Rick Perry's fate sealed by an "Oops"

To think that all those millions of dollars raised should come to this: a man who looks too stupid t

Never say politics isn't full of surprises. Last night's Republican debate in Michigan appears to have witnessed the end of one candidate's presidential campaign, but it wasn't Herman Cain who was brought down by the sheer weight of those sexual harassment allegations -- but Rick Perry, who fell victim to the most embarrassing kind of political amnesia.

The Texas Governor may be highly regarded in his home state, but on the national stage he's often come across as something of a joke, with poor performances in previous debates adding to a somewhat lacklustre campaign. Last night though, his fate was potentially sealed by a single word: "Oops".

The actual flub is almost too painful to watch. It was a kind of brain meltdown, as Perry struggled to list the three Government agencies that he would axe. After Commerce and Education, he just couldn't blurt out the third.

As the audience broke into guffaws Perry blundered on, but for the pundits, it was all over. Presidential scholar Larry Sabato called it "the most devastating moment of any modern primary debate". Ouch. Politico quotes an email from one high-level supporter simply stating "I'm sad. Stuck a fork in himself. Can't decide which is worse, Dean scream or Perry oops." On a more serious note, leading GOP senator Jim DeMint admitted "It is a problem. We need to stay on message."

Perry himself insisted his campaign was right on track -- and he's even been trying to make some political capital out of the gaffe, with a new fundraising letter to supporters. We all have human moments, it says, "and tonight Rick Perry forgot the third agency he wants to eliminate. Just goes to show there are too damn many federal agencies."

The candidate himself appeared in the spin room immediately after the debate with that same bluff-straight-through it approach. "I stepped in it out there", he told reporters. "I may have forgotten Energy, but I haven't forgotten my conservative principles."

But any candidate worth a dime wouldn't have had to show up in the spin room in person: it's not exactly front runner behaviour. To think that all those millions of dollars raised, all those endless trips to the furthest flung regions of Iowa and New Hampshire, should come to this: a man who now looks too stupid to win the Republican nomination.

There's just eight weeks to go before the Iowa caucuses -- not long to rebuild an image, not long to urge big-time donors to stay on board. Even in a contest which has been anything but predictable, it's not looking good for Perry. Take an email from one backer, who tries to list three reasons why he still supports him: "He really is, ah... I'll get back to you on the third". "Oops" Apocalypse, as you might say.

Felicity Spector is a senior producer at Channel 4 News.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad