Tag Archives: Women

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The joys of wind and women….

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The joy of offending

It is fair to say that few very few things have the capacity to impact on an individuals’ status more than a fart.

Sometimes this can be a good thing. After all, if one is in the company of a group of lads out on the lash the ability to let one go -especially if accompanied by an odour with the capacity to strip wallpaper- can quickly elevate you to legendary status.

In most other social settings however, it is not a quality to be admired and therefore it is vital that farting etiquette is both understood and observed.

However, before we dive into the ‘do’s, don’ts and how to’s’ we should examine just why the two sexes react so differently to flatulence because it is fundamental to pretty much every aspect of this section if not the entire book.

As I have already stated, I love farting and to be honest, so does pretty much every male I know. There is nothing quite like the feeling of brewing up and the satisfaction of letting one go is frankly, unrivalled.

In fact, given that the vast majority if not all of people reading this book will be male and will be doing so because they too have an appreciation of the anal art form, do I really need to spend time explaining why we love it? After all, you will already know pretty much everything I can ever say or write if not a great deal more!

Women however, are a different beast entirely and if ever there was a subject that confirms the belief that we are indeed from two different planets, it is the subject of farting.

Or does it?

After all, women fart. I know that might come as a shock to some of you but they do. All of them. That gas has to be removed somehow and it’s certainly not taken away in the dead of night by fairies using Tupperware pots. Therefore it stands to reason that it is ejected in one of only two ways, one of which is fart form. And occasionally they smell. Not like Pot Pourri either.

Yet generally speaking, the vast majority of the gentler sex would have us men believe that they regard farting as nothing more than a basic bodily function and a disgusting one at that. Yes, I am well aware that there are exceptions to this and I know a couple of females who are more than capable of clearing a

Fart on mens faces for money
The stuff of nightmares!

room if the mood takes them. Furthermore, as the father of two daughters I am also well aware that in private there are plenty of women who enjoy a good gruff just as much as most men even though they might feign embarrassment if overheard or one slips out by accident. So why do the so-called gentler sex seem to have such a problem understanding why we males are able to derive such humour from farting?

Well to me, the answer to that question is fairly obvious when you think about it. It’s because we enjoy it.

Yes, that’s right. It might come as something of a shock to discover that women don’t actually like men to have fun doing something which doesn’t involve them. Why else do you think so many of them have started tagging along to football? It’s not because they enjoy it, it’s because they want to make sure we don’t!

However, since unlike football, farting is an activity that we can enjoy on our own they are forced to try and discourage us from partaking by brainwashing us. A tactic they do by repeatedly telling us from very early on in our lives that we only do it because we aren’t clever enough to find humour in anything else or that it is ‘disgusting’. It’s bog standard word association hypnosis: Oven = hot = burn, road = traffic = death, fart = bad =stroppy woman.

But the primary tool employed by women as a brainwashing tool to discourage the enjoyment of anal activity is the suggestion that it is childish. The key weapon used here is the phrase ‘grow up’.

This expression is important for many reasons and it is vital that all men understand why. Because it is fundamental to the acknowledged truth that when a woman gets her claws into a man, her primary goal is to mould him into the ‘man’ she actually desired as opposed to the one she ended up with. Central to this is the modification of his behaviour and the separation from both his past and especially his mates. Hence the concerted efforts to discourage any behaviour which might be perceived as being either ‘childish’ or ‘blokey’.

The sad fact is that it is women who are missing out. Not just because a happy bloke is obviously going to be far more fun to be around than an empty shell of a ‘new man’ but because they are unable to enjoy one of the natural wonders of life.

Indeed, it is my belief that women are secretly jealous of us in our love of the anal art form but having backed themselves into a corner, they dare not admit it because that would mean admitting that they have been wrong all along. And we all know what a problem that is for women.

Ironically, they had the perfect opportunity to do just that when the so-called ‘Ladette’ culture took hold back in the 90’s. For that period in our great nations history provided the female with the ideal point to embrace what I regard as being quite possibly the greatest of all human habits.

Yet instead, they blew it. Preferring instead to adopt the delights of getting shit faced, swearing in public and thinking shagging anything that moved was a good idea. All things which they had spent decades slagging us off for and which most blokes eventually grow out of anyway!

And so when it comes to women and farting, we are where we are and it is unlikely that things will ever change at least where they are concerned. However, the fact of the matter is that it is not our fault, it is theirs. They after all are the ones missing out because there is nothing wrong with enjoying farting. It should be celebrated as a sign of confidence but above all, of honesty. If you take nothing else from this book, take that simple truth because it will change your life.

After all, as the legendary rapper P. Diddy once said, “you can’t trust a woman until she farts in front of you” and that says it all.

 

fart sex love anal "bodily functions"
The Art of Fart - Bargain!

 

The above was a full extract from my latest book The Art of Fart which is available to download for just £1.14 at http://www.amazon.co.uk/Art-Fart-Joy-Flatulence-ebook/dp/B006MISNFI/ or $1.81 at http://www.amazon.com/Art-Fart-Joy-Flatulence-ebook/dp/B006MISNFI/

It is also available via iTunes and all online retailers.

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John Terry: Captain or Cock?

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Bobby Moore, A real England captain.

Let me throw some names at you: Bobby Moore, Bryan Robson, Billy Wright, David Beckham, Terry Butcher, Stuart Pearce and John Terry. Now tell me, which one is the odd one out?

The answer, in case you were wondering, is John Terry and the reason should be obvious. Don’t get me wrong, there is no denying his qualities as a player but let’s face it, as a captain of the England national side, a post which carries with it all kinds of responsibilities, he’s a non-starter. Because unlike every other name on that list, Terry is devoid of the one thing that marks out a true England captain; he has no class.

And that’s what I want from my national captain. I want to know that not only is he a great player and an inspirational leader, but that he stands tall as an example of the values the vast majority of England uphold. Values such as honesty, integrity and fair play.

Can anyone honestly say that Terry provides that example? I can’t. Instead I look at him and see everything that is wrong with this country. The demise of shame, the growing acceptance of sleaze as an acceptable personality trait and above all, a total and utter failure to accept responsibility for your own actions. Do we really want someone like that wearing the captains armband? More importantly, do we really want the rest of the world looking at him and thinking that we are proud of him or approve of his behaviour?

If you need any further proof that Terry can’t hold a candle to any of his predecessors, you actually need look no further than the fact that this is still an issue at all!

For if he were genuinely a true England captain, he would have realised that his presence would not have been in anyone’s interests and made himself unavailable until the investigations into his behaviour have been concluded.

But he hasn’t. Instead he has clung on like some desperate chav seemingly unable to comprehend that he has done anything wrong.

John Terry doing what he does best..... not being a gentleman

And that says it all. No class you see.

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Dougie Brimson – The New Gok Wan?

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Mutton dressed as er... mutton

In every list or article written by a male about relationships with the opposite sex, there is one issue which will inevitably receive a mention. It is best described as entrapment.

I don’t mean entrapment in the sense of her trying to find out if you’re having an affair or have actually been out with your mates when you’ve told her you’re at work, I’m talking the really serious stuff. Primarily the stuff about HER! Those questions which are designed to trap you into saying the wrong thing and attracting trouble. The most dangerous of which is the dreaded ‘how does this look?’

Now any bloke with half a brain knows that if a woman asks that question, it doesn’t matter what he responds because it will inevitably be wrong. If we pay a compliment it’s ‘you’re only saying that’ and if we say anything negative…. well, best not to do that anyway. And even if it isn’t wrong at that moment in time, it will almost certainly be wrong later on at which point you will get the blame because ‘you should have said something’.

Worst of all is when this question is posed when we’ve been ‘taken’ shopping.  Never mind the fact that most men hate shopping with a passion and being dragged around the underwear department of Marks & Spencers is the single most evil thing a woman can inflict on her man, our reluctance to show any desire to provide comment on anything from ball gowns to handbags means we are considered either useless or boring or both. All of which adds to the ‘fun’ of course. 

I mention this here because the other day, whilst mulling over what would constitute my perfect job, I finally came up with the answer. You see I actually quite like wandering around shopping malls (it’s a people watching thing) and I certainly like women so it seemed reasonable to think of a way to combine the two activities. So in short, I’d like to be employed as the bloke who passes impartial and honest comment on what women are either trying on or already wearing.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not nor ever could be considered, fashionable. I wear clothes which do not suit me, have a body profile which defies any description other than lardy and am as far removed from Gok Wan as it is humanly possible to get (and on that note, if you want to spend all your life dressing women and acting like a woman, why not just get a bloody sex change and have done with it?) but I do have three things going for me. I am a bloke, I know what looks good on women and just as importantly, I know what doesn’t.

Kill me please.

And having sat outside more changing rooms than I care to recall and watched a succession of fashion disasters appear only be told by their long-suffering and bored shitless partners that they look fabulous, would it not be better to have an honest opinion from an impartial male on tap? After all, wouldn’t a woman rather be told that she looks like a pig wrapped in some old pub curtains before she goes to that wedding as opposed to realising it herself when she receives the photo’s afterwards?

But equally, I’d like to be able to tell a woman that she looks beyond awesome. Indeed, I’d encourage any bloke to do that once in a while anyway. I have and trust me, you have no idea of the impact paying a random comment can have, especially at 08.45 on the Piccadilly Line.

The other attraction is that I’d also be able to walk up to a woman and tell that at 50 plus, she shouldn’t have pink hair or a nose piercing because they make her look slightly sad or tell that 25 year-old that men don’t actually find the sight of an exposed KFC fuelled muffin-top particularly attractive.

The more I think about it, the more I think that I’m definitely onto something here. After all, if honesty really is the best policy, let’s apply it where it is most needed, at the proverbial coal face. But equally, think how many cold and frosty nights I could save for my fellow males?

Anyone got a number for John Lewis?

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Feminists Suck.

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Feminists should man up!
A Feminist

I won’t bother to list any of those here as some have already been tackled whilst others are on my ‘to do’ list. There is however, one subject I have been putting off tackling primarily because I’ve been wary of causing offence. But now, in the spirit of my new found approach of ‘not giving a toss’ (see previous blog) I am happy to turn my opinionated howitzer in its direction. That subject is women.

Now don’t get me wrong. I love women, really, I do. As I’ve said before, I think they are more fun, more supportive, usually more intelligent and generally better all round human beings than the average bloke. I’d even go so far as to say that if I had to list my top ten favourite mates and working colleagues, at least 8 of them would be female.

Yet in spite of that, in common with the majority of my fellow males, I find women totally confusing. Well, to be brutally honest, I think they are all barking mad.

In essence, that was the central theme of my novel Billy’s Log. Written as a response to the anti-male propaganda that was Bridget Jones’ Diary, I used it to try to convey the shear frustration increasing numbers of men had come to feel whilst trying to find a long-lasting relationship in the face of the feminist man hating onslaught that took hold of the UK in the early 90’s and which manifested itself most visibly in the horrific ‘laddette’ culture.

Much of Billy’s Log was based on my own experiences as a relatively shy and very average looking male but it struck a chord with a lot of lads who had been through similar experiences (and response to the recent launch of the eBook version has shown little has changed!). Unexpectedly, it also attracted favourable comments from a number of women many of whom told me that it had finally helped them understand that being a bloke isn’t always quite as simple as they had thought. 

However, this isn’t a blog about blokes, it’s a blog about women. And the older I get, the more it becomes increasingly clearer to me that much of the confusion which forms the core of the modern day battle of the sexes stems from one simple truth. For whilst women have quite rightly sought equality both in the home and the workplace, when it comes to their relationship with the male of the species they have never actually been able to come up with a true definition of what equality actually means. Or to put it another way, they have no idea what it is they actually want.

What this means in real terms is that they are, to coin a phrase, fucked. Because without that definition the only thing they can do is to aspire toward what men have. That’s fine if you think equality means being able to get shit-faced, vomit in the street and act like a complete twat every Friday and Saturday night but not so fine if you actually want to hang on to your self-respect.

But more importantly, what this also means is that in the drive to be ‘equal’ (whatever it means) too many young women have given up the one thing that defines their sex; femininity. I mean for gods sake, this very weekend London will see women protesting under the banner of a ‘slut walk’. If it wasn’t so sad it’d be funny.

For me, this self-inflicted demise of femininity has been an own-goal of Ryan Giggs proportions. Not least because it has completely baffled entire generations of men who now take their emotional life in their hands whenever they open a door for a woman or perish the thought, pay her a compliment! (and lads, just for a laugh the next time you are out, say something complimentary to a random woman. Trust me, it will freak her out) and as a consequence prefer instead to seek solace in the company of other like-minded and equally baffled male souls. 

The tragic but inevitable result of this has been that the art of courtship and romance has all but vanished. Indeed, to me one of the great ironies of the modern age is that single women spend their lives bemoaning the lack of romantic men when they are the ones who have scared them all off! Women of course will argue that until the cows come home but from where I’m sitting it’s a cast iron fact. And let’s not forget something here…. that word, equality. It works both ways remember. So lads, when was the last time your other half did something romantic for you? I’m not talking permission for the odd fumble (which they told us for years wasn’t what they actually meant by ‘romance’!) or the odd pack of Primark pants, I’m talking flowers, chocolates, tickets to football or even an unexpected pack of Bud! I rest my case.

And that’s the bottom line here. Equality might mean equal but when it comes to relationships too many women don’t actually want real equality at all. They want the pick and mix version. The one where they get the good bits such as the romance and the emotional support but without having to give too much if anything back in return.

women, know you job. It's cooking, kids and sex.
Happy Wife

Yet what the hell is wrong with the idea of a woman who actually wants to stay at home to make it a warm and welcoming environment in which to bring up her kids? Absolutely nothing, that’s what! Let’s be honest, can you honestly say that this would not be a better country if more mums did that? Bloody right it would. Thankfully there are plenty of women who are happy to fulfil that most important of roles and so shouldn’t one of the major aims of the feminist movement be to recapture the dignity of the housewife rather than continue to tag it as some kind of subservient occupation for women who aren’t clever or ambitious enough to want to do something ‘real’ and more productive!

Domestic slave

For as most blokes know only too well, the truth is that women actually hold all the power already. Be it in relationships, work or in the home. They’ve just forgotten how to wield it.

 

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No More Mr Nice Guy.

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As requested ...

The other day someone levelled an accusation at me. I have, apparently, mellowed.

Initially, I dismissed this outrageous slur out of hand but as they pointed out, my blog, which was set up for the sole purpose of providing somewhere for me to get things off my chest, has recently become little more than a cross between a glorified diary and a series of plugs. And to be fair, as I pondered this later on, I realised that my accuser was right. The question of course, is why?

After all, I pride myself on my love of moaning and as plenty of people can testify, it’s not like I moan any less these days nor is it for want of suitable subject matter! Leaving aside my personal and working life (if only you knew the half of it!) I only have to pick up any national newspaper or turn on TalkSport and I guarantee that within 30 seconds I’ll be off about something.

Equally, I have always loved sitting down and tearing into something or someone but it is nevertheless a fact that my enthusiasm for letting rip has indeed waned in recent months. Which brought me back to the question of why?

However, before I could even begin the search for an answer to this most simple of questions, it landed in my inbox courtesy of The Purple Diva. An amazing woman and a fabulous writer who does things with words the like of which I can only dream about. And it came courtesy of a simple URL. A URL which led me to what I can only term a proper full bore championship winning rant.

It was sent in January 2001 by the famous author Hunter S. Thompson to Holly Sorensen, then a Production Executive at an independent film studio, The Shooting Gallery and related to the adaptation of his novel, The Rum Diary, to which Sorensen’s studio held the rights. Things had not gone well and eventually, Thompson reached boiling point.

Read on…..

Transcript

To HOLLY SORENSON / Shooting Gallery / Hollywood / Jan 22 ’01

Dear Holly,

Okay, you lazy bitch, I’m getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you’re doing with The Rum Diary.

We are not even spinning our wheels aggressively. It’s like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway… I seem to be the only person who’s doing anything about getting this movie Made. I have rounded up Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Brad Pitt, Nick Nolte & a fine screenwriter from England , named Michael Thomas, who is a very smart boy & has so far been a pleasure to talk to & conspire with…

So there’s yr. fucking Script & all you have to do now is act like a Professional & Pay him. What the hell do you think Making a Movie is all about? Nobody needs to hear any more of that Gibberish about yr. New Mercedes & yr. Ski Trips & how Hopelessly Broke the Shooting Gallery is…. If you’re that fucking Poor you should get out of the Movie Business. It is no place for Amateurs & Dilletants who don’t want to do anything but “take lunch” & Waste serious people’s Time.

Fuck this. We have a good writer, we have the main parts casted & we have a very marketable movie that will not even be hard to make….

And all you are is a goddamn Bystander, making stupid suggestions & jabbering now & then like some half-bright Kid with No Money & No Energy & no focus except on yr. own tits…. I’m sick of hearing about Cuba & Japs & yr. Yo-yo partners who want to change the story because the violence makes them Queasy.

Shit on them. I’d much rather deal with a Live asshole than a Dead worm with No Light in his Eyes…. If you people don’t want to Do Anything with this movie, just cough up the Option & I’ll talk to someone else. The only thing You’re going to get by quitting and curling up in a Foetal position is relentless Grief and Embarrassment. And the one thing you won’t have is Fun…

Okay, That’s my Outburst for today. Let’s hope that it gets Somebody off the dime. And if you don’t Do Something QUICK you’re going to Destroy a very good idea. I’m in the mood to chop yr. fucking hands off.

R.S.V.P

(Signed)

HUNTER

Upon reading this, I immediately realised what my problem has been. Instead of embracing the concept that my blog allows me the freedom to say pretty much what I want about what I want whenever I want, I had instead begun to follow the ‘if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all’ ideal.

More worryingly, that had also begun to spill over into my working life. My god, I have lost count of the number of times in recent months I have encountered either ineptitude, deceit or even condescension and instead of sending off a Thompsonesque style missile aimed directly at the relevant anus, I have sat back and done pretty much sod all. In essence, I had somehow become ‘nice’.

Fuck off

Well fuck that. No more doormat for me. Normal service is about to resume.

Be warned….

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It’s true. I’m in love.

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Yes, I have recently fallen head over heels in love. Such an admission is, I know, not exactly blokey and I doubt many people who read these all too infrequent ramblings of mine will ever have expected to view those words here but it is nevertheless, a fact. I am besotted.

I’d actually go so far as to say I’m happy which, as anyone who knows me will understand, is not a phrase which normally sits comfortably in my shoulders but hey, a good female can have that effect sometimes.

We met, like increasing numbers of people in these hectic times, via the internet and it took just one brief glance at her picture for me to know that we were destined to be together. Call it love at first sight if you like but within 48 hours, we were a couple and I know my life will never be the same.

The object of my affection? A 1997 Mercedes Vito van who I met via the petrol heads dating site that is the motors section of eBay. And I say who rather than which for a reason. Because my van isn’t simply a collection of metal objects thrown together on some assembly line in Germany and used and abused first by the RAC and then an electrician from Redbourn, she has a soul.

I know that because she’s already responding to the love, care and attention I have been pouring upon her. I’m not just talking stuff like the obligatory scrub up here, I’m talking proper maintenance. Oil & filter changes, sorting dodgy wiring and let me tell you, nothing helps forge a bond between a man and his vehicle like changing a dodgy driveshaft.

The result? Well at the risk of this sounding like a sexual metaphor, each time I climb inside her she seems more pleased to see me than the last time. She starts easier, runs more smoothly and little things that didn’t work when we first met have suddenly and mysteriously started to function. It’s like my own version of ‘Christine’ but without the brutal massacre of people who cross me (although I am hopeful that may begin any day).

As for me, well driving, which I’ve always loved, has suddenly taken on new levels of pleasure and I feel increasingly like Toad of Toad Hall as we bowl around the country together, windows open and without a care in the world. And let me tell you, having a mobile space the size of a garage available to you is even more useful than you can imagine! Oh yes, I am a van convert.

But equally, the fact that she only cost me £500 means that….. no, I can’t say that. Of course I care about her and in no way is she disposable!

Yet deep in my heart I know that even though we are still basking in the dawn glow of our relationship, one day it will end and she will shuffle off to the great big car park in the sky (or more likely, Africa via Tilbury Docks). And whilst I will be heartbroken for a time, I’m sure that eventually a new love will come into my life almost certainly via eBay dating and possibly even a slammed VW T4 with air con and some decent alloys.

But until then……. 

 

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Football YES, Women NO!

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As someone known for being somewhat opinionated on the subject of football, it can come as no surprise to hear that in the wake of ‘Sky Gate’ I received numerous requests to comment on the issue of females and the great game. It might shock you to discover that all such requests were declined.

The reason has nothing to do with either Richard Keys (who I always thought was the luckiest not to mention hairiest man alive) or Andy Gray (who I’ve regarded as nothing more than a cheating bastard since the 1984 FA Cup Final) but the actual subject matter. It’s not that I have an issue with female officials who as far as I have seen, have generally done a decent job, it’s the fact that as far as I am concerned, they shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

Now I know I have blogged on this subject before, but for reasons too boring to go into, I have recently been re-reading my book ‘The Geezers Guide to Football’ which for those who do not know, is a bluffers guide along the lines of ‘How to behave like a proper bloke at football’. Contrary to what certain reviewers think, it was never written as a serious examination of the male of the species but was instead, a piss take of how stupid we can be when it comes to the great game.

Of course lots has changed in the world of football in the 13 years since the book was first published but I was amazed at how much of my book still rang true with regard to football fans. That is especially true when it comes to the subject of women and with that in mind, I have included that entire section below.

To put the extract in context, it is part of a chapter which introduces the novice football fan to the different categories of supporter he can expect to encounter on a match day. Categories which include lads, sads, old gits, young gits and anoraks.

Read on…

Up to this point I have broken down the support into a number of specific types, but there is one group that has yet to be mentioned and that is women, and there is a reason for that. I have said it before, and I will say it again: women and football do not mix. As a geezer, you will spend your day in the company of other men, and therefore women who go to football are to be totally and utterly ignored. Furthermore, if you are unfortunate enough to find yourself sitting near a woman, you should never moderate your language. In fact, it is your duty to become even more colourful as she may well move, which would be a bonus. To be perfectly honest, if I had my way women wouldn’t even be allowed inside grounds, and I certainly believe that if a ground is sold out and a male of the species is locked outside, someone should go in, grab the nearest female and throw her out so that the bloke can have her seat.

I have to say at this point that I get into a lot of trouble for my views on women at football, but I’m afraid that’s too bad. I have yet to be told by any football-loving male that my opinions are contrary to theirs and that is good enough for me. And let’s face it, being a geezer is about being a bloke and doing blokey things. That’s one of the attractions. Women who watch football will, of course, argue this point until the cows come home. They will argue that they love the game as much as me, go to every game home and away and can discuss tactics with anyone who cares to listen. Unfortunately by this time I am not listening, as I simply do not care about anything a woman has to say on the subject of my obsession. However, at some point or another during your life of geezerdom you will have to defend this stance, and so I will explain the reasoning behind it once again.

Generally speaking, men live for their football. They sleep it, worship it and, if they can, they play it. When they watch the game, they go through every emotion known, but in the background there is always an element of frustration. This frustration is borne out of the fact that if they had practised harder as a kid, they could have been out there doing it while some other sad git watched them. Women cannot do that because they can never play football and that is the difference. Men love football: women like football. It really is that simple. If ever you get into an argument with a woman about football, you do not need to sink to the level of ‘you only go to look at the players legs’, but merely ask her to explain how she can possibly talk about Beckham dropping a 40-yard pass on to the feet of Owen when she could not kick a ball with any degree of accuracy over a distance of 40 inches. That will shut her right up. Alternatively, if a woman begins talking football with you, merely look at her and say, ‘Yeah, right-oh love,’ before returning to your paper and you will be unbeatable.

In any case, there are only two reasons why most women go to watch football. For the married ones, it’s the only chance they get to spend time with their old man whereas, the single ones only go to spend a few hours surrounded by men in a testosterone-fuelled frenzy. This is clearly the case; because most single females who go to football are pig ugly.

A brief mention here about women’s football. Football is, and always will be, a man’s game. It is played by men for the enjoyment of other men and it is hard and aggressive, fast and skilful. All things that women’s football isn’t. The argument that women’s football is all about grace and skill is a joke. I mean, have you ever seen any women footballers? Having studied the subject at great length, it is clear to me that women who try to play football fall into three categories: they are raving feminists and play the game because, if men do it, then they should have the right to, or they are geezer-birds. And by that I mean women who really want to be men (if they were under 11 we would call them tomboys).  Or, they are lesbians. Women’s football is crap. If it were any good people would go and watch it, but it isn’t and they don’t. And, to be honest, I doubt they ever will.

End… Please feel free to comment!

bloke, books, moaning, writing

Cooking the books (and the telly)

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For some time now, I have watched bemused as the cult of the celebrity cook has taken an increasingly tight grasp hold on the consciousness of this country.

Almost every evening these days our television channels are swamped with programmes made by smug twats showing us how to cook pretentious food which no one other a wannabe smug twat would ever even attempt to try and cook. As if that isn’t bad enough, a visit to any bookstore or supermarket (sic) will see shelves positively sagging under legions of weighty tomes written by the same smug twats for the delectation of the same wannabe smug twats.

Quite how this cult ever came to pass escapes me and normally I would say a hearty fair play to all of those currently making fortunes off the back of the great British public. After all, I’ve done much the same thing albeit on a (much) smaller scale.

However, the fact that both television and publishing have become obsessed with celebrity chefs is becoming an increasing irritation to me. Not least because some of those at the ‘sharp’ end are seemingly so far up themselves that I’m amazed they can actually see daylight. Saint Jamie Oliver clearly believes that he alone (well, with a bit of help from Sainsbury’s obviously) can save the nation whilst Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall definitely lives in a different world from me. River Cottage my arse.

Antony Worrall Thompson has a face you would never tire of hitting, Gordon Ramsey, clever though he obviously is, brings new meaning to the word annoying (really Gordon, saying ‘fuck’ over and over again might have worked once, now it’s just tedious. Ask Roger Melly) and as for Heston Blumenthal (a man so ‘talented’ he doesn’t have a kitchen on his show, has a lab!) he’s quite possibly the most annoying git on TV.

Aside from being irritating, the one thing all the above have in common is that they are male and hereby lies my biggest problem. It’s not that these ‘cooking’ shows are inevitably slanted toward women (which if nothing else, reinforces the idea that the average bloke can’t or won’t cook) nor is it the fact that by virtue of the fact that these blokes can cook, they are elevated to god-like status in the eyes of the female population. It’s the fact that when you add together the amount of time cooking shows consume on our airwaves and then combine that with the hours of soap’s and home decorating shows which increasingly dominate our evenings viewing, it is clear that the nations broadcasters have forgotten that 50% of the population are actually male! And aside from Top Gear (and even that’s arguable these days) there are next to no programmes on terrestrial TV which are actually directed solely at men! Daytime TV is even worse! Some of the shite on there is bordering on anti-male! Loose Women… please, do me a favour and piss off!

It’s got to the stage now where if we men want to watch something made for ‘us’ then we have  to go to satellite TV and channels such as Discovery, Dave and the History Channel. That’s just not right.

So the next time some woman moans about the amount of sport on TV, feel free to show her the TV schedules and give her a bit of a reality check. Better still, inform her that having wasted countless hours listening and watching as some smug twat instructs her in the art of stuffing a hedgehog with stewed venison tongue coated in elderberry jelly or some other such bollocks, she might actually put some of her new found knowledge to good use by heading for the kitchen and rustling you up a meal. 

After all, you might as well get something out of it. Even if it is inedible.

bloke, moaning, sex, writing

The 80’s Bloke.

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I need to make something clear from the outset; I am a male….a proper heterosexual one. I love football, anything with an engine, eat meat, drink alcohol (albeit occasionally) and in the past few weeks have been called amongst other things, a flirt and a letch. Both of which I took as compliments.

But if you were expecting some kind of spirited defence of the male species or even some kind of anti-female rant, you are going to be disappointed. You see in spite of the fact that I am a ‘bloke’ in pretty much every sense of the word, I would go so far as to say that I far prefer the company of women to men.

Most of my best friends are women, the bulk of my working colleagues including my editor and my agent are women and not so long ago I was best man at the same-sex wedding of two of my bestest (female) chums which was, I have to say, a truly delightful experience. Rammed as it was, with women (albeit some of whom had little or no interest in men but each to their own).

The reason for this is that in my experience, women are a lot of fun whilst men are fairly hopeless, especially where women are concerned. And yes, I do lump myself in there with, as most of my female friends and colleagues will agree, good reason. For like most men, I have no idea how women think or work, am prone to saying the wrong thing at the very worst time and cannot for the life of me understand the fascination with either shoes, handbags or celebrity magazines.

Furthermore, as I have previously mentioned I have no concept of how much fun shopping is (for the most part, it really isn’t), have no desire to even think about why a bed needs to be covered with cushions simply because they look nice nor can I even comprehend why anyone would need to curl their eyelashes.

Oh, and since I have no uterus, I cannot possibly have any idea what it’s like to have PMT and have no real explanation as to why something so obvious is so frequently thrown at me as if it were an accusation. Don’t even get me started on the menopause or the pain of childbirth.

I could go on…. and on…. and on.

What I hear you asking, has any of this to do with the 80’s? Well on the face of it, nothing. But in truth, it has everything.

You see, to state the obvious, men and women are different. Very different. At the beginning of the 80’s, everyone knew that, accepted it and even embraced it. It was a time when real men (or ‘blokes’ as they shall henceforth be known) did manual work, smoked, drank beer and looked after their families whilst the vast majority of women once married, kept home and acted as mothers.

Yet by the end of the decade fuelled by Thatcherism, consumerism, liberalism and feminism, we were seeing the first seeds of the god-awful ‘Ladette’ culture and were just a couple of years away from the first mention of the most loathsome cult ever to infest the male race, ‘the Metrosexual.’ The final nail in the concept of masculinity which by the turn of the decade had all but ebbed away along with good manners, common courtesy, respect and most importantly of all, romance. All to be replaced with… well, nothing.

And as the 80’s ended, women everywhere suddenly found themselves wondering where all the real men had gone whilst the real men were living in fear of having their seemingly old-fashioned advances rejected. Rejection being of course, the greatest contraceptive known to man.

So it has continued, with the traditional roles of male/hunter, woman/nurturer now almost an alien concept and as a bloke, I find that very sad. I mean, what’s wrong with holding the door open for a woman or perish the thought, offering one your seat on the tube? It’s what a gentleman does yet these days, you do it at your peril. Equality, whilst an admirable idea, has a lot to answer for because in many respects, no one wins.

Thankfully, all is not lost. For there is a saviour at hand. A real man in the old fashioned sense who blokes look up to and women have come to regard as something of a sex symbol.

No not me…. Step forward the legend that is DCI Gene Hunt. The politically incorrect, foul mouthed and most definitely sexist copper who stars in the BBC TV series ‘Ashes to Ashes.’ He is as good a representation of the early 80’s male as you will possibly ever see on screen but more importantly, he is often mentioned as the ‘bit of rough women would like a tumble with.’

If true, this is a welcome sign. For whilst much of modern day society has its merits, the relationship between men and women remains slightly blurred. Middle aged men especially are still struggling to come terms with things and the fact that a fictional television character has come to be regarded with such affection by both sexes proves that deep down, those old school values have not been totally extinguished. Or to put it another way, sometimes the good old days were actually good.

The question of course, is does that kind of Alpha male have a place in modern day society. Well speaking as one myself, I would obviously hope so but I know plenty of females who would certainly go for a bit of old fashioned looking after.

But then again, back then we never thought things that deeply did we. And maybe, like proper sized Curly Wurly’s, Tiswas and Brit–Funk, that was something else that was better back in the 80’s.

Happy days indeed.

bloke, moaning, sex, writing

Things That Baffle Me (Shopping)

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I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to understand what makes women tick and as I have stated on numerous occasions (and as anyone who knows me will happily testify) I have generally failed miserably. So much so in fact, that in recent years I have all but given up and instead, take whatever flak my ignorance earns with all the humble pie I can consume.

For the most part, adopting this life of bewilderment has turned out to be a good thing. Not least because the older and more childlike I become, the more the mystery seems to deepen and the more interesting women become. However, there are still aspects of female life that bemuse me to such an extent that I have to give them serious thought. One such thing is shopping. And I don’t mean a trip to Tesco’s or even Ikea, I mean a full-on full day clothes shop with the coven.

For years I have struggled to understand why women derive such pleasure from what to most blokes, myself included, is a loathsome activity. I’ve never been able to grasp the idea of spending hours wandering clothes shops or worked out what it is about shoes and handbags that females find so orgasmically fascinating. However, after a recent and extremely illuminating discussion with a female who best remain nameless in the way that ‘whistleblowers’ do, I now think I get it.

You see I suspect we males have been missing a fundamental truth. It’s not that we can’t understand womens fascination with shopping, it’s that they don’t want us to understand it! And the reasons for that are best summed up in three particular words.

The first is occasion. For females of all ages, a trip to the shopping mall with the girls is an event. One where giggling ensues, gossip undertaken and worlds put to rights. More importantly, it is one where men are unwelcome for the sole reason that they inhibit their discussions, behaviour or perish the thought, spending!

The second is escapism. Shopping allows women to step outside the humdrum world of everyday life and become whoever or whatever they want to be for a while. It is, in essence, the same as dressing up when they were a little girl and there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.

The third word is perhaps the most controversial and perhaps most worrying because it is deception. And I’m not talking the kind of self deception women practice when they convince themselves that they really do need, will wear and can afford those Christian Louboutin shoes when they hand over their Mastercard, I’m talking about the subversive thrill derived from deceiving the old man. Be it by hiding receipts, cutting off labels or even throwing in words such as ‘bargain’ ‘cheap’ or ‘sale.’ 

Thinking about all this has been an interesting experience. Not least because it’s made me understand that shopping is for women what sporting events are for men. And now that I’ve finally woken up to the fact that the old adage ‘what happens on X stays on X’ (insert football, stock car track, stag night, rugby tour as required) which we’ve employed for decades is also being employed by the fairer sex, I am able to look things in an entirely different light. Not least because when I step out of the door and head out with the lads, I won’t ever have to feel guilty again.

A version of this blog previously appeared on www.moanaboutmen.com