Mediocre Michael J

Online dating —where your thumbs do the hard graft before your heart (or in this case, your ears) even get a chance. Let me tell you about my recent romantic misadventure, because if I have to suffer, you lot might as well get a laugh out of it.

So, there I was, swiping away on Hinge like I was trying to win an Olympic medal in disappointment, when I matched with this cute guy. I’m talking proper baby-faced heartthrob, floppy hair, that cheeky glint in the eye—think young Michael J. Fox, minus the DeLorean (and sadly, as it turns out, minus the voice of a grown man).

We arranged to meet at my local pub. I turned up, clocked him from across the room and thought, Oooh, hello. That promise of something potentially non-disastrous. I approached, hopeful. And then… he opened his mouth.

“Do you want a drink?” he squeaked, in a voice so high-pitched it could summon dolphins.

Reader, I wish I was exaggerating. It was like Mickey Mouse had put on a pair of skinny jeans and wandered into a gastropub.

The ick was instant. My brain screamed, Abort mission!, but my face smiled politely and said, “Sure, I’ll have a G&T.” Because I am nothing if not polite.

To be fair, once I got over the vocal shock, we had a pleasant evening. He was sweet, seemed interested, and we actually had a decent chat. I even told him about my hiking group’s weekend plans. He perked up and said he’d love to come along. I was… surprised. Hiking? With strangers? With me, wearing no makeup and probably dripping in mid-hike regret? Bold move.

Fast forward to the next day: 9am, coffee shop rendezvous. I was fresh-faced, in my least unflattering leggings and a hoodie that screamed “practical, not pretty.” He arrived, and the energy was... different. Bit awkward. Day dates hit different, especially when there’s no dim lighting or G&T to lubricate the vibes.

We met up with the rest of the hiking crew. He mostly walked with the boys, which was actually quite nice—gave me a chance to catch my breath and not worry about flirting while puffing like a steam train. At one point, our hands grazed and he joked, “Thought you were trying to hold my hand.” A moment was had. I blushed. My inner sceptic briefly vacated the building.

But then I got self-conscious. Was my hair frizzy? Was my outfit giving “sponsored by Sports Direct”? Too late. We all went for lunch post-hike, and things got a bit… off. Mid-sandwich, he took a phone call and stepped away. I don’t trust mid-date phone calls. Unless your nan’s gone missing or you’ve just won the lottery, keep that mobile in your pocket, sir.

He came back, made vague excuses about needing to head off, and left rather abruptly. Still, we texted afterwards, even planned to meet again. I thought maybe I was just overthinking it. I wanted to like him. His voice had become less of a novelty and more of a quirk.

And then, bam. Out of nowhere, I get that message. You know the one. The polite but punch-you-in-the-gut “I don’t think I want to pursue this” text. Just like that. No explanation. No warning. Not even a “you’re lovely, but…”

I stared at my phone like it had just insulted my mum.

Was it my muddy trainers? Did I not flirt enough? Was I too real for his squeaky fantasy? I’ll never know. And honestly? That’s the worst part. That little spiral of doubt, trying to pinpoint the exact moment things went sideways. It’s like trying to spot when the milk in your fridge went off—it looked fine yesterday.

The most insulting bit? I lowered my standards. I looked past the voice, the awkward hike, the mysterious phone call… and he had the audacity to break my heart?

Ladies and gents, the moral of the story: don’t let a man with the vocal register of a Disney sidekick make you question your worth. Ever.

Now, where’s my Hinge app… I hear disappointment swipes left too.

Craving more tales from the dating trenches? Stick around—You can’t make this stuff up.

Have you ever had an “instant ick” moment that somehow turned into a slow burn… only to end in ashes anyway?