I needed to get to a place called the Yager Bar which meant having to endure the bafflement of Bank underground station. It took ten minutes of walking between different stations and platforms before finally being able to break free to the surface.
‘Flying Solo’ claimed to offer ‘Quality events for Single People’. I had heard about this group through my friend Carol, who became totally alarmed by the chat-up line: ‘you’re new here, aren’t you?’ which had been delivered in a spectacularly creepy way.
I had never been to a singles event before and I was intrigued. Meetup seems to be packed with them, and I knew that the dice of randomness would take me to one of these events at some point.
The streets were packed with smartly dressed commuters, heading home after a day in the financial district. I found St Paul’s cathedral, walked across Paternoster Square, and then crossed a road; the bar was in sight. I looked at my phone. The instructions were clear: head into the bar, everyone will be on the ground floor, and there will be signs.
The bar had a slick modern feel; it was worlds away from the dark and dingy pubs that I prefer. There was a large empty floor area that I assumed doubled up as a dance area and mingling space. I saw a group of people gathered in one corner but they were all participating in a pub quiz which was clearly not connected to the ‘solo’ event I had joined. Getting desperate, I asked a waitress, and she gestured towards an empty part of the room. ‘Flying solo’ flyers had been casually dropped onto some of the chairs and tables which offered some reassurance that I was at the right venue at the right time. I was then encouraged to visit the lower ground floor by another waitress, but it was also totally empty.
I found the group outside, drinking and chatting. The host, Mel, was wearing a smart jacket and a ‘flying solo’ badge. I counted approximately six middle aged men and one woman. Thirty eight people had signed up to come to the event: it was clear that something wasn’t working.
‘Would you like a beer?’ Mel asked. ‘Help yourself… There are some spares because not very many people have turned up’. He gestured towards a table, where I saw a bottle of wine, and a bucket of beer, both on ice. I thanked Mel and helped myself to a beer.
From what I gathered, Mel didn’t run or manage the group. He was just a designated ‘meet and greet’ host who had been delegated the task of getting everyone to talk to each other. I was disappointed: I wanted to meet the founder, to get the low down on the group and learn more about how it worked. I made a note to try to find more time to chat with Mel, but he was preoccupied with trying to round up people.
I got chatting to Jim, who was a retired journalist, Clayton, who was from Brazil and enjoying a month long holiday, and Chris who worked in a housing association based in South East London. I really liked Chris. He was immaculately dressed and had an easy smile. He told me that he hated his job; he said that it was nothing more than a way to help him get money to pay off his mortgage every month. He had plans to go to Australia next year.
Clayton stood out: he wasn’t middle aged. He was a young man in his mid to late twenties and was trying to find a job in the area of agricultural engineering which had studied in Brazil. He had been in London for two weeks and had a couple of interviews lined up. When the interviews are done, he had a plan to travel to Europe for a few weeks. He said that he didn’t know what was going to happen. If he got a job, he would try to stay. If he couldn’t get a job, he would go back to Brazil. Clayton and Chris, it seemed, were both looking for change.
Jim was nice too. He lived in deepest Kent, which surprised me: he had a very long journey to get home. He told me that he took a redundancy a few years ago, and now spent time working on a local magazine and being a trustee for various charities.
I soon discovered that Chris was a regular at the group and had been to a number of their other events. I learnt about a ‘very good night’, where forty percent of the attendees were women. There were now three women in the group, which accounted for a mere twenty percent. According to Chris’s criteria we had a very long way to go before this evening could be designated ‘a good night’.
I sensed the ‘vibe’ of the group: all the men had given up on the idea that night might help them to meet the woman of their dreams. The Meetup had mutated into a night for male banter and joshing; we became a bunch of blokes who shared beers, war stories about the perils of internet dating, and anecdotes about the challenges of relationships.
After an hour and a half, some of the group had decided to leave. With all the free beer and the wine gone, Mel ushered the group inside. The pub quiz man, who was now holding a microphone, stood on a small stage and bellowed out an answer to a question about a British prime minister. The event had clearly degenerated into the worst ever kind of single’s party: everyone had to shout, which caused the quiz man to shout even louder. With sensible conversation impossible, and the Meetup clearly disintegrating, I decided to call it a night.
I went home via Cannon Street station. As I walked, I marvelled at all the new construction that was taking place and glanced upwards at concrete walls and massive steel girders that seem to levitate in space. The last time I had been to this area, the building I passed had been a lot smaller. One level had given way to seven, and its reach skyward was continuing. This reminded me of a recent media debate that London’s skyline was under threat, that St Paul’s Cathedral would be soon dwarfed by modern structures.
I found my train, plugged myself into my MP3 player and settled down for my short journey home. Two Meetups in one day: it had been a busy one, but a great one.
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