The Insta Pa
Pop him a like, he’s dad of the year. Or at least he’s dad of that one hour a week when he takes the kids to the park to give his wife a reprieve from her heinous work-life-children juggle. She uses the time to have her first shower in days and load the dishwasher, before they’re all back expecting lunch.
Where you’ll find him: looking worried in the Sainsbury’s car park with only one bag for life of supplies: Cheese Strings and a misjudged bottle of Kylie rosé as a sweetener, because he’s forgotten the shopping list and can’t bear to text to find out what he’s missed. Which is the entire weekly shop.
The Hobbyist
Spot him, spot his accoutrements. One moment in full cycling Lycra, the next showing off his bouldering carabiners, padel paddles popping out of his backpack. He’s just had a drone delivered. God forbid his children ever touch any of his belongings.
Where you’ll find him: on a week-long off-road Bavarian cycling holiday with his mates Olly, Ollie and Ol. They have 10 children between them and not a single one is allowed on the trip, and no one has signal so their partners haven’t heard a peep from them.
The Skater D8d
Wearing his wrist cast as a gnarly badge of honour, this 42-year-old should have given up the half pipes back in 2001 like the rest of his mates who are now laughing at his embarrassing break. When he’s not skating, he’s dragging three-year-old Lettice along on a penny board and filming her prowess, because she’s definitely the next Sky Brown. At least baggy jeans are back in.
Where you’ll find him: sneaking a drag on his CBD vape while considering which bone to snap next in an attempt to show up the 12-year-olds on the Lloyd Park skate ramp.
The Football Dadager
Hear him screaming blue murder at poor five-year-old Arthur’s less-than-prodigious dribbling skills. Expects ‘his boy’ to be picked up by the Spurs academy any day now — he’s squared it with both his work and the school — and the coaching extends to dinnertime tactic brainstorms and pre-bath keepy-uppy drills.
Where you’ll find him: every Little Soccer Stars class within the M25 has one of these guys. In time they age into the manager of every U-11s team. Eventually one will graduate to having an offspring who finally plays semi-pro (for Gravesend Truckers Utd).
The Technical Gear Dad
What isn’t found in the multitudinous pockets of this urban father’s ACG utility vest and Gramicci cargo pants isn’t worth having. Is 18-month-old Kaspar desperately in need of a Perelló olive? He’s got a silicon pot somewhere. Seven-year-old Delilah’s had a scrape on her ill-advised electric scooter? There’s a Palace x Elastoplast collab at his breast. If only he had a pocket sturdy enough for his cortado while he pushes the buggy to and from their local coffee joint, Vanquish & Van Pretzel.
Where you’ll find him: Broadway Market attempting to hang on to Mr Whippy, the family’s quivering whippet while Kaspar throws himself on the ground because his oat milk babycino wasn’t extra hot.
The Modern Skinhead Dad
You will know him by his checked shirt, Ben Sherman sports jacket and 12-eye Doc Martens. Could be aged anywhere between 45 (Winehouse-era Hawley Arms regular) and 65 (Sex Pistols mega fan), but the only quality time he spends with his late-teenage children now is going to Baxter Dury concerts and unexpectedly, Northern Soul all-nighters.
Where you’ll find him: this man only resides in two Greater London postcodes: NW1 (Camden, born and bred) or DA5 (Bexley loyal). He’s actually a complete softy: just don’t engage him on Ulez cameras.
The Unexpectedly Single Dad
He’s like honey to the bees at the school gates with all the caring mums offering to lend a hand to this beleaguered divorcee, who also happens to be a ruggedly handsome carpenter who writes poetry. This guy is anathema to all the other dads — he’s hosting a book club next week, and it’s only your wife who’s invited. Doesn’t he realise divorce is contagious, and you already can’t afford your life, without having to decamp to a miserable flat?
Where you’ll find him: fixing the squeaky bed at your house. Hang on…
The Formal Father
That’s Mr Father to you. This guy solely exists in his pale blue button-down and smart slacks. Doesn’t own a T-shirt, a jogger or a trainer and would probably work out in a boat shoe if he ever set foot away from his desk for more than five seconds a week. Loves it when the nanny dresses Joshua in a matching navy blue gilet (in pictures, he never actually encounters his children apart from on their summer vacation month).
Where you’ll find him: at arm’s length, where he will remain for life.
