From bins to benches, banality is a source of joy for members of the Dull Men’s Club. In a world obsessed with speed, spectacle and social media sparkle, this cheerful band of anti-influencers find delight in the everyday
It’s 2018 and Dave Clark is wandering through Norfolk’s Thrigby Hall Wildlife Gardens. There are leopards, otters and whooping gibbons, but it’s a litter bin that catches Clark’s eye. Not just any old litter bin. This one is dressed up like a Fab ice lolly. Shocking pink. Chocolate brown. Multi-coloured sprinkles.
“I literally said out loud: ‘That is a decent bin!’” Clark recalls. “I got my camera and took a picture, and from that day onwards I photographed pretty much any bin that stood out. It’s amazing how many bins are out there – once you get started it can become a bit of an addiction.”
Clark, AKA ‘Dustbin Dave’, has since amassed a library of thousands of bin pics. Thanks to his unusual obsession – or what Clark calls his ‘binterest’ – he’s reaped newspaper headlines, talked rubbish on daytime telly and fronted anti-littering campaigns.
Yet for all the media fanfare, nothing quite matches the honour that came his way a couple of years ago via one of the internet’s more peculiar corners: The Dull Men’s Club (DMC). Dave isn’t just a self-confessed anorak. As the DMC’s Anorak of the Year 2022, he’s an officially recognised one.
“I was blown away,” Clark says. “Really surprised, really pleased and really honoured that my hobby was recognised. I do love it, and it does make people smile: I think that’s the main thing.”
‘Celebrating the ordinary’ has been the DMC’s motto since the club was founded almost 40 years ago. These days most of the action – if you can call it that – takes place on the club’s Facebook group, which now counts more than 1.7 million ‘dullsters’ worldwide.
‘Celebrating the ordinary’ has been the DMC’s motto since the club was founded almost 40 years ago
More than just a haven for eccentric hobbyists like Clark, it’s the place to ponder on the odd and the overlooked, those blink-and-you-miss-it curiosities that pop into the brain and vanish before they’ve had a chance to take flight. In the DMC, it’s hip to be square. Beige is the new black.
A scroll through some of the thousands of posts added daily by its members gives a flavour of what’s on offer. There are musings on the moisture absorbency of one slab of concrete compared to its neighbouring slabs, photos detailing the insides of a garden sprinkler gearbox, a collection of lost-and-found hairbands, a cloud in the shape of a lion.
Pictures often include a comedy banana ‘for scale’. Car dashboards and serendipitous odometer readings get a lot of love, as do whimsical appreciation societies: groups championing telegraph poles, roundabouts, corduroy fabric and pork pies.
I was really honoured that my hobby was recognised. I do love it, and it does make people smile: I think that’s the main thing
“A dullster is someone who enjoys mowing their lawn or washing their car or painting a fence,” says DMC co-founder and assistant vice-president Leland Carson. “They’re not skydiving or golfing, or paying a fortune to join a country club and wearing all kinds of silly pants and shirts. They’re finding joy in little things, in those small moments.”
The story goes that Carson, his sidekick Grover Click, and a couple of pals dreamed up the DMC as they hung out in the bar of the New York Athletic Club in the late 1980s. The club’s magazine brimmed with high-achieving fellow members excelling at boxing, fencing, judo and other high-octane pursuits. Carson and his friends did none of them.
“One of the guys said: ‘We’re kind of dull, aren’t we? Why don’t we start a fictional dull men’s club and write about the silly stuff we do?’,” explains Carson, who is now 85.
The magazine’s editor bought into the idea, and the guys wrote about downtempo hi-jinks like racing elevators in Macy’s, riding merry-go-rounds in Central Park and taking guided bus tours. Not tours of the city, Carson hastens to add, but the buses themselves. Their tyre pressures, the make of their windscreen wipers, and so on. “It was safe excitement,” says Carson. “We rode things we couldn’t fall off of and get hurt!”
The club’s Facebook group, which now counts more than 1.7 million ‘dullsters’ worldwide, sees thousands of posts a day
It transpires that Carson and Click are one and the same. Click is in fact Carson’s duller alter ego. “I have Grover do things that maybe I wouldn’t necessarily do,” Carson confesses. “Barry Humphries had Dame Edna. I have Grover. I lead a more normal life, but in my heart, I like Grover’s.”
And what does Click get up to that Carson would shy away from?
“Sometimes just trivial stuff like lining up my cutlery in a drawer,” Carson offers, before thinking twice: “Actually, I guess I would do that myself.”
Carson / Click’s own magazine columns waxed lyrical on his love of park benches and, as news of the club spread, other offbeat enthusiasts got in touch to share their curious fixations.
A dullster is someone who enjoys mowing their lawn or washing their car or painting a fence. They’re finding joy in little things, in those small moments
In some ways, the DMC is a contradiction in terms. Litter bins – to most of us – are pretty dull, but Dustbin Dave is anything but. He’s into cold water swimming. He cares for the environment. The time flies when you chat with him, and his catchy enthusiasm leaves you grinning from ear to ear.
“I think the club’s name is a bit of a play on words,” Clark suggests. “They know that a lot of these people are really quite entertaining. They’re chirpy and chatty, and they’re well aware their hobby will bring a smile to people when they read about it.”
At a time when the safety of online spaces is in the spotlight, the DMC stands out as one that guarantees a warm welcome. The odd bit of gentle ribbing is about as mean as it gets. There’s no snark, no bickering. Definitely no politics. In keeping with our gender-inclusive times, dull women are welcome too.
In a world where aesthetics and extravagance rule the digital roost, the club is also a slow-burning reminder that hype and hullabaloo doesn’t always equate to happiness. Whether it’s photographing a patch of condensation or organising cutlery drawers, there’s clearly quiet satisfaction to be found in the ordinary
“I’ve a folder full of screenshots of people saying: ‘I love this place. I can come here and relax’,” says Carson. “We’re often held up as an example of where all the other Facebook groups should be. It’s a non-toxic environment.”
In a world where aesthetics and extravagance rule the digital roost, the club is also a slow-burning reminder that hype and hullabaloo doesn’t always equate to happiness. Whether it’s photographing a patch of condensation, joyriding in elevators or organising cutlery drawers, there’s clearly quiet satisfaction to be found in the ordinary.
“The reason people in Japan live longer than Americans, or Brits, or whatever, is that they’re good at finding their ‘ikigai’,” says Carson.
The club’s name is a bit of a play on words. A lot of these people are really quite entertaining. They’re chirpy and chatty, and they’re well aware their hobby will bring a smile to people when they read about it
The word translates loosely as ‘the reason to get out of bed in the morning’. More poetically, it’s about finding fulfilment in a mindful, reflective life.
“Ikigai gives purpose and meaning,” Carson says. “Mine is finding new and interesting people.”
For Carson’s fellow dullsters, ikigai might be as simple as a well-designed hand dryer, a comedy number plate or an oddly shaped biscuit. Or, of course, a really decent bin. Delighting in the wonder of the ordinary indeed.
Illustration by Spencer Wilson
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