The F Bloke: Cock Blocking on the Strand

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So I’ve known these three guys since school, which was, ahem, a few years ago. The four of us meet for quarterly dinners at different locations in London and have done for years. Between us, at last count, we have five ex-wives and nine children although one of us, let’s call him The Tenor, accounts for the majority. Having made a lot of mysterious money at some point in the nineties, his main occupation these days is sailing his yacht and re-distributing his wealth back to the women whose lives he’s ruined while unconvincingly claiming he’s not looking for the next ex-Mrs Tenor.

This autumn we dined at Bronte, a new fashionable restaurant on the Strand. The place was jumping. Every table full, and many of them, strangely, made up of single-gender groups. The wine flowed and the banter bounded and everything was cheery when all of a sudden, chum 2 (we’ll call him The Bass) dropped his soup spoon.

‘Oh my days. Hello Miss Perfect.’ he gasped.

Behind us was a table of three young women including one with coffee-coloured skin and tousled, tight-curled hair who sat straight and curvy in her chair – which is an impressive sight when you see it. The Bass, recently divorced, has two young sons that spend the weekend with him. He said he’d foresworn women forever but the tide seemed to have turned.

‘What should I do? She’s Perfect!’

I asked the waiter: ‘If my friend were to send something over to the table over there, what would you suggest?’

‘We do a cocktail called a Lust & liquor. It contains aphrodisiac bitters.’ The Bass didn’t think that really expressed how he felt. So we let the matter drop and moved on.

But a few drinks later, coming back from the gents, I passed their table and on a whim crouched down and mentioned that my 3 single friends (I’m the only married one – you can call me The Soprano) wanted to send a drink over. Would they like some champagne? It turns out they did, and suggested we all move to a recently vacated booth, which we did. Pretty smooth huh? Even the waiter came over and asked my secret.

Miss Perfect, who it turned out, was not only gorgeous but a doctor and a TV presenter was sitting regally in the middle of the banquette. The Bass, typically, had bungled the positioning game and allowed The Tenor to get between him and his quarry. Technically, this is called Cock-Blocking. It’s a totally legitimate tactic, but annoying, because the rules and stratagems that govern it are impossible for the male mind to grasp. Women GET table placement and the artistry of approaching one’s prey along oblique sight-lines – upwind and stealthily. Men just pile in. Also, The Tenor is very tall, very charming and lives on a boat on the Thames so if he’s the one Blocking your Cock it’s going to stay Blocked.

By this time I was pretty drunk and ready to go home. I made my apologies and left but nobody really noticed. Half way to the station I realised I’d left my laptop in the restaurant and ran back. They were all still there. The Bass had given up and was talking to the other two women with chum 3 – The Maestro. Miss Perfect and The Tenor were at the bar. I felt in the presence of genius. I hope she likes yachts.

The F Bloke would prefer to remain anonymous to protect his sources.

He lives in London and works globally. He is very married.

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