Tag Archives: sex

The Joy of Farting…

It might not come as too much of a shock to hear that I am not an animal lover. Indeed, I would actually go so far as to say that the only interest I have in anything four-legged relates to the potential of it ending up on a plate in front of me.

Now I realise that this might offend some people, but I simply do not see the point in pets. Dogs seem to do little but eat, shit and make demands on your time whilst cats seem to do little or nothing at all.

As for the ‘companionship’ argument, if I want to spend time with dumb animals, I can switch on the telly and watch Big Brother.

In spite of this, I have over the years, somehow ended up with various beasts living under my roof and currently share living space with two goldfish and two kittens. One of which seems hell bent on inflicting as much pain on me as is possible as the numerous scratches on my hands will testify.

The other however…. well, I have to admit that I am kind of warming to her. Not because she is cute or fluffy, but because of something she did last night. She farted.

Now I have heard plenty of dogs fart over the years and have witnessed on too many occasions to recall that ‘what the hell was that?’ face that all canines seem to be able to do. However, I have never before heard a cat fart. To be honest, the very idea of them doing it at all had never even occurred to me.

What made it all the more impressive was that she did it not once, but three times and with a nice little pause in between each squeak. She actually looked quite pleased with herself when she’d finished. It was a joy to witness.

Reflecting on this later, it struck me as quite significant that of the two kittens, it was the female that had performed. After all, for the majority of human females farting is not something to be celebrated at all. At least not within sight or sound of a male. Instead, it is a bodily function to be carried out as discreetly as possible or even, so some women would have me believe, never at all!

Well, I say discreetly… I recall an occasion in hospital when an elderly nurse was standing in front of me removing a drip needle from my arm and she not only farted but lifted a leg up to do it. Then she just carried on as if nothing had happened whilst every male within ear shot was dying with laughter.

But let’s be honest, for us males farting is a source of much humour. As a youth in a house with a mad father and four brothers, we once kept a microphone set up and a cassette player on permanent pause with the sole function of recording every fart exhausted. The subsequent C90 tape being a source of huge hilarity to us much to the disgust to my mother and poor sister. Latterly, ‘Atomic Fart’ was one of the first apps I downloaded onto my IPhone and remains one of my favoured tactics for reinforcing my child like persona to any women who might doubt it.

Furthermore, the farting scene in the movie ‘Blazing saddles’ remains one of my all time favourite movie moments closely followed by Jim Carey letting one loose in the lift in ‘Liar, Liar’.

Yet aside from cheering us up, there is another function the humble fart performs. It signifies a passage (pun intended).

After all, when a relationship arrives at the point where your partner feels comfortable enough to pass wind in your presence (and I’m not talking about her sticking your head under the covers or anything like that) you know that she’s reached that special point where she’ll be feeling safe enough with you to actually be herself. And that’s an important point in any relationship.

One my little kitten has obviously reached with me.

The Joy of Farting…

It might not come as too much of a shock to hear that I am not an animal lover. Indeed, I would actually go so far as to say that the only interest I have in anything four-legged relates to the potential of it ending up on a plate in front of me.

Now I realise that this might offend some people, but I simply do not see the point in pets. Dogs seem to do little but eat, shit and make demands on your time whilst cats seem to do little or nothing at all.

As for the ‘companionship’ argument, if I want to spend time with dumb animals, I can switch on the telly and watch Big Brother.

In spite of this, I have over the years, somehow ended up with various beasts living under my roof and currently share living space with two goldfish and two kittens. One of which seems hell bent on inflicting as much pain on me as is possible as the numerous scratches on my hands will testify.

The other however…. well, I have to admit that I am kind of warming to her. Not because she is cute or fluffy, but because of something she did last night. She farted.

Now I have heard plenty of dogs fart over the years and have witnessed on too many occasions to recall that ‘what the hell was that?’ face that all canines seem to be able to do. However, I have never before heard a cat fart. To be honest, the very idea of them doing it at all had never even occurred to me.

What made it all the more impressive was that she did it not once, but three times and with a nice little pause in between each squeak. She actually looked quite pleased with herself when she’d finished. It was a joy to witness.

Reflecting on this later, it struck me as quite significant that of the two kittens, it was the female that had performed. After all, for the majority of human females farting is not something to be celebrated at all. At least not within sight or sound of a male. Instead, it is a bodily function to be carried out as discreetly as possible or even, so some women would have me believe, never at all!

Well, I say discreetly… I recall an occasion in hospital when an elderly nurse was standing in front of me removing a drip needle from my arm and she not only farted but lifted a leg up to do it. Then she just carried on as if nothing had happened whilst every male within ear shot was dying with laughter.

But let’s be honest, for us males farting is a source of much humour. As a youth in a house with a mad father and four brothers, we once kept a microphone set up and a cassette player on permanent pause with the sole function of recording every fart exhausted. The subsequent C90 tape being a source of huge hilarity to us much to the disgust to my mother and poor sister. Latterly, ‘Atomic Fart’ was one of the first apps I downloaded onto my IPhone and remains one of my favoured tactics for reinforcing my child like persona to any women who might doubt it.

Furthermore, the farting scene in the movie ‘Blazing saddles’ remains one of my all time favourite movie moments closely followed by Jim Carey letting one loose in the lift in ‘Liar, Liar’.

Yet aside from cheering us up, there is another function the humble fart performs. It signifies a passage (pun intended).

After all, when a relationship arrives at the point where your partner feels comfortable enough to pass wind in your presence (and I’m not talking about her sticking your head under the covers or anything like that) you know that she’s reached that special point where she’ll be feeling safe enough with you to actually be herself. And that’s an important point in any relationship.

One my little kitten has obviously reached with me.

Safety First!

Whenever I am writing, there will inevitably come a point where an alarm bell rings. More often than not it will be heard once I’ve already written something and will involve a distant voice asking “do you really want to say that?” (OK I know a voice isn’t strictly speaking a bell, but if you want to be pedantic, I don’t actually hear it, it’s merely a thought that springs up from the recesses of what passes for my brain).

Now if life has taught me one thing, it’s to pay heed to warnings. After all, when a PC asks ‘do you really want to delete this file’ or a woman in mid-argument stops, folds her arms and poses the question ‘do you really want to go down that road?’ whatever decision is made is going to have consequences for someone. Usually dire ones. And so that decision, whatever it might be, should only be made after considering what those potential consequences might be and weighing up the pro’s and con’s of each.

Of course the default decision for all men is ‘no’ whilst for women, it’s yes. In my experience female’s tend to worry about consequences ‘post’ action as opposed to ‘pre’ but then again, they are devious enough to either hide whatever damage they have done or blame someone else for making them do it. Failing that, they can usually call on a man to sort things out for them. And before anyone says anything in response to that, I have lost count of the number of computers I have had to sort out for women who have deleted things even after being warned not to.

Anyway, to return to the case in point…as far as writing is concerned, I usually hear this voice when I commit something to paper that I know is either going to kick up a storm, cause controversy, offend someone or even attract personal criticism (or worse).

In the past this has included such things as my various attacks on the police (the self-serving Army of occupation), the government (cowards), the game (inept), the anti-racist movements (whoo whoo! Keep that gravy train running at all costs lads), the extreme political groups (please wake up to reality chaps), Helen Chamberlain (geezer bird) and gay footballers (for fucks sake, it’s 2010 not 1910!) and in the majority of cases, I’ve gone ahead because I have felt so strongly about something that not to say it would have detracted from the argument I’d been making and I’ll have been confident enough to back up what I’ll have written in the flesh if need be.

I say the majority of cases but in truth, I can only think of one instance where I wrote something and then deleted it. Ironically, it wasn’t in a non-fiction book at all, but in my novel, Billy’s Log. 

I won’t go into details about it here but suffice to say, it was very relevant at the time of writing and to be honest, is just as relevant today (as is the rest of the book I think). However, for some reason it didn’t sit well with me and so I pulled it but I’ve regretted that decision ever since because I should have had the courage to say what I wanted to say.

I mention all this now because I sat down at my computer this morning and began writing a blog when all of a sudden I heard ‘do you really want to say that?’ And as I read back over what I’d written, I realised that there was only one answer…..NO!

You see when it comes to the battle of the sexes, even I know that there are some skirmishes which are best avoided! Especially when one runs the very real risk of shooting oneself in the foot!!

Safety First!

Whenever I am writing, there will inevitably come a point where an alarm bell rings. More often than not it will be heard once I’ve already written something and will involve a distant voice asking “do you really want to say that?” (OK I know a voice isn’t strictly speaking a bell, but if you want to be pedantic, I don’t actually hear it, it’s merely a thought that springs up from the recesses of what passes for my brain).

Now if life has taught me one thing, it’s to pay heed to warnings. After all, when a PC asks ‘do you really want to delete this file’ or a woman in mid-argument stops, folds her arms and poses the question ‘do you really want to go down that road?’ whatever decision is made is going to have consequences for someone. Usually dire ones. And so that decision, whatever it might be, should only be made after considering what those potential consequences might be and weighing up the pro’s and con’s of each.

Of course the default decision for all men is ‘no’ whilst for women, it’s yes. In my experience female’s tend to worry about consequences ‘post’ action as opposed to ‘pre’ but then again, they are devious enough to either hide whatever damage they have done or blame someone else for making them do it. Failing that, they can usually call on a man to sort things out for them. And before anyone says anything in response to that, I have lost count of the number of computers I have had to sort out for women who have deleted things even after being warned not to.

Anyway, to return to the case in point…as far as writing is concerned, I usually hear this voice when I commit something to paper that I know is either going to kick up a storm, cause controversy, offend someone or even attract personal criticism (or worse).

In the past this has included such things as my various attacks on the police (the self-serving Army of occupation), the government (cowards), the game (inept), the anti-racist movements (whoo whoo! Keep that gravy train running at all costs lads), the extreme political groups (please wake up to reality chaps), Helen Chamberlain (geezer bird) and gay footballers (for fucks sake, it’s 2010 not 1910!) and in the majority of cases, I’ve gone ahead because I have felt so strongly about something that not to say it would have detracted from the argument I’d been making and I’ll have been confident enough to back up what I’ll have written in the flesh if need be.

I say the majority of cases but in truth, I can only think of one instance where I wrote something and then deleted it. Ironically, it wasn’t in a non-fiction book at all, but in my novel, Billy’s Log. 

I won’t go into details about it here but suffice to say, it was very relevant at the time of writing and to be honest, is just as relevant today (as is the rest of the book I think). However, for some reason it didn’t sit well with me and so I pulled it but I’ve regretted that decision ever since because I should have had the courage to say what I wanted to say.

I mention all this now because I sat down at my computer this morning and began writing a blog when all of a sudden I heard ‘do you really want to say that?’ And as I read back over what I’d written, I realised that there was only one answer…..NO!

You see when it comes to the battle of the sexes, even I know that there are some skirmishes which are best avoided! Especially when one runs the very real risk of shooting oneself in the foot!!

On the road…

I am, by my own admission, a petrol head. I don’t care what it is, car, bike or boat, if it has an engine, I’m there.

Two stroke, four stroke, diesel, rotary, even gas turbine… I don’t care. I love them all equally and thanks to the delights of my engineering background, am more than capable of pissing about with any of them for hours.

Now being a petrol head, it stands to reason that I have a love of motorsport and since I was a nipper, there has been one particular discipline that has captured my heart. I’ve watched it, raced it, I even put it on TV and to this day, I cannot get enough of it. I speak of the sport of Formula One Stock Car racing.

Known as ‘the working mans motorsport’ on account of its inner-city roots, it is finally, after years of prodding by hundreds if not thousands of people, about to come to the BBC. I won’t say anything more, just check this out.  Must watch TV

I cannot wait. Really, I can’t. And in case you were wondering, yes, that really is my old stock car in the picture. Happy days.

Of course being a petrol head and a bloke, some people assume that I must have certain opinions relating to women drivers but this is not the case. Indeed, I can honestly say that most of the women I know are excellent behind the wheel. I certainly feel safer in their passenger seats than I do with most of men I’ve had the misfortune to be driven by recently

That said, I do have quite firmly entrenched opinions about cars. Or to be more specific, what cars men should or should not drive. And these are based not on what’s under the bonnet or even how fast they go, but on what they look like.

As far as I’m concerned, men should drive cars that are big and butch. Aston Martin, Bentley, Jaguar, big Mercedes, BMW’s or Audi saloons fit the bill perfectly. Personally, I consider anyone who drives a Chrysler 300 to have both testicles firmly in place because they look like they actually run on testosterone.

Conversely, whilst it would be reasonable to assume that given their performance, I would be ok with men who drive sports cars, this is not the case. If I see a male driving a Porsche for example, one of two things springs to mind; mid-life crisis or gay. Similarly, I consider convertibles to be the preserve of women. Period. The only exception being if they are old and American.

On the subject of ‘non-blokey’ cars, any male who drives anything with either ‘hybrid’ or ‘people carrier’ in the description clearly falls under the tag of ‘new man’ (for which read ‘sad man’) and should be ashamed of themselves. Anyone without ovaries who drives a Smart car clearly has problems.

4×4’s are another vehicle I have issues with. Both BMW and Mercedes versions have always had something ‘girlie’ about them whilst the same thing has also begun to infect the Range Rover. Once the ultimate man’s vehicle, I seem to see so many of them being driven by blondes these days that there’s no way they can be considered masculine any more. As for the large pickups that have begun to infest our roads, whilst they undoubtedly have their merits and are obviously de rigour in the US of A, here in the UK they do have certain connotations associated with them. And who wants that?

The irony is of course, that I drive none of the above. For whilst my two previous cars were old Jaguar XJ’s (possibly the all time classic English lads motor) these days I drive a VW Golf. Not exactly blokey I’ll admit but I do love it to bits.

Then again, I’m confident enough in my sexuality to drive what I like. And besides, as far as I’m concerned, the ultimate male vehicle doesn’t have four wheels at all. Just the two.

 

 

The Queens English….

As someone who uses words as a way of earning a living, it would be fairly reasonable to assume that I have an extensive vocabulary. Trust me, this is not the case.

On more occasions than I care to remember, I have tied myself in knots trying to be clever by using words I don’t even know the full meaning of and trust me, that is never a good thing on live television. Especially when I’ll have been there to speak as an ‘expert’ on a specific subject and will have had precise points I wanted to make. The consequence being that instead of coming across as any kind of authority, I’ll have appeared as nothing more than a thick yob.

Quite why I fell into this trap escapes me because as I’ve always told anyone who wants to write, you must know your market because if you do that, you will always give it what it wants. Given that my market is ‘me’ (and blokes like me) it doesn’t take a genius to understand that simple is best. Be it simple to read or simple to listen to.

I was reminded of this basic truth whilst putting together my new website (www.dougiebrimson.com) because whilst it is primarily a promotional tool for my work, its secondary function is to promote…. well, me! Be it as a potential colleague or as a potential speaker.

Therefore, it seems fairly reasonable to assume that trying to be too clever would be counter-productive.  Not least because when I turn up, whoever has hired me is in for something of a shock!

That’s not to say that the website has been dumbed down at all, but it was put together with the notion of ‘what you see is what you get’ at the forefront of my thinking.  Not easy when you dislike talking about yourself as I do.

I actually think it has come together very well and certainly the response thus far has been extremely positive.  However, I am aware that it is lacking a certain something… it’s not really ‘blokey’ enough. Quiet what I do about that has become something of a quandary. After all, anyone clicking on my blog will rapidly learn all they need to know about me as an individual but those that don’t might well form a very different impression.

One idea was to include a ‘comment for the day’ page but this idea is fraught with danger dependent as it would be on my mood that morning. Similarly, ‘word of the day’ would be fairly misleading given that it would inevitably infer a degree of intellect I do not possess and would fairly rapidly feature words I would never use in a million years. Remember, my favourite word is and always will be ‘bollocks’.

Another idea was ‘joke of the day’ but this was rapidly dismissed on account of my love of www.sickipedia.org and the inherent dangers that lie with that! After all, in recent months I’ve been labelled homophobic, sexist, racist and even ‘heightist’ (long story) and whilst I know that I’m none of those things, anything that adds weight to such outrageous accusations is best avoided.

So quite what I’m going to do about this remains something of a mystery. Of course I could just leave well alone but that in itself isn’t exactly blokey.

After all, tinkering is what we do!

The mystery of Women.

green street, top dog, sex, vibrator, orgasm, anal, brimson, football, soccer, soldier, army, killer If you know anything about me, have read any of my books or even digested the introduction to this blog, you should be under no illusions that I am a bloke.

I like doing blokey things, acting in blokey ways and speaking in the language of bloke.

And I love blokey stuff.  For me, the Screwfix catalogue is nothing less than ‘man porn’ whilst one of the highlights of each and every month is the sound of ‘Bike’ magazine dropping on my mat.

And the older I get, the more blokey I become. Some would say this manifests itself in a lack of tolerance, impatience and my moaning about anything and everything however I prefer to regard it as increasing awareness of what’s going on around me and commenting accordingly.

But the truth is, I don’t actually see any problem with intolerance and since I’ve passed the big 5-0, I don’t really see why I should be patient about anything or anybody if I don’t want to be. After all, my times running out so it’s an extremely valuable commodity.

Sadly, it seems that I am a dying breed and the only people I blame for that are other men because we, as a sex, have allowed this to happen to us. We’ve sat back and done nothing whilst a relentless anti-man campaign has been waged against us and are now at the stage where the only real man to be seen anywhere is Jeremy Clarkson. That in itself, is horrific.

The troops at the forefront of this campaign against us are of course, women. Now for the record, most of my best friends are women and I far prefer the company of females to males. In the main, they tend to be funnier, far sharper and certainly more intelligent. But they can also be vicious when provoked. I know this, because I have a habit of provoking them. Sometimes on purpose admittedly, but mostly by accident.

There can’t be many men who know the power a steely gaze or stony silence can wield more than I because I experience them with alarming frequency. They can be terrifying. And since the ‘easy life’ element of a males DNA is one of the more influential, we quickly learn that in most cases it’s far better and safer to put up and shut up.

Woe betide any man who for example, points out to his partner that being on her period is no excuse for turning into a world class pain in the arse and since she has one every four weeks, by the age of 30 she should kind of be used to it. Similarly, were a man to point out to his other half the simple truth that whilst child birth might well be painful, it was actually what the female body is designed to do so continually referring back to it as something ‘you don’t have to go through’ is kind of pointless because we can’t possibly go through it as we don’t have a womb.

However, not poking our heads above the menstrual parapet does have its repercussions. Not least because by allowing the female sex to carry on unchallenged with what is often totally unreasonable behaviour, we almost reinforce it.

But of course the dreaded cycle only occurs every four weeks and whilst hugely powerful, it can by its very definition only be used at specific times. And so women have a far more controllable weapon system at their disposal. One which can be brought into action at a seconds notice and employed in all kinds of situations ranging from getting her what she wants to stopping him enjoying what he has.

It’s the well honed stick with which all men will be beaten at some point or another and is of course, the guilt trip. And the engine which drives the guilt trip is oppression. Centuries of it.

wife, woman, sex, slave, dating, love, romance, divorce, gay, lesbian, homosexual Now I’m the first to admit that the control exercised over women by my forebears has bordered on criminal but my generation has done more to facilitate sexual equality than any other so could someone please explain why I’m still paying for what my grandfather’s lot got up to? Yet pay we do. Me seemingly more than most.

Yet in spite of this, I have to say that I actually consider the guilt trip to be a phenomenal thing. Not simply because of its flexibility, but because if we dare accuse a woman of using it, her inevitable denial will, more often than not, actually make us feel guilty for making the accusation in the first place. How on earth can you compete against that? The simple answer is you can’t. Which takes us back nicely to ‘put up and shut up’.

As if that isn’t bad enough, these days women aren’t the only troops we have waging war against us. Oh no, these days they have allies.

The first and most dangerous are gay men. Now I’m in no way shape or form homophobic but come on. Better dressed, usually richer and more often than not happier (mostly I suspect, because they don’t have to deal with women on any kind of sexual level) what chance do we have against that lot? It’s a horrible admission to have to make but it is a fact that I rarely meet a gay guy who doesn’t have some attribute or other I’m not jealous of. A sentiment I doubt is reciprocated!

Yet it is also a fact that their mission to undermine the heterosexual male by making us look and feel bad in front of the female sex has been relentless and phenomenally successful. Not only does it show no sign of slowing down, it actually appears to be gathering pace. A prime example of this assaulted my senses last week when Gok Wan ‘did’ a male for the first time (sic) on his TV show ‘How to look good naked’. Quite where they found the 35 year old sap who featured in the show I do not know but if anyone ever utters the phrase ‘and with the final addition of a man bag…..’ to me, they will be heading for A&E before the final syllable has tailed off. And please don’t get me started on the idea of male make-up. I’m still of the opinion that any man who use hair gel is a bit suspect.

Women of course, think very differently. They throw themselves behind the teachings of Gok and the gay Gestapo so forcefully that it becomes their mission if not their duty to impose this thinking on ‘their’ men.

Sadly, there are plenty of males who do fall for all this gumph and this leads us nicely into the other army determined to make us blokes look bad. They are the middle men, The Metrosexuals. Or as I prefer to call him, the hetrogays.

If you Google metrosexual, you come up with all kinds of definitions. They are, apparently, comfortable with the concept of male grooming and up to speed with the latest fashion trends. Understanding, sympathetic and above all, more considerate of his female brethren, they are at the very least within touching distance of their feminine side and have at the bare minimum, some concept of the impact both the menstrual cycle and the menopause have on the female of the species.

They also seem keen to wear a cloak of ambiguity when it comes to their sexuality. ‘To cause confusion’ is a sentence you will often stumble across when looking for a reasonable definition. I’m not even going to think about that let alone explore it.

Now speaking as a bloke, we used to have a word for males like that. It is, to quote the great Del Trotter, tart. I’m sorry, but any man who uses moisturiser or actually believes that he needs let alone deserves paternity leave needs taking out and beating. Oh and so we a clear, if you call yourself a house-husband, all you’re really saying is that your wife is cleverer than you.

Yet such is the arrogance of the hetrogays that they do not see this. Instead, backed up by the women and the gay movement, they perceive themselves to be better than we mere men. To them, we are nothing less than inferior because we have not adopted ‘their’ ways.

What a croc of shit.

The problem, as I see it, is that there are just too few role models for the average man these days. Aside from the aforementioned Mr Clarkson, I can count on one hand the number of men who work in either the media or music I would fancy a night out with and even football, for so long a sport which provided society with a steady stream of hard drinking, womanising  gentlemen, now seems to be little more than a conveyer belt of bland, stupid or moronic.

But this demasculinisation of men cannot continue and therefore it’s left to the rest of us to set an example and call a halt to this. We have to start encouraging our fellow males to man-up and be what they are supposed to be; men.

I’m not suggesting for one second that we need a return to pre-suffragette (or even 1950’s)dinner, green street, top dog, sex, vibrator, orgasm, anal, brimson, football, soccer values and I’m certainly not advocating any kind of sexism. But what I would like to see is a degree of fairness and equally, some kind of recognition that it is actually ok to be a heterosexual bloke. Because actually, it really is.

So come on men…. let’s have you. Let battle commence.

sex, lads romance, love, vibrator, george clooney, fart, lads, guys

For more insight into the mystery of the female psyche, please read my novel Billy’s Log. It’s full of them!

 

*This blog was originally posted in 2010 but amongst other projects, I’m currently working on the sequel to Billy’s Log and so it came back to mind. Sadly, it’s as current now as it’s ever been which is a bit sad really.

 

writing, writer, screenwriting, sex, sexism, men, women, love, romance, football

 

men, women, author, screenwriting, top dog, green street, martin kemp, battle of the sexes, sexism, racism, football, lads, soccer, guys

 

 

The Unsung Joy

Recently, whilst undergoing the trauma of a Virgin trains journey from Watford to Manchester, I met a woman. She was middle aged, expensively dressed, stunningly pretty in a Helen Mirren type of way and remarkably intelligent. All attributes which marked her out as being on a slightly different social and intellectual plane than myself. Indeed, it’s fair to say that in any other circumstance, we would never have met in a million years. However, on this occasion, fate threw us together and as a result, we spent two glorious hours sharing one of those experiences which come along all to rarely but which, when they do, leave you glowing with fulfilment and achievement. Sad to say, we never even exchanged names and when she left the train at Stafford, we both knew that we would never meet again. But we’re adults and we knew what we were doing. So why not?

What did we do? Well, we moaned. Non-stop. Not just about Richard Branson and his trains, but about the Labour Party, today’s youth, the weather and even the state of English football (not a subject I would never normally enter into with a female but hey…). It was fantastic.

Reflecting on our conversation as I went on to eventually complete my journey some hour and a half late, I realized how much I love a good moan. It isn’t just good for the soul it’s good fun. Which is a good job really, because I have a lot to moan about. After all, not only have I been cursed with decidedly average looks, but I’ve always been a bit on the ‘plump’ side. Add this to the fact that I began losing my hair quite early on in life and an arse the size of the Isle of Wight and you can see why I harbour a deep rooted resentment toward my parents. To make matters even worse, in my teens, I developed an affection for Watford football club. And whilst that was great at first, I have since learnt the full implications of such an obsession. Especially the financial ones! I could go on, but you get the drift.

However, since I’ve been writing, I’ve learnt that moaning has other benefits. For not only does it provide a much-needed outlet for frustration and stress, it is also a fabulous defence mechanism. Let’s face it, being a pessimist means you are rarely disappointed.

But more importantly, moaning is actually a valuable and under appreciated research tool. Listening to people moan can be an incredibly useful and informative experience because unlike any other form of communication, moaning is completely disarming. After all, we only really do it when we feel passionate about something and you can’t fake that like you can flattery or self-importance. It’s as real as it gets. And when you get that degree of feeling, that’s when you get truth and genuine opinion. Two things that are vital if you’re a writer searching for information or even some inspirational dialogue.

So please bare that in mind the next time you get on a train and the only empty seat is next to a big bald miserable looking bloke. It might be me and you could be just the person I’m looking for.

The Wasted Years (I think not!)

Like many people, I am at my happiest when I’m sitting down and doing bugger all. There is, as I’m sure you’ll agree, something incredibly gratifying about doing nothing.

Indeed, it is fair to say that these days, having passed the magic five-zero, the avoidance of work, be it paid or domestic, doesn’t just give me huge amounts of pleasure, it’s actually a source of pride. Something that the half built brick barbecue in my back garden stands as a monument to.

I actually first grasped the concept of idleness whilst serving in the Royal Air Force. For having worked hard for years and got nowhere, I suddenly realised that all of my immediate bosses were lazy so-and-so’s who were getting all the praise –and wages- while mugs like me did all the graft. However, in the forces, it’s not regarded as being idle, it’s celebrated as delegation. And once I embraced that idea, with both hands I might add, I pretty soon found myself flying up that promotion ladder.

Tragically, outside the confines of HM Forces, things weren’t so easy. I soon learnt that being expected to actually work for a living wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. And I could never escape the idea that someone was driving around in a Aston Martin which I had paid for. I wasn’t happy with that at all, hence, the move into writing. It was the only occupation I could think of which allowed me to work from home, for myself and remain sitting down all day.

Of course, I quickly discovered that being a writer does have other advantages. The most obvious of which was that I was able to justify my love of lounging around as either ‘thinking time’ or ‘clearing my head’ time. Both things for which, somewhat ironically, daytime TV is perfectly suited. After all, I have to get inspiration from somewhere. And if you watch This Morning long enough, sooner or later, every known form of life is going to pass by in front of your eyes. Watch MTV and you’re mind goes blank in minutes.

Sadly, my wife has always been wise to this. And as time passes, and her life as a full-time mother, housewife and carer to her husband shows no sign of easing up, she is becoming increasingly irritated at my pathetic attempts to justify watching Sky Sports or reading Zoo at times when I should be working.

And, it is fair to say that for a while, I started to feel a degree of sympathy for her case. Because the truth is, I have never really been inspired by either The Real Deal or Loose Women. And although the gloriously wonderful Holly Willoughby merits a fantasy-laden mention in my next movie, I hardly need to watch This Morning every day.

However, recently I have had not one, but two odd experiences. Both of which made me realize that not only might my pangs of guilt be misplaced, but that maybe my commitment to time wasting has not been in vain.

The first of them happened in Manchester. I had ventured North for some reason or another and was returning to the sanctuary of the South when, upon my arrival at Piccadilly Station, I was greeted by the stench and noise that can only be created by that relic of the so-called good old days, a steam engine. Of course, realizing that such a machine was in residence, my heart sank. For I knew exactly what was coming and sure enough, as I walked around the corner, I couldn’t see the beast for the hoards of middle-aged saddo’s pointing and muttering excitedly about piston sizes and boiler pressures. These weren’t your ordinary feeble part-time trainspotters you see standing on the platform at Euston with a notepad in one hand and a flask of tea in the other. These were the real deal hard-core spotters of the type who wear sleeveless anoraks covered in small metal badges and smell of meths. But as I watched what was going on, in a kind of detached bewilderment, it struck me as decidedly odd that in this day and age, not only could grown men be whipped up into an almost orgasmic frenzy by the sight of a simple machine, but that they would want to be.

Then, two weeks later, for reasons to banal to relate, I had to endure a day at an old RAF airfield in Gloucestershire. As we were having a coffee in a café in the control tower, I happened to notice a group of elderly chaps in stained overalls, sitting in the corner and arguing over an old book. Being naturally nosey (it goes with the job) I soon learnt that they were aircraft enthusiasts in the middle of restoring an old De Haviland Comet. And they were having a heated discussion about the markings on a particular fuse box. Believe it or not, the book they were using contained the actual manufacturers drawings. It was a picture of tragedy.  

Reflecting on this and the Manchester experience as I headed homeward, the thought suddenly struck me that not only were all the people involved in the fuse box debate men, but that you never see any female trainspotters. And then I began to consider the possibility that maybe something else was going on. Maybe the people who indulge in these most unfathomable of practices do so not because they’re sad loners, but because it’s something to do with their spare time. And why on earth would anyone need to fill time? Isn’t it obvious? 

These poor men aren’t sad, they’re victims. Driven out of their own homes by bitter women who refuse to sit back and allow them the luxury of enjoying their hard earned time-off in the comfort of their own homes. Think about it. It makes perfect sense. I mean, why else would blokes have sheds? They’re the only space in the house that they can call their own!

So, having deliberated over this at length, I have decided that rather than feel guilty about being idle, the fact that I am able to spend most of my time here in my own home at all should be regarded as a moral victory. And while it might not appear that I’m doing much, at least I’m happy which is the most important thing.

 My wife may not like that, but maybe if I explain it to her just one more time………