TRAVELLING MAN
One of the many complexities highlighted between Man and Woman has to be on the occasions when they venture out into uncharted horizons. Throughout history Man has led Woman out into the great unknown convinced of:-
a). where he was going,
b). where he was now,
c). where he had been and;
d). last but not least, where he would end up.
And, Woman, well Woman, poor soul she was just blissfully happy in the knowledge that He was so confident, ‘Bollocks’! Take a closer peek at those ancient cave paintings and pictures of the early pioneers, without the ‘rose coloured specs’ and what you had previously perceived as hero worship in the eyes of your ancestors was in actual fact, the quiescent stare of a pissed off Neanderthal female or the ‘Jesus, not this shit again’ disposition of a Pilgrim Mother, once comprehension had penetrated and they had finally realised that their chosen mate was taking them, yet again, to who knows where.
Vault a few hundred years into the future and try to compare those experiences with the modern day family outing or vacation. Weigh it against that plain and simple trip to the shops and you will be astounded by the similarities. Take the holiday for example, for weeks you alone have single handedly;
a). washed the entire universe’s laundry;
b). packed suitcases for Imelda Marcus;
c). fed the children and various domestic pets their travel sickness medication,
d). found suitable foster parents for the cat and cockatiel,
e). shopped for food (enough to satisfy half of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces); and,
f). bought Him sweets for the journey.
All the while he has fulfilled his role and organised the route, now this small contribution should have triggered the warning bells. Those little clues that alert you of the impending doom you are about to encounter, but no. You alone resolutely carry on with the preparations oblivious to your situation, there might have been one single occasion when you could have build up enough audacity to suggest to Him that it may be prudent at this stage to ring and request an ‘AA’ route map. However, that recommendation is abruptly discarded with a contemptuous, ‘Fuck me’ look from you know who. You know the look girls, it’s the one that translates as,
“Route map, route map, what are you talking about”?
Do you not realise ladies that he has the entire grid map of the world implanted in his brain? It should be common knowledge to all females that the male of the species are born with this as an integral part of their genetic make-up and it is as fundamental to their very existence, along with their natural ability to:
a). procreate like rabbits,
b). battle like lions,
c). labour like farm horses and;
d). fart like walrus’.
However, to save time explaining all of this to you and because he is under the impression that you could never comprehend the complexities of it all, he smiles sweetly and says,
“Never you worry your pretty little head with all this talk of maps, my love, that’s why you have me.”
Personally speaking, it’s at this juncture that I develop what I refer to as the ‘Oh Shit’ syndrome and an inclination to perspire profusely in the armpit region but I resolutely manage to expurgate these emotions, as I tote his personal computer to the car with the fixed if not somewhat manic grin of a woman pushed too far.
Maybe I should have realized the enormity of the developing situation when the dog began to unpack her water bowl with an expression that translated as,
“Vacation or no vacation, I’m off the kennels if Man with no map is in charge of this expedition.”
However, love and faith or just simple imbecility blind you to common sense and ineffectually you continue with the preparations for this doomed trip.
Finally, there you all are, in the car, dressed up to the nines in your holiday gear. For myself I feel that jungle combats, webbing and machete is a wee bit over the top for a trip to Bridlington and that’s just the dog. Anyhoo there we are fixed if not glazed looks on our faces while he checks the tyre pressure etc. trying to look suitably adept and failing miserably. In fairness it requires some talent looking cool and macho while you nonchalantly kick the tyres, giving the impression you know exactly what you’re trying to achieve when in fact all you are doing is, well, you’re kicking the bloody tyres is all. The children are relatively calm (they should be after all the crushed valium in their Ready Brek) and just in case you have attached them permanently to the ‘Ipod’ both of these things combined should render them oblivious to what lies ahead, poor little mites. The dog has finally succumbed after every persuasive effort has been attempted and after those have failed, she was muzzled, kicked and dragged whining pitifully to the back of the vehicle. The cat has finally returned home in time to wave us farewell, smiling smugly, two claws raised in a familiar salute and the cockatiel has found the perfect time to utter it’s first words although, ‘poor bastards’ was a strange yet fitting debut into the vocal community.
Finally it’s on with the shades, the ones with the cool reflective mirror effect that enable him to feel like ‘Top Gun’ and you try to bury yourself lower into the car upholstery hoping that no one is up and about attesting to your humiliation, but you know that without a doubt they are all up and watching you peeping through the net curtains with an interest not at all in keeping with neighbourly love. The male fraternity are thinking, ‘Cool must get myself a pair of those groovy shades’ and the females, well, there will be those among them that will revel in your obvious distress (traitors) and the others who await their turn, knowing that inevitably their time will too come and although they feel empathy for your situation, their hands are still reaching for the cooking sherry.
It had been suggested at the commonly accepted family conference (commonly accepted by HIM) that Scotland Blackpool would be a better venue by far. Be still my beating heart, I just cannot get enough of that Mecca of the North West
The only comfort I could retrieve from all of this mess was the fact that we would probably never get to Blackpool, going on his past record and it did transpire that somewhere along the journey we managed to cross a border or three - strange but true.
To be absolutely fair to the male gender and wishing to render to you the reader a complete and unbiased point of view , I have to point out that this is where their communication impediment comes very much to the fore. I have to acquire a certain level of impartiality as a writer at this stage and defend men to some degree. I mean to say with females should we find ourselves unsure of our bearings we do not perceive it as a failing as such, therefore we have no problems in seeking assistance from the public (as long as it isn’t Joe Public eh, eh?). Handy hint, save yourself heartache and an ulcer; ask a female should you wish to complete your destination before menopause sets in or prior the birth of your first great-grandchild. With men however, this is not so simple, for “PathFinder Man” who would rather have the very tongue torn from his mouth before asking for directions.
I mean to say he is caught between a rock and a hard place on this one and I am personally convinced that it is a penis thing. The dilemma he is facing in being lost and having to admit it to anyone of either gender would only prove that he was a failure and tantamount to public castration. How on earth can he keep face or phallus if he had to ask another man for directions. Good Lord this is about as near to heresy as one can get, renouncing one’s own ancestors and admitting that he was LOST and worse still if he was left with only a woman to seek assistance from, no too abhorrent to contemplate. Shit she may even know the way and rather than face this as a consequence he would agree to having his dick chewed off as a preference. I can only compare the futility of his situation to an animal being caught in a trap and chewing its own limb off in an attempt to free itself. Heavy stuff I know but I felt that it had to be established in an attempt to explain their traditions and doctrine of inference.
Resolutely he endeavours to carry on with the journey, pointing out that some ‘shit’ must have removed the signposts deliberately and no, we have not been circumnavigating the same roundabout for 45 minutes and even if we have, it was a deliberate demonstration to us lesser beings of how amazing Man was for inventing them in the first instance. OK, OK, I’m suitably impressed, now please can we get off the damned thing as I have managed to accumulate an overflowing bin liner of kiddie and canine vomit and it will take the novelty from the waltzers when, if, we ever reach Blackpool.
I am frozen to my seat with one look, the one that makes my buttocks clench and munch up the seat covers. You know the look the one that translates as,
“It was so much easier for the Cave Man. One swift twat to the bonce of your mate with a club, usually had the desired effect”.
I shut up very quickly, especially when I observe him fingering the kid’s baseball bat with more than a look of curious hankering.
Day turns to dusk and surprise, surprise, we’re still on the road. The kids are finally asleep or is it a self induced hypnotic trance, who can tell? The dog is wondering if those epic films of Lassie are authentic, the ones where Lassie finds herself back home after weeks of walking, paws bleeding. The look on her face tells me that she is prepared to take that gamble the first opportunity she gets.
Enough is enough and I finally decide to speak out when I notice a sign informing us, ‘Lands End, 2 miles’ and I calmly tell him,
“We’re not in Kansas
“Don’t you think I know that, areshole,” he spits out between firmly clenched teeth, “Do you want to drive, do you, do you?”
Somehow I get the distinct impression that my little attempt at humour in the last observation was lost on him and it is at this juncture that I perceive an air of definite crankiness directed at me in particular. Instead of getting alarmed by the general ambiance or the specks of saliva forming at the corner of his mouth, I am filled with an overwhelming feeling of smugness. I contemplate saying, “I told you so” but reject that impulse very quickly, I’m feeling smug not suicidal. Even I’m not that half witted and I rather like my head where it is, on top of my neck, thank you. No instead I smile very sweetly at him and pop another sweetie into his gob, the sudden upsurge of sugar soothes his frayed nerves and keeps his mouth busy chewing anything but my face.
“Never mind love, I hear Cornwall
The strangulated choking noise next to me provides me with no more than a mildly pleasant sensation, I’m toying with my prey before going in for the kill. I know he is looking for a real good fist fight to relieve the tension and restore his pride but I decide to repudiate the challenge. No way Jose I have fully realised the potential of this little scenario and I intend to live off this rousing defeat for a long time to come. The very though of relating this opprobrious episode at every possible opportunity fills me with overwhelming joy. There is nothing quite like the global humiliation of the male sex and he never fails to supply me with the fundamental material, bless him.
As we pull into a welcoming lay-by and I begin to set up the caravan for the night, I recognise the look of sheer desolation and resignation on his face as he realises my intentions, he knows me so well. Give him his due he accepts his fate like a ‘Man’ and the only consolation for him and the upside of his predicament is that he knows that his general embarrassment will probably only be appreciated by my female friends. Nevertheless, I have learnt to accept this in relatively good faith as I have long since realised that the humorous aspects of the story would be squandered on the male sex. Furthermore, it would prove to be futile because I know he will tell them that the little woman forgot to send for an AA Route Map......
I have discovered that to endure any disagreeable experience one should try and focus on more affable ways of diverting one’s attentions. To some degree I have discovered (and I think you will agree) that individuals have developed unique methods of diversion to be exercised in unpleasant situations. For example;
• sitting in that dentist’s chair peering up his somewhat overloaded nasal passages, counting the hairs in an effort to pass the time or;
• lying with your feet in stirrups gazing intently at that bald patch on top of your gynaecologist’s head or;
• or in that self same position but gazing at that flaky patch on your bedroom ceiling when.......but I digress.
Needless to say you will have understood my meaning, well that’s what I do, as soon as my bum hits the vinyl on the car seat. Regardless of the length of the journey once Dick Dastardly gets behind that wheel I’m gone in that Uri Geller sort of way and I’m off travelling the astral plane, eyes glazed, breathing slow and even and my brain bathing contently in a dreamy cerebral soup of fantasy, you know I wonder if there is any money to be made in patenting this technique? After all there has to be a market for my invention considering the immensity of the problem and I can’t believe that I’m the only wretched soul with this affliction. My own hypothetical ‘point on the ceiling’ is made all the better by knowing that wherever he goes at some point he is going to end up lost. His dilemma is how does he get out of this tricky situation and keep face and it is at that point I am overwhelmed with a deep satisfaction which can only equate to a sense of serenity of orgasmic proportions.
I have to say that I admire the lengths he will go to in an effort to cover up his inadequacies in the arena of orientation. Once on route to Scarborough it was discovered (to my amazement) that some unthinking idiot had deliberately transferred Sutton Bank to another location entirely. Subsequently we never ever reached the seaside but instead we disembarked outside the gates of ‘Rowntree’s Chocolate Factory’ in York
“Well darling, I was just thinking that the seaside is a trifle over rated” was his blasé explanation and; “Doesn’t your sister live nearby”?
“Yeah right, that means why pay for fish and chips when we can dine at your sisters for nothing, I know you, you, spawn of Satan.”
“What was that, darling”? he trills smugly.
“Oh just thinking out loud love, about how resourceful you are”
“ Strange,” he mutters, “I was sure I heard the phrase, ‘Tight Bastard’, must be my ears, you know how they pop when I drive”.
“Yeah, get them checked along with your fine inner guidance system, prick” , I think to myself (just to be safe).
Yet I do not want to confer the notion that I am the sort of female who sits acquiescent in that dreaded car seat, oh no. Biting ones tongue has never been my strongest characteristic and to know me is to realise that I will never subscribe to that shy and retiring classification of females favoured by most men but even I know that resistance in some cases is futile. These occasions are usually to be recognised when the journey is well under way and that “Don’t fuck with me” face is behind the wheel. I have observed him giggling wickedly and not without demonic fervour as he has watched film clips depicting some heroine or other being thrown from a speeding vehicle and then surreptitiously peek at me from the corner of his eyes and I know that he has stored this vital information in his tiny brain under, “Wife (liquidation thereof)”.
If there is any good to be salvaged from these episodes of travelling the lengths of Great Britain
• ‘100 Best Car Parks and Lay-bys’ or;
• ‘Get to Scarborough via the Chocolate Factory’ or;
• ‘Pontefract and Chorley a Hitchhiker’s Guide’ or;
• ‘Caravanning for the Criminally Insane’ .
All of this literary material could be gathered during my many trance induced journeys with the ‘Husband from Hades’ only to be brought to an abrupt end with a resounding crash back into reality when my talents are required elsewhere in peeling delicate skin (in the bum region) off car seats and performing ‘CPR’ on the rest of the family and assorted pets.
I have to confess that I often feel pangs of remorse when my son looks at me with haunting eyes that plead for deliverance. Orbs so full of anguish because they know that for every journey we make from home another as equally dire must be made back. I get the distinct impression that he blames me somehow for his predicament especially when he begins to laugh hysterically as I manipulate him out of the vehicle and my only solace is found in the fact that, shit it is a dog eat dog world and it is every, woman, child and canine for themselves. Furthermore, that very boy looking at you so pitifully, will by the very nature of the beast and that thing between his legs (in some cases in the middle of the forehead (see History Man)) will someday transform into a Man and so I steel my heart and refuse to be taken in for one minute by those mournful ‘baby blues’.
I have therefore, decided that if only for my own sanity and the dog’s, I should learn to bloody drive. I will ignore the taunts and jeers from those lesser male beings and will forge ahead refusing to be distracted from my chosen path and when I pass my test I will make him digest those remarks (possibly with a few shards of broken glass). It is a big world out there on the highways and byways (boy do I know that one) but it will be a pleasant change getting from ‘A’ to ‘B’ in less than an infinity or the time it takes to create an entire solar system. I have discovered it quite difficult to contain my sheer delight in the anticipation of the moment when I will be able to casually roll down my car window and ask,
“Hey mate, can you direct me to Rowntrees Chocolate Factory”?
