Bumbling Dad. Midlife dating tales from London.

Tinder.  The allegation I'd read was that it was nothing but a shag-fest.  I hadn't even been familiar with the term hook up as anything other than a term for meeting , but I was reading repeatedly that this relatively new app was the place where millenials were compressing what I had known as "dating" into a one-night time-frame. For liddle ol' Gen X me, that wasn't proving to be the case.  Apart from my  First Ever Tinder Date , but that itself had been an anomaly that had simultaneously boosted my bruised ego and battered my busted heart.  I'd become unexpectedly but inevitably single after a decade of joy and another decade of unspoken "staying together for the sake of the kids."  The kids were all right, which would have pleased Jimmy Pursey.*  But that winter I was swiping, matching, messaging and experiencing the crushing disappointment of a series of chemistry-free first dates. * Oblique nod to both remaining Sham 69 fans By the time

I've got two fabulous children, who'll be 16 & 18 by the time I finish writing this.  Or 20 & 22, if current blog rate continues.  And I had a fabulous relationship with their mother, for at least 10 of the years we were together.  The other 10 were a slow car crash, obviously, accompanied by a life that was the very definition  of "staying together for the sake of the kids".  Right up until the moment she told me she didn't want to stay together for the sake of the kids.  Which was a combination of both surprise and relief, although the former outweighed the latter for a while. Because details. Several years of hindsight, notwithstanding the oceans of tears, hideously embarrassing displays of public anguish, and final realisation that maybe some therapy might allow me to knit together a few themes and help me to process why I've subsequently been so self-destructive; have begun to leave me in a pretty good place; culminating in a miraculously rescue

I'd crash-landed back in London, newly single.  And gone to a bar with my bestie, Ryan, the very moment we'd carried the last hefty cardboard box up the winding stairs to my new home, and dumped it on the carpet in the hallway.  A carpet, it must be said, that generated sufficient electricity to power the needs of the developing world (or Lincolnshire, which is yet to develop).  Had only it been harnessed correctly, rather than via my feet, fingers and, on occasion, genitals, whenever I touched a conducting surface. Which was, sadly and predictably, often.  I'm a slow learner.  It hurt.  Every time.  For two years.  I hate static. In a fit of brilliant inspiration, I chose to write the previous two parts of this story in the style of Enid Blyton.  Or, as Ryan put it the other evening, "Like a bad Ladybird book".  Except with allusions to the Famous Five and the Magic Faraway Tree.  And Noddy.  It's the story of an evening of furious post-move thirst-slaking

Eddie died last night.  Cruelly and quite suddenly.  He didn't even make 50. Eddie is, was, the wealthy boggle-eyed wife-seeking missile of an earlier post, and one of my most loved friends.  He never got to read any of my stuff, and I never got to read any of his, although we were both heading towards a reveal.  He wasn't actually boggle-eyed, at all.  He was a handsome dude, a little barrel-chested in his forties, like a foul-mouthed but jovial London gangster: think Bob Hoskins crossed with Tom Hardy.  In his twenties and thirties he was a rock god, all leather and hair and jewellery, like Russell Brand's stylist had dressed Tom Hardy and sprinkled him with even more talent and intelligence, before being taken out and shot, just in case anyone connected Eddie with Russell Brand.  I don't think they ever met, but Eddie was styled like that while Russell was still wearing his school tie in a slightly daring fashion.  Eddie pioneered that shit. Eddie and I met on ou

Sunday evening. Blog posts written:  None .  Inspiration stuck fast, like Augustus Gloop in the chocolate pipe,* with barely 400 words written about what happened after that first night in London.  Can't even tell if it's a good story or not.   * This is not a euphemism Cigarettes smoked: 1 .  And I gave up last year.  I hate myself just a little bit more, which I've been working hard at not doing. Beers drunk:  2 .  Not even enjoyed those.  They're colder than the still memorable message from The One; telling me she'd met somebody else; and every bit as welcome. Steps taken today: 19,004 .  Good, but ruined by the beer.  And the cigarette. Pairs of trainer socks discarded after retreating to the arch of my foot within 50 paces: 2 Pairs of trainer socks discarded in similar circumstances over the last couple of weeks:  5 Pairs of trainer socks remaining in sock drawer: 0 Pairs of normal socks rolled down to the ankle in the hope that I wouldn't lo

I had a first date arranged this evening. Quite low key; a quiet early evening drink on the edge of Soho with Olive, a Tinder match. Olive seemed bright, funny, interesting and attractive. A similar age, with children older than mine and a sense of humour all her own. We've been chatting for a week or two, not intensively, but a few times most days.  I know, deep inside, that I’m not entirely over “The One”, who I’ve loved and lost months ago but still ache for at inopportune moments, like most of the time that I'm awake. But she’s never coming back, so if only to prove to myself that I’m not going to become a complete recluse and spend every evening sitting on the sofa in my pants, spooning lard into my mouth from a giant tub while tears course silently down my cheeks, I’ve arranged this and a couple of other dates. You never know. I might meet someone nice.  It won’t be Olive though. Two hours before the appointed time, I received a text: Now this isn’t the end of the w

This is actually Part Two of " Five Go to a Bar ", so if you haven't read Part One yet, go there first.  We'll still be here when you get back*.  I've retitled it based on the TwitFam suggestion that anything related to sex in the title gets clicked on.  This also explains the fact that my blog on Dining at the Y has twice the views of anything I've ever written.  Including 3 years worth of student rent cheques that each bounced 4 times. You can find it on this site after you've read this.  And after you've read  Part One.  Because reading ain't free, bitches, as Enid always said. *<SPOILERS>  Except for Timmy, George & Anne.  Oh, and Julian doesn't get a look in, because he's a lanky, posh, ineffectual cock womble who makes David Cameron look like Danny Dyer.  Although DD probably never got a blow job from a pig's head.  Or BD, thankfully.  Plus he's called Julian, which is enough in itself.  Dick, however, will eventu

Ryan is BumblingD's best friend.  Ryan and BumblingD have been friends since big school.  BumblingD knows Ryan is kind, intelligent, and funny.  Ryan knows BumblingD needs help.  Ryan & Bumbli  look, can we just call him BD, Enid? BD & Ryan are waving goodbye to Rudy.  Rudy is BD's brother, a tall, jolly, boy with smiling eyes and important hair.  Rudy has a special job today.  He's driving the big white lorry home to its warm bed, far enough from London to make him very tired.  He will need a cup of cocoa before tucking in.  He's such a brick.  He is a very helpful boy. The big lorry is empty. It has been unloaded.  It is as empty as BD's ex's heart. Our strong boys have carried many cardboard boxes brimming with BD's paltry world up many, many stairs. Their chatter, in between grunting, has been mainly about ducks and aunts, as far as autocorrect can tell.  But they have completed the job, so that BD didn't have to get cross and call his an

It probably is, because look, we barely know each other.  I've only been blogging for a few days. But, if we do somehow end up naked together, there's a chance it could happen, sooner rather than later. Because, er, I like you.  And you like me.  That's how we got here.  And I'm turned on by you, and I want you to be turned on by me.  And the state of awkwardness peculiar only to those who have removed their undergarments in the horn-infested presence of another for the first time is mutual, so why don't I* take a lead here? * Unless you've really got a frisk on and have already set the pace, so to speak.  I'm easy like that.  If we're already en le frottage , then let's be comfortable with each other.  I'll roll with it.  What goes around comes around, etc. Michael Douglas probably wouldn't approve.   But then I worry if I wear a cotton v-neck, in case people think I'm copying his style.  Which of course I may be, subliminally.