How did a throwaway line from a 90s American courtroom comedy come to dominate the love lives of Londoners? Neurospicy barrister Ally McBeal coins “The Ick” 15 episodes into her eponymous TV show to dodge a date. A quarter century later her quip is lurking behind abandoned flings, ghosted Hinge matches and lonely evenings in.

Dating in London is, and makes us, tough. We cultivate hard disinterested temperaments. Quick to discard, and be discarded. Scything our way through prospective suitors in search of sparks. Maybe the city is to blame; the long slog between Stokey and Brockley evaporating any frisson of attraction before it can bloom. Is it rising rents, pushing us ever further from our friends and the possibilities of spontaneous connections? 

Perhaps the cult of individualism central to London’s neoliberal economy has tricked us into believing we can have it all. A best friend, a perfect housemate, someone to share a mortgage and parenthood while bringing us to toe curling orgasms – an insane shopping list from a consumerism fever dream of run amok. Or is it the apps; the worst tendencies of gendered flirting recodified by a Texan tech giant.

Spare Room ads which declare “no couples, please” (). Landlords who don’t allow partners to sleep over (). There is a special place in hell for politicians who have allowed the housing crisis to reach a point that a breakup can bring destitution. But what, if anything, can we do? What does a city good for loving and being loved in look and feel like?

Romance vs gentrification. Sex and the cityscape. This event, mixing comedy with heartfelt debate asks, is London giving us The Ick?