I’m irate. The source if my ire is Badoo, that tasteless dating-and-picture-rating site masquerading as a social networking site. It claims to be “the best place for meeting new people nearby [sic] you”. It encourages you to “chat, flirt, socialize and have fun!” Photos of (attractive) members grace the landing page. Go on, take a look, I know you are curious. Hover over an image at random and you will be delighted to learn that “WetScream*, 23, London, United Kingdom, Wants to sing with somebody” (and has 5 new photos to boot). Oh Joy!
Another interesting fact, gleaned from the landing page, is that its members (“people already here”) number almost 58 million, at time of writing. Another three million and the population of Badoo will equal that of the UK.
There is nothing about the appearance of the site that would entice me to be a member (no, not even their battle cry to “meet new people”). So, how is it that I found myself signing up?
Let me explain:
I was at work, clearing out my work email inbox - filing here, deleting there - when I came across an email from Badoo, kindly notifying me that a good friend of mine had left a message for me on the site. It was an abnormally quiet day in the office, so I thought I’ll check it out there and then. I clicked on the link and was informed that I needed to create a profile to see the message.
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(Now, I’d just like to make something clear, I am a confirmed luddite. My computer skills are basic; they stretch as far as using word and spreadsheet applications to create documents. I do not have a facebook account. I’m still clawing my way out of the 20th century.)
***
I threw caution to the wind, after all the message was from a pal, a close friend of 15 years. I created that damned profile. And what did I discover for my efforts? There was no message. It was a lie. I had been duped. I, cynic extraordinaire, had been fooled into signing on to Badoo, a social network that would alert all Londoners that I was on-line and available for fun – while at the same time reminding me that no-one would want to take the plunge and get chatty with me if I didn’t upload a photo of myself. While I stared glassy eyed at the screen, trying to make sense of how I could have fallen into this rather crude trap, I was completely ignorant to the fact that Badoo had kindly dispatched an email shot to my entire contact base (my friends, my acquaintances, John Lewis, Netmums, even my nephew’s headmistress) telling each and every one of them that a message from me awaited them. I had committed the ultimate crime against my own privacy, I had forgotten to read the small-print. Had I been more vigilant I would have spotted Badoo’s egregious offer to pimp my entire address book.
So, my profile had been cast and my contacts pinged. I darted desperately around the site looking for resolution and all the while was receiving instant messages from potential flirtees. I sent Badoo two shirty messages via their questions link, accusing them of using improper methods and invading my privacy in order to appropriate confidential information.
As I emerged from that red fog of rage and I regained my composure, I located the exit door and deleted that damned profile (the site’s parting shot was “has it really come to this?”). I had waved goodbye to the possibility of chatting, flirting, socialising and having fun. I had dumped my virtual loves, flicking the finger at the chance to have my attractiveness rated on a scale of one to ten. Willingly, I returned to the real world. While my profile has been deleted it will take a full seven days for my membership to work its way fully out of the system.
If there is a lesson to be learned from all this, it is to be suspicious of such emails claiming to be from friends. Check with them first. If you don’t, at best you may naively wander into that circle of hell that is the website dating game, while notifying friends and acquaintances of your new status. In a worst case scenario, you could fall foul of identity theft.
* This is not the member’s real profile name.
