|Courtesy of Vlado|
Wednesday, 27 August 2014
Women are wonderful. Without a daily dose of their feminine charms men’s lives would be impoverished. But the mind of the female is a labyrinth of baffling complexity that is beyond the comprehension of the average fellow.
Mrs Jones has been my other half for over 33 years, so our compatibility is beyond doubt. Nevertheless, there are a number of her day-to-day utterances that continue to disturb me, crashing into my emotions like a brakeless juggernaut careering down a one-in-three incline and evoking some combination of fear, hopelessness and despondency. Here are the six comments I most dread to hear from my wife; I suspect the bulk of the heterosexual male population will concur.
1. “I need to get myself a new top”
Usually stated in the prelude to a night out, this innocuous-sounding phrase triggers expectations of imminent bankruptcy along with the immediate urge to convey all our furniture to the pawnbroker’s shop. Of course she can’t wear the expensive top languishing in the wardrobe as she’s worn it before and there’s a chance that one of our friends might remember it from an earlier social get-together. And we both know that the clothing bill will inevitably stretch to more than the cost of a blouse; matching skirt, shoes and handbag are absolute necessities. As I fumble on my laptop in search of our current bank balance, I seriously consider the various income-generation initiatives needed to fund the looming clothes-fest, including selling my body for sexual favors on the street corner (which might raise the cost of her pantyhose if the sailors are in town, the liquor is strong and the light is poor).
2. “What time did you get home last night?”
You’ve been out for a couple of beers with the lads, time flew and you arrived home a tad later than anticipated – OK, three hours later – crept into the bedroom and slithered into bed, unnoticed, next to the beautiful, snoring wife. Or so you thought. Her question belies the idea that she is ignorant of the previous night’s arrival time. She knows what time you got home and disapproves. Her question is a test to determine whether you will tell the truth. There’s no option but to come clean: plead guilty and hope for a less severe sentence – perhaps a disapproving glare rather than hours of the silent treatment and a suspension of sexual cooperation.
3. “Are these trousers a bit too tight?”
Oh God, please don’t ask me! This puts men in a classic catch-22 situation. Any affirmative response ignites the fireworks of indignation: “Are you saying I’m fat?” While any attempts at reassurance, that the trousers don’t look tight at all, is instantly dismissed: “You know nothing; I don’t know why I bother asking you.” The optimal strategy is to pretend that you haven’t heard the question, and remain silent behind the newspaper.
4. “The bedrooms are looking a bit drab now; they need brightening up”
This is female code to inform you to cancel all further engagements for the next six months as throughout this period, with the exception of toilet breaks and an occasional micro sleep, you will labor with paint brush in hand splashing matt emulsion on an expanse of walls and ceilings. Once the upstairs rooms have been decorated they will, by comparison, starkly indicate that the downstairs rooms also require some attention. To add to the pain, the bank balance will probably take a further hit when she decides that new furniture is a must in order to complement the new color scheme. And as the fireplace is “so old fashioned”, brace yourself for major house surgery.
5. “Can we have a quick look around the outdoor market?”
Outdoor markets are how I imagine Satan’s garden to be: grubby, noisy and inhabited by a raft of ex-convicts trying to sell you crap. But my lady loves “pottering” around them. And her utterance is not a question; it is a statement of intent. My expectation had been to nip to the book shop in town and then find a cosy restaurant for a slurp of wine and a chicken fajita. Instead, she spends the next 2 hours rooting through the junk on each stall while I walk three yards behind her, cursing under my breath, as I bob and weave to avoid being shunted by the multitude of prams and motorized wheelchairs.
6. “First, I need to wash my hair”
The idea had been for us both to pop out, on impulse, to enjoy a couple of drinks at the local tavern. Of course, washing hair in this context does not solely mean washing hair, but includes: achieving the correct arrangement of towels; applying shampoo and rubbing to achieve a lather; rinsing with clean water; applying shampoo again; lathering again; rinsing again; applying conditioner; rinsing again; drying off with towel; blow-drying hair (layer by bloody layer); application of curling tongs; and faffing about in the mirror until it “looks right”. By the time we step through the front door I’ve grown a beard and seem to have aged ten years.
There you have it; six things no man (or at least no grumpy, middle-aged man) ever wants to hear from his lady. So come on girls, give your guy a break. Pledge to not use any of these statements (or derivatives thereof) for the next 12 months. You know you can do it.
Tuesday, 12 August 2014
As I proceed through the sixth decade of my life, I’ve got to thinking more and more about my willy.
|Courtesy of Ambro|
I’ve tried to recall the first time I contemplated my most valuable organ. One contender is an early memory of when my father announced at a family gathering that, within days of my birth, when my naked baby-body was held aloft for inspection, uncle Ronnie gasped and said, “Bloody hell, he’s well hung; that boy will never be the first out of the shower!”
I was definitely aware of my dangly bits at six years old when our teacher insisted that her pupils, comprising both boys and girls, change into their physical education gear in the classroom before proceeding to the gym. "Underpants and knickers must be removed” Mrs Fenwick would shout. Giggly and nervous, we all used our desks as shields as we shed our school uniforms and wriggled into our PE kits. I still recall the awkwardness at the prospect of a girl (God forbid!) glimpsing my willy while, at the same time, harbouring a stirring curiosity about the secrets residing under the desk of the blond girl sitting in front of me.
Speaking of PE, it was during one such session three years later that I learned about the ecstasy my willy could deliver. Half way up the climbing rope, my legs wrapped tightly around that rough, braided helix, a wondrous sensation spread from my loins. Eyes closed in rapture and, with chin crumpled against the rope, I hung there for as long as I dared, resembling a dog on heat humping its owner’s leg.
Then I entered the self-abuse phase. Between the ages of 12 and 14 my willy got more hand-hammer than a mechanic’s workbench. In my imagination I humped every girl in class, one by one on consecutive nights, even the big lass with yellow teeth and bad breath (although that one necessitated a southerly approach).
As an adult my willy seems to constantly demand attention, and I think about him every day. After showering I inspect him in the mirror, from several angles. I’ll be forever grateful to him for delivering the seeds that grew into my two beautiful children. In contrast, we’ve shared life’s most painful moments; the time I was struck full in the cockpit by a high-velocity cricket ball is particularly salient, as is the occasion I snagged my foreskin in the zip of my Levi jeans – I never went commando again after that mishap.
Apparently, three quarters of all men believe their willies to be smaller than average. I’m one of them. I soothe myself with platitudes. Size doesn’t matter, as the lady’s tingly bits are on the outside. And, of course, your own always looks smaller in comparison to others as you only ever view it from above. Plus, not forgetting the maxim that sex is 90% in the mind and 10% friction, so physicality doesn’t contribute significantly to carnal satisfaction. Am I convinced? No, not at all. So when I stand in front of the mirror my first wish to any fairy godmother that might be brave enough to stray into my bathroom would be to grant me the todger of a Viagra-fuelled donkey.
But I shouldn’t speak too harshly about my most valued appendage. On most occasions he has successfully stood to attention, proud and dandy, as and when required. I forgive him for the occasions when, like a balloon without helium, it has refused to rise, most notably with a cougar in 1978 - but she did possess talons for fingernails and was carefree about which bits of me she scrunched.
It might not be the biggest, but it’s mine. And although it sometimes seems to possess a mind of its own, inflating at inopportune moments - the vibrations associated with an internal combustion engine being a potent catalyst, resulting in some interesting moments on public transport - my willy and I have been intimately connected for 55 years. Barring any catastrophic accidents, it will be a partnership that will endure until I die, and that’s something to cherish.