December 10, 2025 |
“Pass our Nats by in Golden Square and you’re bound to mistake her for a chain-smoking Michelle Williams. For real. They have the exact same porcelain features and pissed-off expression.” So said Vincent Levy of his 10 colleague, the inimitable Natalie Dembinska, who died of cancer in September 2024. Sassy, brassy and classy, the writer, who worked for the magazine from 2010 to 2018, was always ready with a put-down, a spectacular story or a hilarious observation. An unforgettable combination of humour, humanity and haughtiness, she embodied the 10 spirit. Here’s what’s happened when, in 2018, she discovered Tinder. Read it and weep.
Love Me Tinder
Sadly, it turns out that my name is not Madonna. And his isn’t Rupert. Nor were we in it for the box-office receipts [of 2000 movie The Next Best Thing, in which a woman and her gay best friend have a baby together]. Which means that I am now a single, 35-year-old woman back on the market, not that I was ever off it. My biological clock is ticking, my ovaries are dying. So where does someone like me turn? I may be desperate, but I’m not yet desperate enough for Guardian Soulmates. I also finally bought a smartphone, and so, being a living-on-the-edge kind of girl, I decided to turn to Tinder.
You know that saying “the devil’s in the detail”? I never gave it much thought either, but then I made that brave decision… and suddenly I saw the light. The devil lives on Tinder. And his attention to detail is more extinct than a T-rex. Who admittedly is alive and well in the land of Jurassic World, but that doesn’t mean resurrecting him was the best of ideas.
If it were possible for a species to be more prehistoric than the one that came before it, it would be the modern heterosexual man. Which is why, instead of exploring a celebration of how backward they might be, I’m just going to list my many, many questions in the hope that someone, somewhere, can give me some answers. And I’m not even talking about the obvious Where’s Wally? game that seems so popular right now, whereby men only post group shots and you have to scrutinise the picture and hope you come up trumps. Are you John? Is it you? Could it be you? Or is this possibly some kind of group-dating situation?
Did I also mention that my settings are at a 30-mile radius… and I’ve already managed to run out of options? It’s a fucking miracle that Tinder hasn’t self-combusted on me. Or that I haven’t fallen victim to repetitive strain injury from all the left swiping I’ve been doing. There really is nothing like seeing that pulsating pink circle telling you that you’re out of options to boost your self-esteem. Am I a bitch who knows what she wants? Or am I just that bit too difficult for the average guy? Personally, I think I’m the former. And since when are standards a bad thing?
This whole online dating thing really shouldn’t be that hard. When Rihanna sang about finding love in a hopeless place, she’d obviously never been on Tinder. I, as you’ve probably gathered, have. And here is what I have learnt. Or should that be observed? I like to think that, in writing it all down, I’m on the cusp of some anthropological breakthrough. Probably not, but what else have I got to hope for?
So, Andy Warhol-ing your profile picture. Could you please tell me what you’re trying to communicate about yourself by superimposing your face onto a picture of Kim Jong-il while wearing a Marilyn Monroe wig and putting it through a Warhol filter? I feel like the message may have gotten lost somewhere along the way. I know that ‘bad boys’ can be sexy, but I don’t think that’s ever really applied to dictators.
The Ferrari man. Or should I say, the man who wishes he had a Ferrari but doesn’t and so instead poses with his customised Ford Mondeo, complete with tail fins? Not to be rude, but how small is your penis? And why are you hell-bent on making me think I have a larger big toe? Talk about a lack of big dick energy.
The faceless man. You’d be very surprised, but it somehow turns out that heterosexual men do not have faces. Laugh all you want, it’s true. And let me count the ways of their facelessness for you. I’m not even going to mention my favourite chest close-up, face obscured by fried-egg emojis. Am I, without realising it, living the Naked Attraction dream? Just the naked torso in general. Especially with the backdrop of a gym. I don’t need to see you pumping iron.
And since we’re already on the subject of chests, a very special shout-out to the shower selfie, shot from the angle of the shower head, complete with streaming water. Are you a fan of Madonna’s Rain video too?
a voice from the vault: the inimitable Natalie Dembinska, pictured at home, embodied the humour, humanity and haughtiness of the 10 spirit
Does a leg of – I want to say roasted, but more like cindered – lamb qualify as a profile picture? Is this your way of saying you don’t know how to cook? Or that the last time you ate out you suffered from acute food poisoning? Because really, whatever is on that plate looks like it must have come straight out the other end, or even the same end, post-consumption.
Emojis are the hieroglyphics of our times. Why use words when a picture is worth a thousand of them? Or should I say 20 miniature pictures are worth zero of them?
This next point doesn’t actually require words – well, writing anything. Allow me to present a straight-up copy-and-paste job of my everyday profile swipe life. In his defence, he did actually attempt to write a bio. Using actual words. Me (Him): “I’m not a bank account”. You (me): “Looking for something meaningful. Single. Not have more than a child. Animal free. No smoking. Be of any race, I’m colour blind. Tolerant. Be able to look after yourself. Be fit and healthy (slim/athletic/curvy).” No mention of me not having a criminal record, though, so who knows, I could still be in with a chance. I think the application process to be a Tesco cashier is less demanding.
What is a “biz dev in the digital space”? I’m assuming it means business devil. But then, would a real business devil really refer to themselves as that? And don’t most business devils know how to spell?
And what the hell is a pleasure consultant? Is that one of those people who masturbates women in a circle so they can rediscover their om while singing Kumbaya? Also, ‘iceberg welder’ – is that a fetish? Something to do with lettuce? Are you wanting to dress me like a salad?
There exists a surprising number of people named Rod. It seems that, between 1978 and 1987, Rod was a popular name to give boys. Could it be that they were all named for the Stewart one, having been conceived to the strains of Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?, with the name bestowed upon the child in some misguided hope that it would grow up to be sexy? And since we’re already talking names – Frisko. What does it mean? Is the bearer of it frisky? Or is he a fan of frisking? Also, ‘Rich-rd’. Who are you? The Will.i.am of suburbia?
“Do not let the bed of a broken man become your only place of worship.” Don’t worry, Bubbles (for the person who quoted this is apparently named Bubbles). As in Michael Jackson’s chimpanzee. So don’t worry, Bubbles, I am definitely not going to let that happen.
Sapiosexuals. Is hooking up with a girl who can spell and once in a while form a sentence some sort of new fetish thing, too? Do we really have to give a sexy name to a girl you can hold a conversation with? Is it scary for you to speak to us if we’re not ‘sexual’ in a Latin-sounding way? I love my mind too. More than I’ll ever love yours.
The guy looking for a girl with a “smuttering of intelligence”. I like to think that I have a smattering of intelligence, but then I think maybe not. Obviously, a “smuttering” is some higher plane that I have yet to reach, seeing as I have no idea what that even means.
The return to frosted tips. Are we living in some sort of Back to the Future reality? Just because *NSYNC might be reuniting, it doesn’t mean that frosted locks should be reuniting with your head. Has Justin Timberlake gone back to a poodle perm? No. There’s a reason for that.
A special shout-out to Vagelis, who decided to superimpose his head onto the body of Eurotrash legend Lolo Ferrari. Don’t worry, he put a classy B&W fixer over it. I’m not entirely sure who he’s looking to attract, but he’s obviously a boob man. Is Lolo’s husband still alive? If so, maybe they could get in touch.
Though, I have to say, the submissive sissy wanting to do my housework is tempting. And I would get paid for the pleasure, rather than have to pay someone else to do it. Apparently, no task is too degrading or humiliating. Do you think I can get him to clean the grouting in the bathroom? I might have to sign up for Tinder Plus, or whatever it’s called, so I can go back through all my swipe lefts and look for him. Good domestic help is hard to find.
Portrait by Elliot Morgan. Taken from 10 Magazine Issue 75 – BIRTHDAY, EVOLVE, TRANSFORMATION – out on newsstands now. Order your copy here.
