Cynical South African

Let’s set the scene: a low-lit bar somewhere in my usually charming corner of London. A glass of sauvignon in hand, lashes on point, and the faint glimmer of hope that this might—just might—be the night I break my curse with South African men.

It wasn’t.

Now, I’ll be honest. My track record with South African blokes is about as reliable as a Southern Rail timetable. Charming? Sometimes. Tall? Often. But emotionally available? As likely as me willingly attending a CrossFit class. But this one was different, or so I told myself.

Older than me—a rarity, since I usually date men who still refer to their mums as “Mummy” and think Aldi is “too far”—this guy had a confidence that verged on… unsettling. Picture this: a very red face (sunburn? embarrassment? chronic rage?), a skin-tight t-shirt that screamed midlife crisis, and jeans clinging on for dear life. But hey, I’m not shallow. I thought, “Maybe he’s got the chat to back this all up.”

He didn’t.

From the moment we sat down, it was like being trapped in a Ted Talk titled “Why Everything is Awful and You're a Fool for Hoping Otherwise.” He tore into South Africa, ripped apart life in London, scoffed at dating apps, mocked relationships, and I think at one point even questioned the existence of dogs. Honestly, I half expected him to pull out a flip chart labelled “Your Dreams: Here’s Why They’re Stupid.”

I nodded along like a woman stuck on a delayed Zoom call, hoping the WiFi of this date would just cut out altogether. I clutched my wine like it was my emotional support animal, all while scanning the bar for an escape route, a friend, a fire alarm—anything.

Eventually, by the grace of the dating gods (and the handy excuse of an early start), I managed to make my exit. Polite hug, fake smile, you know the drill. As I watched him walk away—his jeans somehow getting tighter with every step—I felt that all-too-familiar pang of disappointment. Another one bites the dust. Another failed date to toss into the “what was I thinking?” archive.

In my infinite optimism (or perhaps sheer masochism), I opened Hinge, thinking, “Right, who’s next?” And just as I did, still watching him walk away, I saw my match list flash and shrink. He’d unmatched me.

WHILE. STILL. IN. SIGHT.

I was ghosted live. A real-time rejection. Honestly, the drama of it all. Shakespeare would’ve wept.

There I stood, emotionally bruised, spiritually eye-rolling, and wondering if I should just give it all up and marry a book.

But here’s the thing: while the date was an utter disaster, at least I got a good story out of it—and a free reminder to always trust your gut when it says “don’t date a man whose personality is a conspiracy theory.”

Until next time, may your wine be chilled, your red flags visible, and your matches slightly less emotionally apocalyptic.

Want more tales of dating misadventures, awkward exits, and epic unmatches? You know where to find me.