Wonderland

HOW TO FIND LOVE IN LONDON? FLIRT HARD(ER)

Twenty men, twenty women, a dimly lit room in Soho, and a generous pour of natural wine — London’s dating scene seems to be getting a reboot. With singles ditching the apps in favour of in-person matching, we sit down with Flirt Hard founder Meg Rees to find out what’s behind speed dating’s comeback.

I don’t remember how the conversation started, only that I was sunk into my friend’s sofa as the party around me reached sticky, wine-spilled, peak-mayhem. I’d wedged myself into a corner, trying to shield my bare legs from the late-March wind creeping in through the smoking-area door – left open, as always. My roommate had vanished to grab us another round of cranberry vodkas, leaving me momentarily alone, half-listening to the chaos, trying to get into the party groove and shake off the nagging feeling that I should be somewhere else. How early is too early to leave without looking ungrateful for my youth?

I never finished that thought. By the time my roommate came back, I was knee-deep in a conversation with a man, a chat that lasted somewhere between twenty minutes and three hours. His name was Arlo, he repeated it five or six times before I finally caught it, his vowels getting lost somewhere between his accent and ‘90s bangers blaring from the speakers. He didn’t know many people at the party. In fact, he didn’t know anyone who lived there. He was a plus-one’s plus-one, here for the afters following a full day at a techno rave. I’m fascinated to know people still do that in their late twenties.

We had next to nothing in common. I love the city; he’s all about nature. I swear by therapy; he’s into meditation. I live in the future; he stomps through the present. I make to-do lists; he soul-searches. I climb the career ladder; he’s backpacking to Greece next week, then Malta. We covered all this in the first ten minutes. He also wasn’t exactly my type — despite the floppy hair and that I-could-use-some-fixing lost-boy energy. But he was funny, friendly, and disarmingly kind, his smile almost too big for his pleasantly symmetrical face. And the more we realised how different we were, the more intrigued we became. Our eyes locked, no room for awkward silences — we were stuck in a trance: my brain hijacked by a flirting-induced serotonin rush, his by the chemical aftermath of a day rave.

Nothing happened that night, but he did find a reason to ask for my Instagram. I woke up the next day to a DM saying he couldn’t wait to see me again, complete with an itinerary for our first date – which, for the record, was probably the most romantic date I’ve ever been on. That led to a three-month-long situationship. One evening in June, he told me that after meeting me, he’d gone home and told his parents he’d met the love of his life. And that was the last time I ever saw Arlo.

Before we move on, a few disclaimers. One: Arlo and I were never meant to be, and that’s just a fine fact. Two: I told you from the start he was a bit of a fixer-upper, so no plot twists here. And three: I never believed I was the love of his life.

What I did believe though, for the first time in years, was that I had somehow scored the golden ticket of dating — meeting a potential partner in real (!) life (!). No swiping, no agonising over text introductions, no profile carefully crafted and peer-reviewed by five girlfriends. No first-date nerves, no over-analysis, no pretending to laugh at a Hinge prompt about pineapple on pizza. Just two strangers, in the right place at the right time, who happened to fancy each other. But, at the risk of stating the obvious, isn’t it a little mad that in dating, spontaneity — and dare I say, fate — has become the exception, overshadowed by the algorithm’s cold, calculated grip on modern romance?

According to data company Statista, around 4.4 million adults in the UK use online dating platforms or services. According to a much less scientific — but arguably more insightful — study conducted by, well, myself (sample areas include club toilet queues in East London, casual tube eavesdropping, and my own dates, for reference), 99% of them are miserable about the current dating scene. Love bombing. Ghosting. Time wasting. A complete downgrade of personal standards. It’s all become the norm, and the worst part is that we’ve just learned to live with it.

Sure, dating apps can work — if what you’re after is a casual fling or someone to split a £14 cocktail with in a city where making real connections feels like a daunting endeavour. And yes, we all know that one couple who made the swipe-to-soulmate leap. But as a woman in my twenties, surrounded by women in their twenties, I can say with confidence: success on the apps is the exception, not the rule. They might be designed to be deleted — just not for the reasons you imagined when you first logged in.

The girls are tired, and probably, so are the guys. So we delete them, swear off swiping, declare ourselves dating-sober for a week, a year, or convince ourselves that the right person will magically find us at the pub. Or maybe, just maybe, we get off our shelves (and screens) and dare to hop on the next dating trend that seems to be London’s latest bet for singles: IRL events. For the sake of journalism, I went speed dating… and this is what went down.

Are we flirting hard enough?

Meg Rees and I meet on a sunny, crisp November morning for a coffee by East London’s canals. This is not our first encounter — she’s responsible for a handful of drawings I have permanently marked on my body, made in her London Fields tattoo studio. But there’s newness in the air, and a different reasoning to us sharing a table. No buzzy needles involved this time round, we’re talking romance. “Do I believe in love?,” she laughs at my opening question, our chat interrupted by an extra-chocolat-y cappuccino being served between us. “That’s probably the reason why I date so much.”

In two weeks’ time, Rees would be hosting her first-ever speed dating event, aptly named Flirt Hard. At first glance, permanent ink and matchmaking might seem worlds apart — but Rees has been flirting with the dating world for a while now. Whether it’s through her podcast, You’ve Gotta Be Joking — a candid, memoir-esque deep dive into modern love — or her own journey as a newly minted divorcée rediscovering the city’s dating scene. “I believe everyone has more than one love in this world,” she says. “Apparently, we have three loves in our lives. The first one you have is when you’re quite young. The second one’s a bit of a toxic, turbulent love. And the third one is the love of your life. That’s the one I’m after.”

She tells me the idea of putting together a dating event came off the back of some serious field (“Feeld, excuse the pun”) work. Fresh out of a long-term relationship, she assumed fellow singles would also be on the hunt for something stable, meaningful, and built to last. But reality, of course, had other plans. “You know what it’s actually like — there’s fuckboys lurking around every corner,” she laughs. “But I do think a lot of girls are in the same place as me, and loads of guys too. There are wholesome, sweet people out there who really do want to meet someone. But thanks to the apps, no one knows what’s real anymore. So I wanted to help them find each other.” The result: a matchmaking-meets-speed-dating event where guests are vetted — “like sex parties,” she adds — so it’s not just anyone rocking up. “The idea is to actually facilitate meaningful connections.”

With the help of a sex and relationship coach, Meg put together a questionnaire designed not just to break the ice — but to pull off the real magic of the night: pre-matching the couples based on compatibility. The form asked: In your own words, describe yourself, what you’re looking for romantically, your core values, and something you’re passionate about. Your star sign — “because obviously I’m a big star sign girl.” Your love languages. Instagram handle, “so I can see that they’re real.” Plus age, and job title.

“Unfortunately, I do think men have the upper hand when it comes to dating. The girls who are single right now are all 10 out of 10, they can afford to be choosy. But it was interesting to see that, in the end, we’re all looking for the same thing,” she says. “Especially reading the guys’ forms, I was expecting short, half-hearted answers, but they actually listened to the questions and answered them properly. It’s refreshing to see what people are genuinely looking for, beyond just a Hinge prompt.”

Still, single men’s commitment to the cause remains Flirt Hard’s biggest hurdle (shocker). In the lead-up to its fourth edition, I reconnect with Rees to find out how the event has evolved since our last chat, back in the depths of winter. The girls, she tells me, couldn’t be more ready — “but the challenge has been getting single guys to attend. I don’t know if it’s because they’ve got the pick of the bunch on every app, or they’re always thinking the grass is greener [elsewhere]. Whatever it is, that’s been the hardest part.”

Even so, as IRL dating events continue to multiply across the city, Flirt Hard is steadily carving out its own corner of the scene. Its straight and queer nights alike are gaining traction online across social media, building a safe space for daters to meet like-minded people — sans swiping. And slowly but surely, the success stories have started to roll in, with Flirt Hard alumni reporting back to Rees on new relationships sparked over name tags and nervy intros.

“I honestly feel most people who come are either seasoned daters or total newcomers,” she tells me. “It’s a real mixed bag, but mostly people who are in it for the right reasons — looking for something serious, looking for love. I think we all are, really. It just takes the right person to show up.”

Three minutes to fall

Research suggests it takes somewhere between 90 seconds and four minutes for our brains to decide whether we fancy someone. I learned that on a crisp Thursday evening, power-walking to Bethnal Green tube station, panic-scrolling through every article on the science of attraction like I was cramming for a GCSE I’d never revised for. I was en route to Mayfair for my first-ever speed dating event — all in the name of journalism, obviously. But just 24 hours before the big night, a twist added an extra frisson of excitement: someone had dropped out, Meg needed a stand-in, and I’ve never been one to turn down a flirt-forward Thursday evening. Game on. Time to throw on a fit — I was officially in the race for romance.

Exiting Oxford Circus station and weaving my way through the crowd towards Flirt Hard’s venue for the night — Abuelo, on Regent Street — my brain’s firing off a million thoughts per second. Tourists, buskers, suited finance bros… I dodge them all while silently wondering if anyone can tell what I’m up to. If the body language (read: full-body panic) wasn’t enough of a giveaway, the impolite cloud of Balmain Carbone trailing my neck certainly was. I offer my condolences to anyone who’s ever encountered an unhinged (late) twenty-something single woman on the Central Line, sharing the rush hour with work commuters on her way to a 20-way date. We move.

Truth be told, I had no idea what I was walking into. The only time I’d ever strung the words speed dating together was to explain to non-industry friends what a press junket feels like. And I’m hardly a rapid-fire romantic, either. So I decided to approach the experience methodically — by summoning my personal pantheon of dating deities: Amelia Dimoldenberg’s disarming awkwardness, Carrie Bradshaw’s starry-eyed delusion, and Nora Ephron’s cut-throat charm. A recipe, I hoped, for first-date finesse.

But as it turns out, when it comes to fancying someone, charm has very little to do with the script you’ve rehearsed in your head. Another thing I’d clocked during my pre-date research spiral: attraction is mostly non-verbal. Fifty-five per cent comes down to body language, 38% is tone and tempo, and a meagre 7% is what you actually say. Translation? If I had any hopes of meeting the love of my life within the next couple of hours, it was time to chill the fuck out.

Meeting Rees helps. Dressed in what can only be described as goth-princess couture — a floor-length black tulle dress — she swings open the bar doors like a Tim Burton dream and introduces me to a squad of best friends enlisted to help her bring magic to life. The room is exactly as cosy as you’d expect from a bougie wine bar in Central London: dimly lit, chairs artfully scattered around shapely tables, the temperature dialled in just right. On each table, cards are neatly laid out as a lifeline for nervous lovebirds, with icebreakers designed to get the conversation flowing. “What would your death row meal be?”, “What’s your favourite film?”, “What do you do for fun?” I unapologetically scan the lot and start crafting conversations in my head. Some might call it cheating, I call it journalistic prep. With a glass of orange wine in hand, I feel ready to roll.

Suddenly, the room begins to swell. In a rare twist of fate, I’m actually on time — early, even — and left to loiter in the corner, indulging in some prime people-watching. What I’ll soon find out is that a handful of savvy attendees have smartly made a friends’ outing of the night — because one thing singles have, if not love, is good pals. And what a luxury it is to have a familiar face positioned at the opposite end of the table, offering well-timed eye contact after a conversational nosedive. I too should’ve done that.

Ten minutes in, and Central London dissolves into East: mullets and moustaches arrive as a set, tote bags cling to underarms like emotional support animals, denim reaches scandalous proportions of bagginess, and at least three sets of brows are bleached into oblivion. To my genuine surprise — considering the bleak state of the apps — everyone’s… sort of fit? Judging by the rate at which heads are swivelling and eyes are locking, I’m not the only one clocking the talent. “Do you know Jane? She’s my ex’s stepsister,” a tall, blue-eyed blonde asks my tablemate. She does. Of course she does.

“Silence in class!” Meg yells, commandeering the room. It’s time to lay out the rules of engagement: twenty girls, twenty guys, lined up across from each other like the world’s most chaotic chessboard. We get three minutes per date, then the guys shift one seat along. Rinse, repeat, flirt, flee. That’s a lot of introductions, I think to myself, already bracing for an early-onset jaw ache. At the end, we’ll have some free mingling time — but not before Rees and her mystical matchmaking spreadsheet hand us a card revealing the name of one lucky suitor we’re supposedly compatible with.

What followed was probably the most intense three hours of my life — in a good way. Turns out, dating is absolutely exhausting. But you didn’t think finding love would be a walk in the park, did you? “Why would you LEAVE BRAZIL FOR LONDON?,” an alarming number of Brits (naturally) asked me. “For a better passport,” I’d sometimes reply, depending on how much I cared about the candidate in question. But more often than not, 180 seconds were surprisingly enough to get a real sense of who this person across the table was, and whether a successful first date might actually be in the cards. The short timeframe also worked wonders in that, under time pressure, the men felt compelled to ask questions back (!), leading to conversations that were — more than anything — funny and surprisingly insightful.

Much like any other bar teeming with singles, the cig breaks between rounds of flirting are a goldmine for eavesdropping on sharp one-liners. “It’s like being on the tube during rush hour,” one guy tells Meg as we step outside for a breather, when she asks how he’s getting on. I couldn’t have put it better myself, though I’m relieved the sweat and toe-stepping stayed below ground.

I didn’t meet any self-proclaimed speed dating pros, which makes me think there’s a whole lot of untapped potential in the experience for singles genuinely looking for love. We were all newbies — some more invested than others — but mostly open to meeting new people, hungry for a good story, and decidedly tired of the apps. For the anxiously inclined, the idea of being in a room full of people who, by default, are looking for the same thing as you is refreshingly reassuring.

As someone without a social battery built for quick recharges, I’ll admit: 20 dates in one go might’ve been a tad much. As the night wore on, I was gradually swallowed by overwhelm, my voice dissolving under the hum of a very loud room. My match may not have been the one, either — we had a second chat, then went our separate ways, and I’m fairly sure he was already chatting someone else up by the time I left.

But, as always, I ended the night stalking a handful of fellow speed daters on my way home — and met some of the sweetest single girlies on the planet, which made the whole thing all the more worth it. “Speed dating isn’t for everyone,” Meg tells me. And I agree. But honestly? I couldn’t recommend it more to anyone ready to step outside their comfort zone, meet new people, and try something different. London’s geographic vastness isn’t to be underestimated either — chances are you’ll bump into someone from the bunch again, and it’s nice to have a shared evening to look back on. At the end of the day, dating should be fun. And that? I had plenty of.