Skinny Colin Farrell

Right. Let me set the scene.

Hinge. That blessed, cursed, swiping swamp of semi-decent blokes, softbois with guitars, and people who list “banter” as a personality trait. But every so often, someone pops up who makes you pause mid-scroll.

Enter: Skinny Colin Farrell.

Now, I don’t even like skinny guys. I'm more into men who look like they could lift a sofa and not cry during Marley & Me. But this one had that smouldering, Irish film noir thing going on – think broody eyes, cheekbones that could slice through a croissant, and a smirk like he knew you’d already imagined the wedding playlist.

We arranged to meet at a pub in the West End – low lighting, warm vibes, overpriced G&Ts. He walked in, and my first thought? “Alright, maybe I do like skinny guys.” He was promising, in that “maybe I can fix him with snacks and affection” sort of way.

He sat opposite me and the chat flowed – banter levels were decent, he wasn’t a secret crypto bro (that I could tell). But then... it hit me.

The breath.

Not just bad. Biblical. I’ve got a strong sense of smell – some would say superhuman, others would say cursed. And what wafted across that table made my eyes water. I genuinely checked my phone to see if it was giving off toxic fumes. I’ve smelt forgotten Tupperware that was more pleasant.

I did what any sensible woman would do – the toilet trick. Disappear a few times, take ages at the bar, check my phone like it’s giving me instructions from MI5. I dragged that date out just long enough to be polite, then bailed with a vague “lovely to meet you” and sprinted to the Tube like I was fleeing a crime scene.

Next day, ping – message from him, all sunshine and butterflies. Clearly hadn’t clocked my polite avoidance dance. He wanted to see me again. I sent a lovely, well-crafted rejection that deserved a BAFTA for diplomacy. Job done, I thought.

Oh, how naive.

A day later, another ping. This time, a photo.

I hesitated. Was it a meme? A puppy? A rogue toe? I opened it, heart thudding… and there it was. Skinny Colin Farrell, semi-naked, posing like a Poundland Calvin Klein model. Caption:“Maybe you don’t want to date me, but maybe you want to f*ck me.”

I. Was. Gobsmacked.

I stared at the screen like it had just declared war on my standards. A shirtless thirst trap? Post-rejection? Who raised this man – wolves with Wi-Fi?

Naturally, I did what any self-respecting woman would do – I ghosted. Hard. Harsher than your mum’s comments on your new fringe. He kept messaging. I blocked. Done and dusted, right?

Nope.

About a year later, there he was. Back on Hinge. Like a bad sequel no one asked for. Slid into my messages again like we hadn’t shared that bizarre chapter. Oblivious. Unbothered. Living in his own deluded rom-com.

And when I told my mum (because of course I did), her response?

“Should’ve replied to his picture with: ‘Not impressed. Can I see the rest?’”Truly, the woman is savage. No notes.

So, moral of the story? Trust your nose. Bad breath is the body's way of whispering, “Run, babe.” And if a man sends you unsolicited shirtless selfies after you politely reject him? Just remember: there’s only one Colin Farrell, and he isn’t messaging you from a Wetherspoons.

Until the next disaster – cheers. 🍷

Fancy another tale from the trenches of dating apps? Stay tuned – I’ve got more red flags than a Formula 1 race.