Conclusion

CONCLUSION

How do I find a suitable place to conclude this little pot pourri of experiences?  It is really difficult to stop once I get started as those who know and love me will tell you.  Please, dear reader when you sit down and peruse this verbal diarrhoea with your cup of Nescafe and your Garibaldi biscuit clutched in your sweaty, little hands, remember to take it in the spirit in which it was written and enjoy it for what it is.  A load of clap trap - No I mean a load of clap trap is written about the differences between Men and Women by better and more educated people than what I am.  (as Ernie Wise would say)

In fact there is a load of clap trap written about everything in general and all I ever wanted to do was take the heat and seriousness out of something we all encounter in our everyday lives and make you laugh.  If I have achieved the odd titter then great and if I haven’t then - get a life you boring old farts and while you’re at it a sense of humour.  The majority of us struggle from one month end to another trying to make ends meet, coping with all of the humdrum slime, life throws in our path and for the most part we do a bloody good job of it just by staying in touch with reality.  There are those amongst us who spend most of their waking moment analysing every aspect of their lives from rearing normal children, staying slim, young and gorgeous to - how to keep the magic in romance.  Some of our American cousins have this self analysis down to a fine art and I find myself asking why do they persist in combing through the rudimentary parts of life with a nit comb?  They use phrases like, ‘Getting in touch with ones inner self’ and ‘Finding ones own inner space’ what does it mean and who gives a shit?  But this is a country who once had a President who acted with a monkey (and the monkey won the Oscar) so need I say more?

Anyway all of this emphasis on group session therapy got me thinking and what you have just read is a product of that thought.  That in itself is clearly disturbing evidence on how my brain works.  Well its not the only product, I did come away with a nasty headache, a callous on my typing digit and a sharp pain from the knife in my back after my loved one had finished reading the incriminating evidence.  So instead of, ‘Getting into where you are coming from’ to quote the familiar hippy vernacular, ‘Enjoy where you have been, Man’.  It takes all kinds to make this world go round and life is far too short to waste time, sitting around contemplating the fluff in your navel.  Accept yourself for who you are and the abilities you have to offer, and no, this is not some arty farty hippy attitude I acquired back in the swinging 60s (and yes I am old enough) its just plain old common sense and not precocious pretence.

Enough of this condescending drivel, just read the damn thing, have a laugh, then bung it under the bed to collect dust along with his vast collection of ‘Huge Honkers’ magazines.  I was going to add, that if I have spread a little sunshine in what is usually your dingy humdrum existences, then my job is complete but Mum didn’t breed no liar.  The truth of it is, if any of you out there know any big wig publishers then do me a favour and push this their way.  I could easily get used to caressing my Pulitzer prize while the Man that does.........does.

Oh an afterthought, for any Men out there reading this (go on I know you can read, its not joined up writing and there are pictures) the answer is categorically NO - I’m not a left wing, a feminist, an activist or even Body Mist, Man hater - I’m not a lesbian, thespian, dungaree wearing cynic either who has never known the love of a good man.  I love Men, bless them all, some of my favourite people are Men.  My Dad was a Man, my Son is a Man, one of my best friends is a Man and my husband.............well he’s all man let me tell you and last but not least - my pussy is a Man, now work that one out ...........amigos.

THE END

(MAYBE)!!

CHAPTER SIX MEDICINE MAN

How is it that a simple case of the common cold can be diagnosed by men as double pneumonia or an in growing toe nail as the onset of gangrene?  Not only do they over react at the first manifestation of illness, they feel that they must compete with everyone (especially women) over ailments.  To such an extent that they will invent infirmity so they are not left feeling isolated and deprived of attention.  To most people a general feeling of health and well being is a blessing and to be ill is not a state that is anticipated with relish.  However, the male will take every opportunity to monopolize sickness and contrive to surpass his female contemporaries. 

It has always been portrayed that females have little or no resistance to pain or discomfort and the image of the swooning female, overcome by an attack of the vapours, has frequently been perceived as the typical representation of the fairer sex.  Men on the other hand are seen to be bearing agonies of monumental proportions with a smile on their face.  Laughing at adversity while limbs are amputated, sacrificing their lives so that others might be saved.  We have all seen the movie ‘Scott of the Antarctic’ when Oates walks forth into the blizzard knowing that he will never return.  Anyone reading this could get the impression I’m a heartless bitch and in my defence its just that I don’t subscribe to the particular media portrayal of man’s overwhelming ability to ensure hardship with fortitude and heroism. 

It could only be a man stupid enough to laugh while body parts are hacked off and only a man with the brain of a gnat who would piss off into a blizzard to save his friends and have it interpreted as bravery.  What a load of tripe, who but a complete masochist or raving lunatic  would be caught doing either of those?  I rest my case pass it off as mere conjecture but we know a different story out here in the real world - do we not ladies?

What pain compares with that of childbirth or that monthly blessing the period?  Yet according to men this is nature and not real pain.  Oh that is so refreshing to know - after all the agonies of having one’s lower parts stretched to the size of Wembley Football Stadium, we can console ourselves with the knowledge that this was not pain - just nature.  What a crock and only a man could try and explain this painful torment as a miracle of nature. 

My biggest fantasy has to be the one where I’m a midwife attending the first male to deliver and then ask him what it was like to experience nature, right after he has passed a baby the size of a rugby ball through the eye of his penis.  I wonder if he would feel so blasé then -  I think not.

I don’t know who is worse, those men amongst of us who have no idea at all or those who those who think they do.  The first group at least bear a little honesty when they admit not to having a clue and they don’t care but get the guy who feels he is part of the entire experience and that’s another story entirely.

There he is right by your side as you lie there, legs akimbo, pushing this monstrosity out of your smallest orifice, until everyone of the blood vessels in your eyes have popped and the veins are standing to attention on your forehead.  Where is he while you’re doing all of this right there at the busy end filming your indignity or up at the safe end trying to force you to suck a sponge or making you chant ‘Ten Green Bottles’ in rhythm with your contractions and he even has the audacity to inform you of potential contractions as if you didn’t know.  Then he is hurt when you promise him with the threat of violent , public castration.  My partner actually told me to get a grip and work harder when my screaming became too embarrassing for him to bear.  ‘I’ll show you grip big boy if your crotch comes within grabbing distance’, and with a voice resembling the demon out of the ‘Exorcist’ I snarl,

“Fuck off worm and get this bloody thing out - NOW”

All of this is seemingly forgotten once you have been delivered of your little bundle of joy - yeah right, through tears of rapture he utters,

“Didn’t WE do well”?

Now did I miss something in the translation here, are we using the Royal WE?  Throughout this exquisite agony I cannot recall the pair of us screaming and pushing.  Let me tell you he owes a huge debt of gratitude to that bundle of joy because if I hadn’t been holding him at the time, Daddy’s jewels would have been mine -oh yes indeed.

Women I agree are complex works of nature  but odds really are not in our favour are they?  The very make up of their complexity, say hormones for example are just too difficult for men to comprehend.  Come on be fair we do have more than the one hormone to contend with whereas men only have the one - the one that makes beards grow and floppy bits perform.  Having got to that stage in my life when my moods are dictated by hot flushes and severe swings in temperament I do have to admit to a modicum of sympathy for my soul mate. 

On more than one occasion he has had to face the furore of a hot, sweaty and extremely menopausal woman brandishing a sharp instrument because he looked at her the wrong way.  It got to such a stage that to protect his physical well being he would throw his hat through the door first and if I grabbed it and scurry rat like into a corner to tear it to pieces, he would refrain from venturing further.  He thought he’d capped it for a short while but I soon caught onto his little scheme and my paranoia developed to such a level that I was able to lull him into a false sense of security with a smile and a few consoling gestures - simpleton.  Once trapped I was able to complete his punishment at my leisure and I reached new heights of implementing torture with an egg whisk and a wooden spoon before I was prescribed HRT.  Not a moment too soon as far as he was concerned and he was very relieved when Lucretia Borgia left and his loving (subservient) wife returned.  I really felt very fit (for want of a better word) once the drug took hold and for a while he walked in a stiff and stilted manner and for those cynics (female and male) who hold no truck for the effects of HRT on the menopausally insane listen to this. 

I recall a situation during a particularly hot and steamy passion session when somehow in the moistness of the moment my adhesive HRT patch transferred itself from me to him (unnoticed) and for a few days he really got in touch with his feminine side.  I have to say he looked rather fetching wearing nothing but my apron and a smile as he cooked tea but all good things come to an end and after a while (10 days) I had to peel off the offending little devil - oh well anyway be warned ye disbelievers of the goddess - HRT.

Men in general are, I have learnt, very perplexed by the very mention of female bits such as hormones, periods, water retention just about anything remotely associated with female genitalia.  I cannot quite grasp why it is that most men are titillated by the sight of a woman’s naught bits spread to the far corners of the globe and yet they are totally horrified and appalled by, let us say, an advertisement for sanitary garments.  May be it is the unknown that disturbs and confuses them, as it has until recently, been a taboo subject and its secrets only known to female members of society.  This enigma of the menstrual cycle has not been helped by the media who have not quite discovered the fine line of advertising that educates without embarrassment and the present advertising leaves a lot to be desired in my opinion.

My experiences of menstruation did not leave me with an overwhelming compulsion to jump on a horse or bicycle (wearing the mandatory white jeans) as soon as the ‘painters arrived’ nor did I have any desire to suddenly take off for a mad trip around Europe as the latest advertising campaign suggests.  Far from it, I discovered that any activity that required my legs being apart for more than a couple of minutes was quite out of the question, for all of the obvious gory reasons and to this day I have not understood how it was that one became an Olympic athlete or proficient at playing the piano under water once a tampon had been inserted.  There you have it, may be we need a fresh approach to this problem before menstruation is regard as after dinner conversation.

Another anomaly that I came across when working in the care sector was that men are for the most part quite reluctant to discuss or take part in any medical treatment that concerns their own private parts and by private I mean as in below the waist, the area pertaining to their ‘todger’ or bottom.  This is very strange because as a rule this area commands 90% of their daily activities and a little known fact is that this is where the brain is situated for the male of the species only.  Take a baby boy or adolescent male for instance, from infancy once the discovery of that elastic band between their legs has been made, they will at any given opportunity stretch it to immense proportions, in public or private it really doesn’t matter.  Thankfully they do reach an age when they realise that it is not acceptable behaviour to tug in public without being arrested (ask George Michael) and it is at this time when they become almost obsessively cautious about their most precious organ.  Never more so is this caution challenged than when they have to undergo some form of medical treatment or another whether it be a rudimentary inoculation or an examination for haemorrhoids.

Men find it quite acceptable for women to have to suffer the indignities of having the whole world and its Mother looking up her nether regions but as soon as the phrase, ‘Drop your pants’ is uttered in their direction its, ‘Head for the hills with your bum cheeks tightly clasped, boys’  I have witnessed big strong rugby types being chased around a treatment room by some petite little nurse (syringe in hand) and I have witnessed the dreadful injuries on those same nurses after being bitten by some hysterical male who had to have 2 butterfly clips inserted in an nondescript cut albeit in a delicate area.  What is it with men and their dangly bits?  Is it embarrassment that explains their attitude in situations such as these with an attempt at humour and the occasional ribald and lewd comment,

“ Bet you’ve never seen anything like this before, have you nurse”?

“Well, no I haven’t Mr Jones I wasn’t aware that cocktail sausages came that small”; or

“So that’s 6 inches is it, explains why I can’t park my car.”

Men I have discovered are also apprehensive about other male nurses and are absolutely convinced that anyone of their own gender in such a profession has to be homosexual (stands to reason) and to add insult to injury, are out to seduce them.  My own husband who served in that male bastion, the Army, would not allow a male medic to inoculate him in the bum region and after 4 falls and a submission the injection was finally administered through his trousers after all other attempts at restraint had failed.  Yet, and here’s the mystery, after a game of rugby or some other grunting and equally male orientated sport, they would not think twice about disrobing and jumping into a communal bath, all 15 of them and play ‘hunt the soap’, strange that.......

This strange and often conflicting dilemma can also be applied to what comes out of those parts, they strive so hard to hide inside their trousers.  Ask a man to supply a specimen of urine or take medication for constipation and all Hell breaks loose.  My husband after one spell of agonizing constipation finally had to relent and use the glycerine suppositories he had been prescribed to relive his predicament for the want of a better word.  It was getting to that stage when I thought a call to ‘Dynorod’ would be his only redemption.  After some persuasion (and the promise of sweeties) he locked himself in the bathroom and three hours later when I asked him if he was all right I discovered that he had just finished washing his hands and was still mentally preparing to insert the damn things.  He absolutely refused any offers of assistance from myself asserting that his bum was a one way passage and there was no way on Gods earth that I would be allowed to participate in this barbaric ritual. 

Well, daylight turned to dusk and eventually relief was forthcoming and after he had washed his hands, bum and other affected parts in bleach for the 46th time, he emerged from the bathroom, somewhat ashen.  Sympathy was in short supply from me I can tell you, all of this commotion surrounding the insertion of one tiny nay minuscule capsule up his ‘jacksy’ I ask you.  No I’m not heartless just a witness to the many regular farting competitions and the ensuing, lively discussions on their length, sound, and smell and yet this tiny slippery little object had made a grown man whimper like a pup.  Anyway, once the mist had cleared and the canary had been respectfully interred, I bravely ventured into the loo.  All seemed in order but curiosity did get the better of me and I inspected the package of said suppositories discarded in the litter bin, purely out of professional consideration I hasten to add (and I because I didn’t trust the sneaky varmint).  After all he had endured that day I did not have the hearts to inform him that he had overlooked the removal of the cellophane wrapper but it did go a long way in explaining the screams of anguish, the John Wayne gait, and the blood on the walls and carpet.

Have you noticed the complete and utter change of disposition once a man has undergone some medical procedure?  Gone is the whimpering puppy who had to be whipped into submission (not a recognised medical ethic, I just liked the whipping bit) or the heavy sedation before an elastoplast was removed, to be replaced by this swaggering icon of monumental bravery,

“Piece of piss mate, had all of my internal organs removed without anaesthetic ;or

“Pain, pain, don’t know the meaning of the word, I laugh in the face of pain, me”.

Oh really, macho man then it must have been someone else’s husband crying for his mummy and wearing a ‘I was brave for the doctor’ badge.

Not only do they come out of the whole affair with what I can only describe as convenient amnesia but they then proceed to discuss their surgery or treatment at great length or Technicolor detail at every given opportunity to whoever will listen.  One male relative of mine went for most of his adult life without the need for medical intervention and he was a paragon of all of the strange virtues I have just related to you.  However, unfortunately for him (or should I say his wife) he had within a very short space of time 2 operations for, would you credit it, a hernia and a circumcision, unlucky.  Once this nightmare was over and the surgery behind him he became overnight an expert on these 2 medical procedures and to this day will, without prompting, discuss his parts or lack of parts at the drop of a hat, usually during a meal.  Which funnily enough does have an adverse effect on the rest of the diners (especially if you’re serving liver or sausage) and I eagerly await for further developments in his repertoire which I anticipate will involve the removal of his underpants to display to the rest of us mere mortals, his war wounds.  Kind of casts a new light on after dinner conversation or the need of a cheese board.  Oh happy, happy day..................

CHAPTER FIVE HOLIDAY MAN

I live in horror for that time in the seasonal landscape when Winter begins to surrender to Spring because I know that at some point I will hear those dreadful words that strike fear to my very heart;

“What you need my pet is a holiday so you can re-charge those batteries of yours.”

Loosely translated this means;

“You do all of the packing and loading camel face while I hold the passports and supervise.”

The only batteries I’ll require re-charging will be those in my newly fitted pacemaker after I finish slogging my guts out.

Anyway this year we went to Corfu - why Corfu?  Well by the time he had finished with that nice (if not naive) young lady in the travel agents and she had been removed to a place of safety by those nice, young men in white coats that was the only resort left and I saw the good sense in leaving before the SWAT team arrived.  So Corfu it was to be........yet even at this stage I did not feel the usual sinking emotions of dread and apprehension that usually reared their ugly heads when contemplating holidays..  My euphoria was short lived when he began to brag about being a veteran of the airways and that I was not to worry about a thing - move over Allan Whicker!!

The big day arrived and he completed (very successfully I may add) the age old ritual of getting pissed before take off.  Fine, I knew it would keep him relatively quiet and I drew some solace from that thought.  I did begin to have second thoughts however, when we had to make a pit-sorry-piss stop on the M62 so that he could relive his bursting bladder of the 24 pints of ‘Stella’ and this was all before we reached the airport.  Maintaining his dignity and self esteem proved to be quite difficult as he had insisted on climbing the north face of the motorway embankment to go wee-wee.  A piece of piss for Chris Bonnington I agree but we are talking about an intoxicated arsehole here.  Anyway after some difficulty and a few false starts he finally got to the summit when he promptly fell 20 feet down the other side.  All the while I was praying that we would miss our flight or better still that I would get to Corfu alone (move over Shirley Valentine) while he convalesced in hospital but this was not to be and he returned to the car battered and bruised but relieved of the 24 pints of beer (12 pints - of which most seemed to have ended up on his shoes).  Safely back in the car we continued on our way to the airport and I consoled myself that I could pass any flight delays we would no doubt encounter extracting bits of gravel from his chin with a pair of blunt tweezers.  His floppy bits would necessitate a wee bit more privacy but they would look infinitely more tender after I had finished and I honed my instruments of torture - sorry tweezers in anticipation enjoying the look of pain and apprehension in his eyes.

On the plane, he proudly informed everyone that this was his 113th flight and to be fair they managed to ignore him in quite a polite manner.  Resolutely he carried on spreading reassurance throughout the flight until he passed out during the in flight movie.  Peace at last, burying my head in the holiday paperback I attempted to block out the looks of commiseration in the eyes of the other female passengers (who were sitting next to their own snoring, smelly counterparts) but I had to admit that for a few short moments the feeling of solidarity emanating around the plane lifted my spirits.  As we circled Corfu airport readying for landing his cocksure attitude quickly dissipated and I was forced to fracture a few fingers in order to release them from the arm rest.  Even my wise crack and attempt at holiday humour about spotting the elastic band at the end of the runaway had little or no effect and he did become quite conspicuous, crying so loudly and all.

His composure was regained to some degree when we hit the hotel and he decided to complete a reconnoitre of the resort while I collapsed knackered into my pit totally and completely knackered - carrying 17 pieces of luggage up 3 flights of stairs drains you but he did help and carried his own Pack A Mac.  The word reconnoitre I have to explain is his translation of, ‘I’m off to teach these natives how to drink Ouzo’ , his first but not his last mistake.

Five hours later I was rudely awakened from my blissful siesta by this intoxicated tourist, shoving a video camera up my nose.  He seemed a nuance surprised and taken aback at my rebuttal and the threat of having the camera’s zoom lens inserted into his body - via his rectum.  Nevertheless, undaunted he proceeded to capture on film, the walls, the floor, the balcony, the curtains and last but not least himself through a mirror.  The documentary was accompanied by a commentary of unconstrained gibberish that would have made Richard Dimbleby pirouette in his grave.

I suppose if I had tried hard enough I could have ignored him but his tenacity finally wore down my firm resolve - well that and the continual prodding.  May be it was the constant discharge of humour combined with his references at being hailed as the new Steven Spielberg that finally cracked my will to live.  Deciding not to hurl myself from the balcony came a close second to sampling the Greek lavatories, which I have to say are an adventure story in themselves but even that did not prove sanctuary from this intrepid reporter.  Finally, it was the threat of having his foreskin pulled up and over his head that caused his retreat or he would have captured for posterity, on film, me doing the business.  Despite all of his protests of it being of artistic value, both you and I know that the cinematic evidence of me on the bog and its subsequent display to the world and its mother was sufficient enough reason to threaten genital mutilation and although a trifle excessive it proved to be imperative in that situation.

The holiday passed by without too much incident that’s if you don’t count the night he thought he was Zorba the Greek (more like Shit up a Creek) and proceeded to dance in the hotel foyer.  It proved a hit with the knotted handkerchief faction from Bolton but I had to do some expeditious chit chat with the local authorities to prevent what could have been a damaging and enduring diplomatic incident.

The personality change he seems to undergo whenever we go on holiday is not limited only to foreign climes, his enthusiasm is equally impassioned on any vacation and it isn’t his passion I’m knocking but its applicability.  It wouldn’t be so bad if he would measure his enthusiasm with a dose of commitment and take an active role in the horse work involved in any holiday but none more so evident than that of caravanning, for example.  He perceives his participation as; 99% inactive, using his vast brain capacity and 1% physical - holding the car keys.  This ratio was never so evident as the time we took our newly acquired mobile home out for its maiden run.  We thought it prudent (well I did) to go within a car drive from home on this first adventure because of our naiveté and it proved a wise move.

The first of many mistakes was his absolute refusal to read the handy and informative manuals we were given by the helpful salesperson when we purchased the caravan.  He felt that it would be a lesson learned in morale boosting for us all to discover the delights of camping for ourselves...........wrong!  This error was never more apparent when we discovered that we had been towing the damn thing with its handbrake on.  He denied this of course but I will never believe that the car had consumed 15 gallons of fuel after travelling only 4 miles and the over powering stench of burning was a dead give away or at least I thought it was.  Two fire extinguishers and 1 nasty bout with smoke inhalation later we pulled into our allotted space and prepared to set up for the night.  I asked what I thought was a pertinent question at this juncture and that was;

“Why does our caravan only have 2 legs when everybody else’s has 4 and does this have some bearing on my being flung into the air when you walk up and down the caravan”?

I was reliably if not tersely informed that ours was a 2 legged model and I’m sure he muttered, ‘stupid cow’ but I couldn’t swear on it.  Anyhow closer inspection revealed as I was attaching 2 gas bottles, yes you have it - 2 more legs.  This disclosure did not go down too well but it did make eating and drinking rather more affable and it saved coffee stains on the ceiling and upholstery.

Moving the caravan was a momentous experience in itself, needless to say that his participation was purely verbal.  I found this situation acceptable to some degree but what I did object to was the abuse I had to suffer from his Lordship when I was unable to move the vehicle on my own.  I take exception to being called a ‘pussy’ while being dragged down a hill by a speeding and extremely heavy caravan.  I hardly had time to extinguish the flames from the soles of my feet before he was screaming at me to get my act together and set up the awning.  Now I realize that there will be those of you reading this who will be revolted by my severe deficiency of backbone and you do have a point.  I do not have a ready excuse to give you but some redemption of this situation was obtained when other veteran campers (some of them men) recognised him as an absolute imbecile which did provide me with some justification. 

I exonerate my actions as those of a woman who had no where to turn (mostly due to the fact that I was holding a heavy caravan) and the safety of the vehicle was first and foremost in my mind. 

Where else is there to seek sanctuary when the voices in my head become far too provoking for me to ignore?  That caravan is my retreat where I can relax and forget all of my problems while I assemble yet another voodoo doll of you know who..........

CHAPTER FOUR LASCIVIOUS MAN

When it comes to matters of romance or that special, sexual healing (to quote Marvin Gaye) between Men and Women, there is a tangible breakdown in interaction.  Not that I haven’t had many, wonderful and completely satisfying moments with my spouse doing the old horizontal lambada, its just that the finer details seem to go astray on the odd occasion.

What is it that compels a man to think that after a completely enchanting shagging session, when you are both lying there, Him in his string vest and you in your hairnet and curlers, bathing in the sexual afterglow, that farting audibly and pushing your head beneath the duvet until you blackout is conducive to erotica but do it they will.  No amount of protesting from yourself or the subtle way in which you thrown up all over him can persuade him otherwise. 

Then there is the occasion when you adorn yourself in all of the sexual embellishments that you just know will drive a rampant moose crazy with desire (no - not antlers and musk).  You have created an atmosphere of sensual tension with the soft lighting and Luther Vandross trilling melodiously in the background.  You slide over the ‘Brentwood Nylon’ and I mean slide because you have literally anointed yourself from head to toe in sensuous oils (no not flora or lard), one good squeeze and you will end up in next door’s garden shed.  Back to the plot, he is so overwhelmed by the sight of this pulsating, throbbing hunk of womanhood that he completely ignores the proximity of your genitals in his face and continues to play with his new joystick (computer - dirty minds), oblivious to what is on offer at the muffing counter.  After some considerable time during which you have; pouted and panted; pulsed and throbbed yourself into exhaustion, he suddenly realizes your presence, turns to you, stares into your glazed optical orbs and says,

“Fancy a slice then, big girl,”  purrs this sexual giant.

Funny how that diminishes the ambiance, as does his trick of perching a towel (or face cloth!!) on his todger, which he does on a regular basis and when you dissolve into fits of hysterical laughter he becomes quite upset, funny that as is the fact that no matter how hard I try I cannot get aroused by this vision of sexuality but I’m working on it.

Translation of the word ‘No’ I have discovered can be open to a bit of controversy.  That simple two letter word of denial seems to be interpreted differently by Men when uttered by the female of the species but that translation seems to take on greater importance when that Male is trying to seduce his partner.  What is known as; ‘Getting ones leg over’, or ‘Sinking the pink’ by the male fraternity.  The definition of ‘No’ in the dictionary is as follows;

•   Nay,

•   Negative,

•   None.

•   None at ALL.

Nevertheless, this terminology appears to be of no interest to ‘Sydney Love-Truncheon’, who is doing old David Attenborough proud in the bedroom displaying all kinds of intricate courting rituals to a bored and disinterested female.  Male translation of the word ‘No’ are as follows and I would be interested in just how many you recognize;

F:    “No darling - I really do not feel well at all.”

M:   “Come on sweetheart - let Doctor Trouser Snake fill your prescription for you.”

F:    “No darling - I really do have the most terrible earache.”

M:   “Well, I’m not putting it in your ear love”

(Warning - desperate enough the male will try and use any orifice - do not be deceived - you have witnessed the dog with that worried frown haven’t you?).

F:    “Fuck off ugly - no way -  no how -  not on your life -  never - I would rather   shag Bernard Manning - one more move and you’ll be wearing your balls for earrings.”  (desperation seeping in at this point)

M:   “Go on - you know you want to.”

F:    “I really am exhausted my sweet”. (usually said through clenched teeth)

M:   “Never mind love muffin - I’ll pull your nightie down when I’m finished.”

These are but a few of the archetypal examples of the word ‘No’ and there will no doubt be many more but for the millions of excuses that go astray in fending off this rampant love goat, only one deterrent seems to have had the desired effect and that it as follows;

F:    “All right then - you’ve talked me into it - you smoothie you and I’m sure that bout of ‘Thrush’, ‘Herpes’ and or ‘Genital Warts’ will be cleared up by now”.  (This statement is usually followed by a pregnant pause which in turn is followed by;)

M:   “On second thoughts love, better be safe than sorry, let us err on the side of caution shall we”?

Mission accomplished, let me tell you the very threat of a pus riddled, itchy and lumpy ‘hampton’ does have a way of reducing ‘Mr Pinky Pork Sword’ to a mere chipolata in a matter of seconds.  I have noticed in my research that all men are born with this trait that leaves them completely cocksure (pardon the pun) about their lovemaking dexterity.  No matter of how competent they may be, how attractive they think they are or how accomplished they feel they are in this sexual arena, they consider it their duty to satisfy the entire female race and that it is our fate as females to; shut up, lie down and think of England or in most cases Mel Gibson.

You have witnessed him, this apogee of impressive sexual manhood, propped up in his armchair in his T-shirt (with matching sweat stains under the arm pits and last night’s curry resplendent on the front - nice), scratching his parts, picking his nose, while he peruses that literary tabloid the ‘Daily Sport’ (and believing the articles - Bus Found On The Moon).  He is Man, and he knows that you want him with all of your hearts desire, okay whatever and as he reads the paper (no joined up writing) he learns that some buxom, beauty of renown is at a loose end without the company of some equally famous male to warm her pants and her lonely nights and he imperiously concedes that although she’s looking a bit rough, he would still give her one.  What a generous man, throwing away his seed without a second thought for his own needs.

 All I can say is,

“Don’t go out tonight Sharon or Julia stay by that phone just in case, your luck might be in there girl”.

I do not know if I am the only female in the world who has been deluded by a male but I will come clean, admit to everyone and be damned because I have a theory.  That theory is that men actually change physically and mentally once they get that band of gold on your finger, their key on your key ring or the ball and chain tightly ensconced on your ankle.  This metamorphosis can either be so quick that your finger hasn’t had time to turn green or as in my case a gradual but tangible process all of the same.  I now know that the slower process was a deliberate move on His part so that I would not realize mutation had occurred until it was too late (sneaky).  When we were courting (what a quaint little phrase) I recall being with a Man of infinite romantic proportions.  A Man who constantly assured me of his undying devotion - a Man who never tired of caressing me (even in public- hard to believe) - and more importantly a Man who actually spoke to me and participated in genuine conversations. 

Guess what (and this is a killer) he was even known to purchase (using his own money - girls) gifts for me, not spanners, irons or a mangle but magical gifts like underwear and perfume (writing this makes me so nostalgic).  These were presents I could actually use or keep to remember that somebody loved me as a woman and then after a ceremony which I though was marriage (I now know it was nothing of the sort but some sort of similarly weird ritual) he was gone and in his place was this grunting thing.  I know, I know why didn’t I tell someone well I did consider ringing the police when my romantic man disappeared but what credibility is there to be found in my theory that my husband had been abducted and replaced by an alien clone and I never did look good in a tight jacket especially those white ones with lots of belts and straps. 

I’ve seen ‘Stepford Wives’ and I really do not need the extra hassle in my life and you know may be I was hallucinating and this Man was a fabrication of an over worked imagination.  I bloody hope not, because I live for the day He will return to oust this ingrate with whom I share my life and my bed.  Like the Loch Ness Monster there has been sightings of this Quixotic fool but they usually occur after 15 pints of sock rot and it somehow takes the edge off the fantasy but they cant take my dreams away.........can they?

CHAPTER THREE NEW AGE MAN

Could someone please explain to me how all of these Men who dust, hoover, shop and generally run up their wives’ bottoms are always without a doubt married to some bugger else?  From my own personal viewpoint, I do not believe in their existence.  I deem that this race of Wonder Man is a myth fabricated by females who yearn for that Utopian constitution where domestic drudgery is equally shared by the two sexes and this fantasy warms their hearts and minds while they labour with everyday life, up to their oxters in Domestos and Fairy Liquid. 

Yet it is a myth that endures not unlike the theories of Darwin and fables of Aesop.  Its correlation I suppose could be likened to that time when your children were mere babies and there you would sit in the baby clinic and boast of your offspring’s’ ability to sleep through an entire night, remain continent of urine and the copious amounts of ‘brown stuff’ that they continually exude from their nether regions.  Their ability to walk and talk and complete a degree in Nuclear Physics and all of this achieved by the age of 3 months.  Well, it just got out of hand in an effort to get one up on that snotty bitch who never got ‘stretch marks’ with the wash board as and cute arse that she could get into her jeans one day after delivery. 

What absolute garbage, who do you think you are fooling?  When any one with half a brain cell can see that your eyes resemble ‘piss holes in the snow’, that your breasts are hanging down to your knees not to mention that you have yesterday’s baby puke on your T-shirt and shit under your fingernails and that’s on a good day!  You poor cow you are morally and ethically obliged to prevaricate this piece of fiction in an effort to preclude insanity while trapped in this prison we all know as ‘domesticity’ and so it has to follow that some deluded female well versed in fantasizing created the fabrication ‘New Age Man’ and it is this legend that has survived to date.

At the end of the day, it all boils down to brainwashing by society and the demands placed on the shoulders of females by the ‘Brotherhood of Man’.  I do not refer to that swinging pop group of the 70s but to the fraternity that subscribe to the male species.  The reality being that life will not get any easier and taking solace in the fact that if you are lucky it will not last forever (with any luck you’ll drop dead from boredom or submit to dementia).

To be fair to the gentlemen among us, they cannot help the validity of them being born with a brain the size and power of an amoeba and it must be our responsibility to take up the challenge and assist in the re-education of these poor unfortunates.  The first step would have to commence with them grasping the understanding of elementary communication skills as they are very undeveloped in this area.  The big problem with men being their inability to interpret simplistic messages and a few examples of these are as follows:

Now, if I was to mention to another female,

“Would you put the tablecloth on the table for me please?”,

 that would be translated as,

“I am ready to serve the meal and I would appreciate you laying the table for me.”

This task would be accomplished without the aid of elucidation or indeed a safety net for that matter.  Not so easy for Johnny boy, oh no!  When Fanny emerges out of that hell hole of steam commonly accepted as the kitchen, resembling a school lettuce, all limp and green, all that will appear before her will be a table wearing a cloth of all things.  This will be HIS entire contribution towards supper, dinner, breakfast or any other repast that you may have been preparing and sweating over for the last 4 hours and even then you will be made to feel indebted to this great benefactor or; heaven help you my dear.  On the rare occasions when you discover the mettle to remonstrate, you will I guarantee, encounter a glance of such condescending magnitude that will prompt your any hose to roll down to your ankles.  After all, you did only ask for the cloth on the table, there was no mention of crockery or condiment set so what did you expect?

“Well my dear I have learnt not to expect anything out of this life and most certainly not from you, oh spouse of mine, just you recline in that supine position while I single handedly prepare gourmet delectation of gastronomic proportions.  No, no I’ll stir the sauce, cut up the bread (butter soldiers for him) and lay the table all at the same time using the 6 pairs of hands that I don’t have and God only knows where I insert the broom so I can sweep up along the way!”

It is times such as these when those ‘Kitchen Devil’  knives in the drawer (the ones he so generously bestowed on you for your birthday), begin to summon you sweetly singing,

“Come to me devil spawn and bury me deep within His soft parts.”

I withstand the enticement (and not without considerable effort) and the concept of watching him bleed to death all over the soufflé because I’m far too busy masticating his food for him so he does not have to wear down his teeth with all that tiresome chewing.

Now stop it !  I must not berate him so severely for there has been the odd occasion when he has thrown caution and moths to the wind and opened his wallet (the nifty little leather ensemble complete with mortis lock and chains) and offered to but me a takeout meal so I won’t have to cook after a busy day.  What a big hearted guy I married, why do I have the audacity to complain?

“What would you like pumpkin”, says he setting the time delay on the lock of his wallet.

“Oh I think I could go for an Italian anything but pizza thanks,” trill I (swept up in the delirious carefree moment and casting my apron to the 4 winds).

“OK fluffy bunnikins (my pet name for him is slime sucking warty fartikins - sweet or what), I wont be long”, pipes he picking up the CAR KEYS!!  on the way out.

Oh poop, he has taken the car, this could take some time, thank God I ate yesterday.  Some time later (6 hours to be precise) he returns, my intrepid ‘Great White Hunter’ stimulated by the kill, the Provider is home with the chow.  The lengthy delay in reorienting from the hunt as meant that you have got everything ready in preparation for this veritable banquet of Latin proportions, the candles are lit, Mario Lanza tootling on the c.d., freshly baked bread cushioned by pats of garlic butter and he says,

“Couldn’t get any Bolognese, they only did pizza so I got you chicken and chips instead”.

I think I lost something in the translation here and somehow a ‘Mac Chicken’ burger doesn’t quite meld with that chilled bottle of Lambrusco from Tescos.  Good job my imagination is fruitful, and its the thought that counts isn’t it and anyway any complaints could be misconstrued and that could result in the end of takeouts as we know them, Jim.

Another component that indicates feminine superiority is the undertaking of bathroom hygiene and the very fact that Men have no concept of this whatsoever.  Why is it that no matter how big a toilet bowl you may have, Men always manage to urinate  everywhere but in the receptacle specially provided for the amber liquid.  Men can turn a simple bodily function into a complete irrigation of the entire bathroom area, douching everything and body in their wake.  Is this some man thing dating back to a primeval era when they felt obliged to leave their spoor for females to follow?  (it does nothing for me) 

I realise the practical and physical difficulties they face in having to balance, straddle and hold one’s penis (using one or both hands - yeah right) and peeing at the same time.  You know that’s more than one thing for the brain to compute - have a heart and its not manly to be caught sitting shaking hands with the baby’s father (peeing).  Men hold to the belief that this practice is a sure sign of latent homosexuality and refuse outright to adopt this position.  I accept all of these factors but wring out the bloody toilet mat when you have done!  After all I don’t expect Him to get out the old ‘marigolds’ and scrub my ‘skid marks’ do I?  Yet it is commonplace to find me in the bathroom dressed in my ‘Sou Wester’ and waders disinfecting myself silly and hosing down the bathroom tiles.

“Its a ‘man thang’, I have been reliably informed.

“Oh all right then darling next time you have to pick up a used tampon just remember its a ‘woman thang’........

The same applies to that crust of scum they insist on leaving in the sink after shaving but I have to admit on securing revenge in that quarter.  Seeing him coming out of the bathroom, sliced to pieces resembling a snowflake with all of that toilet paper stuck to his face does give me a sense of vindication and this is heightened by the secret only known to me.  That classified information on closer examination would reveal which actual body part I had shaved with His razor and one of these days I really should share that information with him but not just yet eh?

Identical problems emanate with washing up and laundry and for the longest time I have requested (nay pleaded for) the purchase of an automatic dishwasher but all I get in response is the well worn adage of,

“Why have a dog and bark yourself”?

“Thank you Aesop,” but I do not quite understand what the dog has to do with the above chores but He seems to comprehend the deep meaning of this philosophy and that’s what counts.  I have also tried to back my argument by informing him that women no longer visit the nearest river carrying laundry in vast bundles on their heads and he was genuinely surprised by this revelation.  Once I dispelled this allegory, I felt it safe to familiarize him with that humming thing in the corner of the kitchen (the washing machine) and the magical way you put dirty clothes in and pull clean ones back out.  I still have quite a bit of groundwork to cover before he completely stops wearing my underwear when he has none left (that refuse to come off the bedroom wall without peeling off the paint that is) but I am patient when that virtue is called for.  I have noticed, however, how coquettish he becomes when he’s wearing my French knickers.

Last but not least I feel I must discuss the different ways men and women undertake in looking after domestic pets.  I have read that the dog is ‘Mans’ Best Friend’ but I feel this premise is well open to conjecture.  After returning home to find that faithful and loyal beast sitting cross legged, holding a somewhat crudely hand written poster (very clever dog) indicating that she is desperate for a slash, while sits oblivious watching the television.  Now, I do not know how tenacious the dog was supposed to be but that was above and beyond the call of duty as far as I am concerned and I got the distinct impression  that he was definitely off her Christmas card list.  Maybe it is the way both cat and dog pin me to the floor demanding food as soon as I walk through the door that indicates they are both aware that the next tin of ‘Chum’ or ‘Whiskas’ could be a long time in coming. 

It is this comprehensive yet subtle list of tell tale signs that completely whoosh over the top of his noggin well that and the way the cat is learning to use a can opener or the dog sitting at the dining room table banging a knife and fork that immediately comes to my attention.  It is said that we are the only household in North Yorkshire to have a dog that brings the car keys on hearing the command ‘walkies’ instead of her leash (now that’s desperation - see Travelling Man).  However, the last straw had to be His idea of healthier exercising and this comprised of tying her to a rotating clothes drier on a blustery day and I can still recall the glimpses of her whizzing past the kitchen window in orbit around the garden.  Mentally, I doubt if she will ever recover and she absolutely refuses to venture out on a windy day without being sedated first.

It must be said that our dog lives in the hope of better things to come being the devoted, loyal if not slightly stupid beast that she is.  The cat, however, true to feline nature is a cynic who refuses to be patronized or fooled into believing things will change for the better.  His hypothesis being that if he is not allowed out to perform his ablutions in dignity and privacy then its caution to the wind and devil take the high road and a crap in his master’s slippers or;

“Stuff you big guy this will cure your bunions.”

Cats have it sussed with this independence lark maybe I should try crapping in footwear in an effort to get myself noticed, then maybe not...  Failing this the cat has realized that a gentle massage on the testicles with one’s claws out is a successful ploy in being noticed, may be a good time to grow my nails is like now....

Have you ever dared ask the question,

“Could you dust for me please,” bold isn’t it with just a hint of rebelliousness, to be answered curtly with,

“I don’t do dust”, and this it elucidation in a nutshell, take it or leave it.

I wonder often in moments of reflection as I descale his underpants what his reaction would be if I used in my defence,

“Sorry, I don’t do sex”, when requested to comply with the more unsavoury bedroom acrobatics.

Most probably go down like a hooker in a brothel or a fart in a spacesuit which leads me very nicely into my next little parable.