i’ve never done it before, i think we should just leave it for now, i know this is last minute and im really sorry, Ive just been having second thoughts. [sic]”
I get this horrible feeling in my stomach. He thinks I’m a catfish or worse. I respond immediately reassuring him he shouldn’t do anything he doesn’t feel comfortable with and follow up with a phone call so he can hear that I am a young female and not a predator.
He is friendly and reassured but still cautious about meeting. I wonder if he’s received a mother’s chat about stranger danger. Beefy wouldn’t have this problem. My initial reaction is to wonder why he is online dating but the more I mull on the events I decide he’s probably right.
In a day and age where Tinder dates and Plenty of Fish are the initial meeting ground for the majority of couples we have become very lax about our personal security. Perhaps Flounder’s mum is on to something.
So no Disney Prince Charming and no Disney date.
Related Stories
Day 4 – Twindog
After an unexpected break from my week of dating I’ve woken up feeling a little deflated. I had lined up a date with a self-assertive dog lover and his charming Boxer puppy that I had matched on Twindog (Like Tinder but you swipe for the pooches instead of their owners). But unfortunately I have awoken to requests for pictures, and I get the impression it isn’t my face he was interested in. Man and pup deleted and it is back to the drawing board for Thursday’s date.
Day 4 – Twindog Luxy
Against all my better judgment I opt for Luxy. Luxy is a second app with an anxious period of assessment based on appearances but in addition to the shallow admissions process this is designed for millionaires.
Successful applicants are asked to state their annual income. I swallow back the small amount of vomit that comes into the back of my throat and I join the hoards of young attractive women with “undisclosed” incomes.
The men on Luxy may (or may not) be millionaires but unfortunately money doesn’t buy manners or good grammar. Messages from one gentlemen include: “What r I looking for X”, “Money X”, “I am urs X”. In this modern era where your Nokia 3210 no longer restricts you to 160 character text messages, can’t you write out our words in full? This, of course, is not the only issue with those messages, but it’s hard to expect more from a “millionaire’s” dating app.
I make contact with a curly haired Frenchman (hereafter referred to as Lord Sugar) who isn’t looking for a Richard Gere – Julia Roberts set-up and we arrange a Shoreditch drink.
The French charm (and accent) is never lost on the English and Lord Sugar used it to the best of his advantage, I was surprised that he didn’t display the brash, arrogant characteristics I had pre-judged a “Luxy” member to possess.
I steered the discussion around to the app and after brief questioning he confessed that, while he has a great job, he is not a millionaire. Perhaps that’s why I found him so agreeable.
Day 5 – Muddy Matches
I am exhausted. My right thumb is cramping because of all the frantic messaging and I can’t stomach another conversation about my up-and-coming holidays.
Friday night’s entertainment comes courtesy of Muddy Matches, a site for those with a passion for the great outdoors. Having been camping on two separate occasions I decide that I qualify.
The registration form requests your outdoors activity preferences and asks you to rate your Muddy-Townie Ratio. I compromise at 30:70.
Messages start to creep in. A particular favourite comes from an Irish admirer suggesting a casual chat that would involve a flight over to Ireland, a B’n’B stay, a night out in Dublin and a day at the hunter trials.
Resisting the temptation of an all-expenses trip across the Irish Sea, I opt for a London date with a friendly-looking food-lover with a 60:40 Muddy-Townie ratio (hereafter referred to as John Craven).
We arrange a quick drink in a nearby bar and I was relieved. The siren call of my pillow was so enticing that I agreed with myself that I would stay for no longer than an hour and a half.
As I walked over to the bar I started to wonder if the heels were a good idea, perhaps I should have borrowed a pair of Hunter wellies from a friend? I was reassured when I saw that John Craven has suited-up.
We sat down for a drink and John announced he was hungry. I checked the clock, another hour and 20 minutes before my allotted exit slot, plenty of time for him to gobble a chicken salad. But as he meticulously cut his meat into bite sized portions with all the speed of a tortoise in an M25 traffic jam, I realised this was going to take a while.
Exactly five minutes left on the clock and he finally polished his plate clean. Thank goodness. I caught the waitress’ eye and she shuffled over. But wait, she wasn’t empty handed. My heart sank, she had the dessert menu. John Craven wanted a dessert, of course he did. I started to think the Dublin weekend would have felt shorter.
Around 45 painful minutes later and John Craven was still only half way through his sticky chocolate brownie with banana cream. He waved the loaded fork around as he talked about his country home. Every time I asked a question he put down his fork to gesture wildly as he responded. The key was to stop him from talking.
Desperate times call for desperate measures so I launched into a speech about my holiday plans. I filled every second with further details of my accommodation arrangements and in-flight meal preferences. And finally he was finished. I casually suggested we got the bill. Just one hour and seven minutes over schedule and I was free.
Day 6 – Bristlr
I have a newfound respect for habitual daters. The process is driving me insane. I’m assessing people on the tube and visualising myself smearing my thumb from left to right across their face in a modern sign of approval.
I have learnt my lesson after the boredom of Friday so Saturday’s date is pre-warned that I have to “shoot-off” after two hours and safe in that knowledge, I was looking forward to it.
Bristlr is an app exclusively for bearded gentlemen and their admirers. This new hipster-directory makes finding a furry-faced date easy. The gents tend to use a more creative approach than the Beautiful People pretty boys and the “loaded” population of Luxy.
I settle on a cheerful Spaniard with a full beard and a charming moustache (hereafter referred to as Zorro).
Zorro picked a trendy Soho location and we met for an early-evening drink. He spoke passionately about economics and foreign politics, subjects I would usually try and avoid, but with his pleasant enthusiasm, I found myself sucked in. Soon we were talking FTSE100 and inflation rates, and incredibly I wasn’t bored.
Two hours up and I walked towards Tottenham Court Road tube station, I finally felt that I had gained something from my week of dates.
Day 7 – Gluten Free Singles
I own a dog and I am genuinely a Disney fan but I am no coeliac. As I hover the mouse over the drop down menu explaining why I avoid wheat, I feel a bit guilty. This is my first lie. I select “Health/Diet”, unfortunately “Crazy gluten-guzzling liar” is not an option. On the date I will come clean.
As with Mouse Mingle, Gluten Free Singles is waiting to gain momentum on this side of the pond. The UK population is sparse but of a higher standard than their Mickey Mouse counterparts.
I send off a few introductory messages to get the attention of some gluten-free guys and three days later one person has viewed my account. A 51-year-old from Virginia.
Gluten Free Singles is a ghost town, the place where profiles go to die. A number of my prospects haven’t even logged on in the last three months.
Just as I have all but given up hope I receive a message from a good-looking Londoner.
Light hearted small talk turns deep quickly and it becomes clear that my match is a bit of a philosopher (hereafter referred to as Plato). A lunch date is agreed upon and despite not sharing Plato’s dietary requirements, I am fine with the prospect of a lunch cutting out some of the major carb groups. I am, after all, still working on those three pounds.
He was friendly with a slight Northern twang but utterly charming. As he talked about a love of food and the pressures of gluten free dining, my heart started to race. How on earth do I tell him?
For the first three quarters of an hour conversation didn’t stop, there wasn’t a single silence. And then it happened. After deciding that neither of us were big fans of mushrooms and agreeing that stuffed mushrooms were not an ideal starter, he casually mentioned enjoying a stuffed pepper.
“Stuffed with couscous?” I replied. Idiot. My Wikipedia skim-read had told me that couscous was off limits for coeliacs. Rookie mistake.
His eyebrow raised quizzically and the lie came crashing down around me. He knew. “So this is a site for gluten-free singles but you aren’t gluten-free are you?”
It was time. I explained that I had looked at the site as a joke but decided to join after being pleasantly surprised by the offering. He smiled and politely laughed along at my feeble explanation.
The date drew to a close, I headed home and Plato went off to a friend’s house-warming, no doubt to tell them about how he narrowly missed a bunny-boiling incident with an unbalanced fake-coeliac.
After a week of weird and wonderful dating sites and trawling through the good, the bad and the ugly I’m left emotionally drained. I flick back through the profiles of the men I’ve met. John Craven’s blocked me after I rebuffed his suggestion of a second date. As has Flounder, but that’s probably due to some parentally-guided safety precaution.
The specialist nature of these dating tools mean that they hold fewer subscriptions than the encyclopaedic databases of the likes of Tinder and Plenty of Fish. However the lack of people avoids the inevitable short attention spans of those who are just looking to move on to the next newer, shinier thing. More effort and attention is given to each conversation, which can only be a good thing.
Having spent seven tiring days dating and small-talking my way through the offering, I can’t conclude that it’s definitely the way to find love. Because I didn’t.
To quote Beautiful People the experiment was “Hmmm… OK”. Just like my face apparently.