The Dull Men’s Club: An Unexpectedly Engaging Fellowship

During the late 1980s in New York City, a group of friends were gathered in a bar close to Central Park, browsing a magazine. One individual, observing articles on boxing, wrestling, and judo, remarked to his companions with a degree of regret: “We don’t do any of those things.” Nearly four decades later, in England, a separate individual on a coach on the M40 unwrapped a Mars bar. Upon discovering the bar’s smooth texture, as opposed to its typical rippled surface, he shared an image on Facebook. This post garnered media attention, including from the BBC, leading to the story of the unusually smooth chocolate being seen by millions globally. The friends in Manhattan and the man who found the smooth Mars bar are not acquainted, yet they are connected by a transatlantic link. Their respective experiences signify the establishment, and potentially a significant moment, for an expanding association: the Dull Men’s Club. Grover Click, currently 85 years old, was among the friends present in the New York bar during the 1980s. “When my friend said ‘we don’t do any of those things’, someone else said: ‘We’re kind of dull, aren’t we?’ So I said: ‘OK – let’s start a club for us dull men.'” The club originated as a jest. Members engaged in races between lifts (or elevators) to determine the quickest, and on one occasion arranged a bus tour that commenced and concluded in Manhattan, without venturing to any intermediate locations. “We walked round the outside and the driver explained tyre pressures,” Grover recalls. “Silliness like that.” Following Grover’s relocation to England in 1996, his nephew volunteered to create a website for “that silly Dull Men’s Club.” From that point, Grover states, “it kind of morphed, and has really caught on now.” The Dull Men’s Club Facebook group managed by Grover – identifiable by the copyright symbol in its title, due to the presence of imitators – currently boasts 1.5 million members. Within this group, individuals of all genders and ages share their observations and interests, free from the concern of mockery (ridicule, along with politics, religion, and swearing, is prohibited by the rules). Recent posts this week feature commendations for the £2 coin design, comparative images of brass instrument repairs, and discussions on the duration required to fill a water bottle. One member remarks: “Every morning at work I refill my water bottle and it takes 47 seconds… sometimes I close my eyes and count to 47.” However, the Dull Men’s Club extends beyond a mere Facebook page; it also offers a newsletter, a calendar, in-person gatherings, and awards. These accolades include the esteemed Anorak of the Year, presented to the most devoted “dullster” (Grover favors “dullster” – “The opposite of hipster,” he states – over “dullard”). The recipient of this year’s award was Tim Webb, 68, residing in Orpington, south-east London. He photographs potholes, often placing plastic ducks within them. Tim commenced his photography in January of the previous year, following inadequate repair of a pothole in his locality. “I had a word with a council official, and he recommended that I look at the manifesto of the Monster Raving Loony Party from 2017. In there, it says residents should highlight potholes with plastic ducks – seriously, this is true. And I thought, OK, I’ll put plastic ducks in potholes.” Subsequent to capturing the images (he operates during quiet periods and brings a friend for assistance, citing safety reasons), he submitted them to the council and shared them on a local Facebook group. Motivated by the responses, he expanded his visual humor beyond plastic ducks. “I put a toad in a pothole – not a real toad – and wrote: ‘This is my favourite Sunday dish.’ And people either get it or they don’t.” Tim estimates he has photographed between 100 and 150 potholes, though he does not know the exact number. He considers the pothole art to be the “interesting bit” of his initiative. The less engaging aspect, he concedes, is his comprehensive spreadsheet detailing every road defect within the borough, which enables him to follow up on repairs. “There are about 2,500 entries on there,” he states. Grover prompted Tim to become a member of the Dull Men’s Club after encountering his pothole photographs online. Tim joined and willingly received the Anorak of the Year award, appreciating the congenial manner in which it was presented. Nevertheless, for Tim, his pastime possesses a serious dimension, even if it might appear less appealing compared to other pursuits. “I don’t do it for money or fame,” he asserts. “I do it because I want to make a difference to my community.” This perspective is also held by the 2021 recipient of the Dull Men’s Club Anorak of the Year award, who, surprisingly, is neither considered dull nor is a man. During the initial Covid lockdown in 2020, Rachel Williamson observed a socially distanced queue outside a pharmacy in Rhyl, Denbighshire, her hometown. “My twin sister joined the queue. They’re all looking miserable, and I’m in the car waiting for her. And I just wondered – could I put a sparkly hat on the post box to make this queue smile?” Despite Rachel, a 61-year-old retired police detective, having knitted since childhood, she lacked crocheting skills. With limited activities during lockdown, she attempted it and, within two days, produced a sparkly hat for the post box outside the chemist. A second hat, for the box outside the Post Office, quickly ensued. “My sister went in the Post Office and she said: ‘Nobody’s talking about Covid any more, they’re talking about the post box topper outside the door.'” Since then, she has adorned over 300 post boxes and created numerous other community decorations. She fulfills requests from other parts of the UK – “I’ve sent one to Scotland, one to Nantwich [in Cheshire]” – and local residents contribute materials. “My living room is full of wool,” she states. “I don’t know where the Christmas tree is going to go.” Rachel’s toppers were included in a charity book and calendar during lockdown, which drew her to the notice of the Dull Men’s Club. The question arises: how does it feel for a woman to receive an invitation to such an organization? “I’d never heard of it, but I felt very privileged,” she comments. Nonetheless, despite her recognition as an Anorak of the Year, can Rachel’s hobby truly be considered dull? Is it not vibrant, enriching, and arguably, rather engaging? “I’ve got three grown-up sons, and when they come round, all I talk about is my knitting,” she explains. “I am the dullest person on the planet to them. I’ve gone from a fast-moving detective to fluff and stuff.” Similar to Tim, Rachel has discovered meaning in her (arguably) unexciting pastime. “After 18 years in the police, it has restored my faith in people. The people of Rhyl have been absolutely great. And we’ve made lots of people smile.” She received her Anorak of the Year award at a ceremony held in a pub close to Llangollen. “The people who haven’t got hobbies are the dull people,” Rachel states. This insight also occurred to Grover Click, the club’s founder, as he compiled its calendar, many decades after the initial discussion in the New York bar. “We started writing about these people and thought it was kind of funny,” he recounts. “But then you see these guys are onto something. They’ve got their act together.” In summary, Grover refers to his