12 Signs You Are Going Out Out. Dad Style.

For the last few days my social media feed has been full of people sharing the excellent “12 Signs You Are Going Out Out. Mum Style” by the very funny @brummymummyof2 and proclaiming just how right it is. If you haven’t read it already do so now;, it is a real joy that does exactly what it says on the tin.

This had me thinking. I need to write a Dads version for us fellas whose social lives since little ones came on the scene have frankly been turned nappy side up.

So thank you, Em for the inspiration to write it and I do hope you don’t mind me sharing my view. Most importantly, huge apologies in advance to my loving wife who has done more than her fair share of holding my hair back over toilets over the years..

“12 Signs You Are Going Out Out. Dad Style”


Make sure you book not only the morning but the next night, the day after and the previous three weeks off. This is the amount of time you will need to be nice to your dog as you will be sharing its house for at least the next 48 hours.

If by chance you stumble into your bed at the end of the night, you are bound to be met with a cold shoulder, “Bloody hell what time do you call this?” and “You stink, you’ve been smoking haven’t you?. Make sure you steel yourself against this by heading straight to the spare room. Don’t get this mixed up, and definitively not with the kids’ bedroom. God forbid you accidently wake them up by stumbling in their room up and they start crying. Your significant other will greet you in the same manner as if you have just admitted to being Jimmy Saville’s wingman.

OOTD (that is youth speak for Outfit Of The Day)

You can wear trainers out but don’t unless they are old skool ones. Don’t imagine you will look good in some multicoloured hi-teks, skinny jeans or anything that looks like it comes from Topman or conversely Jeremy Clarkson’s wardrobe. It doesn’t matter what you are wearing because you are going “OUT OUT! Not just OUT! Just settle for the universal dad uniform of smart work jacket, jeans and a shirt. Everyone else will and you will feel left out if you don’t.

Knowing One’s Limitations

The more pint’s you down the more trips to the loo you are going to need. You hit 40 and your bladder shrinks, a medical fact. Gents toilets especially in busy weekend pubs are rancid hell-holes. Why do you want spend any more time queuing up, having your shoes covered in p”ss, being barged out the way of coked-up meatheads? Don’t do it; if you can stick to bottles or shorts, do so. Less volume, means fewer loo stops.

That All Important First Drink

Who cares as long as it’s not your round? Well yes, a few years ago that would have been the case. Not now though; pubs are all full of poncey foreign beers and Pales Ales that no one has ever heard of and that are only drunk by hipsters with beards. Get to the bar first, suss out the options so that you are not stuck with a pint of something disgusting that your mates keep buying you because they think that’s what you are drinking these days.


Keep it Old School.

Keep it old school with proper mates, not workmates or NCT buddies or anyone that will fold under questioning. You want the “Inbetweeners” like group social dynamic you had when you were at school/uni together. Also, anyone born after 1980 is automatically barred for fear of ruining the inevitable drunken “Do you remember?” conversations.

The General Public

The majority of the general public are kn*bheads, especially when drunk. The older you get, the more your tolerance levels rapidly diminishes. Consider that you will be doing a lot of tutting. Tutting about how stupid most blokes around you look with their beards and skinny jeans and most importantly tutting about how skimpy/glam/slutty the women look. Alongside this, you will, of course, continue bragging about how many of them you could still “pull” if you actually wanted to, which you don’t. Obviously you are not going to, because deep down inside they terrify you but male ego, social convention and beer won’t let that compute.


Don’t. The only cocktails you should want is a lemonade top if the over-priced beer is a bit gassy. Maybe if you can carry it off then a White Russian. Saying that “The Dude” drank White Russians in “The Big Lebowski” and nobody f”cked with him is not an excuse. You are not him and will look bloody stupid attempting to do so.

‘The Club’

You will spend at least 2 hours convincing everybody that you should go to a club. Don’t; just try and find a half reasonable pub with a late licence and somewhere you might be able to have a sit-down and not subject the world to your dad dancing.

The Music

You will spend 60% of the night arguing with your mates that everything is shit since the Stone Roses split, asking ‘why is the DJ is using a laptop rather than vinyl?’ and listing the reasons that Simon Cowell should put on trial in the Hague for crimes against humanity. However, no matter how bad the music gets it is unacceptable to ask them to turn it down, so you should just start smoking again just to hang outside where it’s slightly quieter.

Time to Go Home?

Never, “whose round is it?” Inside you are screaming for a cuppa, but you’re in the process of telling your best mate just how much of a massive c*ck he is for wanting to go home. This means you can’t bale out for fear of losing face.

Time to Go Home

You’ve lost track of whose round it is. Seen your mate try to put his best moves to the table full of twenty-some things sitting opposite, only to be so hideously burned that he needs a skin graft to patch up his wounded pride.

Time for the Jeremy Kyle Green Room that is the cab rank. The place where dodgy kebabs, regrettable one-night stands, the “You staring at my” punch up’s and cheap perfume go to die. When finally you get a cab you will do the following:

  • Forget your address
  • Argue with the cabbie about not getting ripped off
  • Pretend you are not p*ssed by making slurry small talk- “Had a busy night then mate?
  • Try to act sober and fail by puking down your smart work jacket.

If the God’s are with you, you somehow manage to get home, slam the front door, trip up over one of the kids roller skates and wake them up…

The Next Day

Get Dignitas on speed dial, because you will feel so bad you will want to end it after constantly having to say “Oh did I? Sorry about that it won’t happen again”. “It was (insert best mates name) fault you know what he’s like” and “I know you never liked him” and “I won’t see him again”.

To any wives or girlfriends reading this, please be assured none of it is true.

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