Dating British hipster cunts – notes from a French female reader

Remember when, walking down the street strapped in your tight white pants, you would get deliciously wolf-whistled by construction men? When, on the tube, you would hear ‘I want you’ murmured in your ear and feel a hand against your thigh? When a man (an actual man) would come up to you in a bar and offer you a drink, then an another one, and another one until it all blurred into a sweaty night?

Alas, these days are long gone.

Now, your usual rendez-vous with privileged British white males will go as follows:

First, you will be asked to book a vapid vegan venue where all edibles have been grown within a 2 mile radius. There, the bearded cunt you met through a common hipster friend will avoid your cleavage for the entire evening like it’s some sort of devilish artefact. While he orders his matcha tea with almond milk, he will proceed to drown you in a numbing logorrhoea on meditation, yoga, and travels and after having asked what kind of music you like – probably in the hope of name-dropping his own pathetic spotify-induced discoveries, he will unavoidably lean in, letting a waft of the latest aesop essential oil fragrance tickle your nostrils, and say:
‘Did you go to Burning Man last summer?’
‘No, you wanky wimp, I spend my summers in another desert trying to clean-up the plague your mdma-cash finances’

After an endless hour of his inane karmic-jabbering, he will finally ask to fucking SHARE the bill because he is no chauvinist scumbag. And yes, on the way out, he won’t hold the door for you because being a feminist exempts him from the most bloody basic courtesy.

If tragically, you are weak enough to accept his lame invitation, you shall find yourself stranded in an Ikea demo-flat, with a fixie bike in the living-room, motivational posters on the wall, and one lonely self-help book on the shelf while the twat fiddles with his Bose speaker to play some agonising electronic ’sounds’. The last nail in the coffin of your sex drive will then be hammered when he asks for your consent before turning off the lights and by God shall you endure a very forgettable night with your Prince Cunting, waking up to his bird-chirping-natural alarm clock.

Cunt hipster, give a French girl a break, breath in some toxic masculinity, order a whisky and for all our sakes, be a fucking man.

Nominated by MademoiselleG