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Judd Campbell

Judd Campbell

Dear Diary,

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she pops up on my Tinder App.

Picture it, 23rd of January 2017, some 24 Tinder dates later, 3 years after a divorce and picking myself up from a devastating blow dished out by a 22 year old blonde…..enter Amber Jean Kiddle.

On learning she was a school teacher, I realized I needed to get off the app and into neutral territory, or at least a place I could be in control of my surroundings before she discovered my poor grammar & spelling. LOL ROLF BRB & IDK wasn’t going to suffice. So in true Judd fashion I pushed hard for a Friday date. It was Monday! Now having being caught before by ladies profile pics & cool texting skills only to find out that they had a neck that started just above their ears & every second word was in Afrikaans, I decided to do the right thing & Facebook stalk the hell out of her. I’m no oil painting myself, but I look like my profile pic & I don’t speak like Eugène Terre’Blanche.

After going as far back as Mark Zukkerberg would allow, I decided to take the plunge & suggest we move to what’s app, & in many cases that’s bigger than the first kiss. Amber Jean agreed to Friday the 27th. Still cautious and eager not to have a repeat of my 17th date ( remind me to tell you about the time I wasted a bottle of Meerlust Rubicon 2008 on a girl at the Etiopian restaurant, who began our date by telling me how she drank vinegar to keep the weight off, I mean come on!) I pretended to be in the neighborhood & asked if I could bring her a coffee. She replied with, “you just want to see what I look like before tonight?” Busted!


This pic was taken less than an hour into our first date (4 tequilas later). The brushing of legs under the table, flirtatious glances & enough electricity to power a small country like Luxembourg & I was looking for a priest. Careful not to get too ahead of myself, if I’m being honest I can fall in love 3 times just waiting in the woolies que, I played it cool. 

Now Diary you may not know this about me but I simply cannot dance, never have, never could, never wanted to really. I think it may stem from years in the restaurant industry and the same shit music. Manuchao, for example, on repeat made me want to go home instead of a club after my shift…anywho, I’m digressing. Truth be told I hate music, I find it silly. Reggae worse than the others. Having said that there are two exceptions to the rule. One being Taylor Swift, for obvious reasons (she makes me want to be a better man) & secondly a local duo, Veranda Panda who were the soul reason I chose S43 that night. 

With the combination of tequila & this new lady that had me frothing at the bit whilst the Pandas set up, I saw the violin come out of its case and I was on the floor like a groupie. We danced for days it seemed and I was sure I was dancing like Paula Abdul, however, on closer inspection of the pics later, it was more like Happy Feet. In fact, Amber told me the next morning that I danced like I had boobs. Not sure how to take that really & tried hard to over think it whilst eating less.

Since that warm winter night we’ve bought a house, had two matching tattoos, I’ve had a vasectomy, we got married & introduced our kids to a whole new family vibe. Too fast? Maybe! Ridiculously happy and more relaxed than I’ve been since birth? Definitely! I’m in love I’m done.

Judd a kept man.

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