It all went a bit quiet on this blog for a while.
Why? Well, there are three good reasons, and probably a load of bad ones (like laziness).
Reason one: the male half of this blog – me – has moved house and lost his web connection for what I’m now referring to as “a BT“. The “BT” is a new SI unit of time which I just invented. For those lucky people who don’t live in the UK, and aren’t afflicted with our wonderful privatised utilities, I offer this explanation: the “BT” is approximately the length of time it takes the Persian Empire to rise, fall, rise again, and then get pissed and stagger sideways into the Indian Ocean.
The second reason for the profound lack of activity here is that I’ve also entered a new and not entirely horrible relationship with a real life girl. Or woman. Or whatever. So now all of that spiteful sexism that made me want to rant about how rubbish girls are, and why sex should really be a lot better… well, the sex got better than lumpen ogre like me can reasonably expect, and the spite evaporated… or did it? Let’s see how this blog pans out.
The third and final reason for the echoing silence on this blog is that the female half – AKA Honey – has got herself a job, and no longer has the time to fanny around making sexist comments about men in general, and me in particular. But she still wants us men to pay for 100% of the food and wine.
I know this because on her other blog, with her Batman mask off, and in full view as @katy_red, she posted a reasoned article about How To Be A Man, in which she makes it clear that men should pay for all dates, but in which she doesn’t make it clear whether this is because it’s the last old-fashioned part of her personality (which is remarkably convenient for her), or if she’s just spectacularly tight-fisted.
Another, less enlightened man, might ask if there’s a specific term for a woman who wants a man to cough up a couple of hundred pounds up-front for the three dates that are required before she’ll agree to have sex with him.
Hey, it’s a reasonable conclusion to come to! Let’s face it, the way dating works is pretty one-sided. Men risk humiliation by asking you out; men do all the arrangements; men do all the driving; men have to do all of the entertaining; men have to pay.
Women, on the other hand, just sit back and let us throw all this stuff at them. And if the stuff is of high enough quality, you make us do it twice more and then lie back and let us do all of the work in bed.
And then you complain if we’re not a “proper man”, whatever that means. Well, thanks to Honey, we know what a proper man is – or at least what he isn’t.
- Because God forbid he should have his own mind, or express himself in any way! Not by wearing his own clothes, or by playing an instrument, or by having a hobby, or by loving his children or pets, or by fondly remembering old friends and lovers. His sole purpose in life should be entertaining you on a date, and his existence before that moment (and after) is of absolutely no concern.
- He’s got an Imperial Ton of penis between his legs, because it’s definitely entirely his fault if your minge is the size of the Blackwell tunnel, and his perfectly normal, anatomically perfect tallywacker can only touch one side at a time. In no way is any of that the entirely natural result of the woman’s experience with childbirth; or the unnatural result of the collection of over-sized dildos with which she passes the evenings. It’s all the man’s fault, and always will be. If he fails to measure up, he is utterly worthless; and the only time she wants to hear his name again is in a local news report that he’s just died under the influence of a bus.
- He has Honey’s exact sense of humour, not his own. Because if she fails to laugh at his impressive joke about the Large Hadron Collider, that’s due to his failings as a man, and not due to the woman’s failings to read anything except for Cosmo-Pudding-Brain magazine (this week’s special: 100 new ways to have an orgasm while finding out what Kate Middleton is wearing).
- He will have absolutely no physical failings of any kind. Not thinning hair, not wonky toes, not a susceptibility to the adventurous food hygiene standards on many Greek islands. I haven’t checked with The Oracle that is Honey, but I’m assuming it’s OK for him to have a sexy and interesting scar, as long as he got it without crying, being momentarily disabled, or making a mess on the carpet.
So now we know how to be a man. Cheers Honey, you’ve saved me literally years of introspection and personal growth. But sadly – and I know you’ll weep and rend your hair when you read this – sadly I suspect I’m not the man for you, because I did definitely have a cry, become temporarily enfeebled, and make a mess when I got my scar. Other than that, I think I’m probably perfect.
I have no idea how to be a man, I’ll make that clear from the outset. But I’d hazard a guess that a man isn’t spending a lot of time wondering if he’s a man. He’s just not all that arsed. That’s how the male brain works. The fourth of the three reasons that this blog has been so dead for so long is that I find it a bit tiresome to have to talk about myself, or think very much about what could laughingly be called my “inner life”. There isn’t much inner life for men. For most of us, I suspect, the screen-saver in our brains is Pong, being played between two pendulous breasts.
This is all a bit black-and-white, of course. Not every man is a sexist beast like me, and not every woman is a modern, thick-skinned go-getter like Honey. I suspect not even Honey is, and I know for damn sure that I’m not anywhere near the sexist beast that looms out of the dark when I’m allowed near a blog. Men are not just men, and women are not just women. we’re all somewhere on a continuum. Some people have what could be described as a “male brain”, and some a “female brain”, and I recommend a very fine and enjoyable book about it called Why Men Don’t Listen and Women Can’t Read Maps.
But for the purposes of annoying Honey I’m going to pretend all women all the same: a mewling, demanding, irrational ball of passive-aggressive handbags and hormonal weeping.
Oh, sorry, did that offend you? Yes? Oh good. Get used to it.
Here’s a list of things women shouldn’t do/be. It’s equally fucking stupid, sexist, impractical and unachievable, but if Honey can live in a 50-Shades dreamworld, so can I. Now bend over!
Stop having so much shit in your lives.
I should point out that this isn’t a specific dig at my ex, it’s a dig at all women, everywhere. I moved house last month, and every single thing that this 42-year-old man needs could fit in one transit van. Every single thing. And I work from home too, so that’s my entire household belongings and my business. I own 7 tshirts, 2 pairs of jeans, and a couple of suits. That’s plenty. More is pointless. I only have one body.
Whereas women own, at a conservative estimate, over one billion items of clothing each. And that’s just clothes – the same principle of “own everything, keep everything” pervades the entire female world.
My guess is that the average 2-person household contains 5% male stuff and 95% female. And the vast majority of that female stuff is… how can I put this delicately… I can’t. All your stuff is meaningless shit. Just pointless crap that clutters up your life and distracts you from finishing any story. Ever…
Just finish the fucking story.
Do you know why there are so few successful women film directors? It’s because so few of them have realised that stories should have a beginning, a middle and an end. For most women, stories have a beginning that men don’t understand, and then a middle that lasts for several days. The end comes when I sigh and look bored, which, with dilligence and plenty of practice, I can prevent from happening for several hours. But should I have to? Shouldn’t you just learn to identify the pertinent facts, and assume that my brain can fill in the rest?
Yes, I know Mildred from work. Yes I know she has that lopsided bosom. No, I have no interest in how she got it, and even if I did, surely you can tell me in less than the newly discovered measurement of time known as a BT? And if I should happen to encourage you to skip to the end, you become passive aggressive…
Let me record a conversation that every man has had.
Me: You’re a bit quiet, is everything OK?
(Nine hour silence)
You: It’s nice of you to bother asking.
Honestly, just fuck the fuck off with your fucking passive aggression. I’m sure men do it too, although I can’t ever remember noticing it. But you women: you love it. It’s as though it’s your only power – and believe me, it isn’t, not as long as nipples exist. But you’re so good at passive-aggression that as soon as it starts every man in the world knows he has 3 options:
- Prostate grovelling, without really understanding why
- Going to the pub until it blows over (usually about 3 years)
- Kissing goodbye to the kids and moving back in with his mum
Stop telling me how fat you are.
Firstly, you’re not. Or at least, you probably aren’t. And if you are, we probably don’t mind one bit. If you have a problem with fat, take it up with Cosmo-Pudding-Brain magazine (this week’s special: how to diet yourself into a coma while reading about how Elle McPherson is a perfectly normal and average woman). It’s reading that vaccuous shite that persuades you to curdle your looks by dieting yourself into a torpor. Eat a bloody pie, woman. At least you’d have the energy to have some proper sex.
Have some proper sex.
I’ve been having sex since I was 14, which is very naughty of me, and I recommend you wait until later kids. But that’s 28 years of fucking, and during that entire time I’ve only met one woman who put her bloody back into it. Perhaps it’s the dieting, and you’re too enfeebled from living on 9 calories a day. Or perhaps you’re just idle. Whatever it is, stop it. Do at least 35% of the work – that seems fair, doesn’t it?
I should point out that I have absolutely no complaints, and even if I did I’d be too polite to raise them in public because I’m not insensitive and bitchy.
Stop being insensitive and bitchy.
I don’t know how to tell you this, but women are all fucking horrible about other people. Don’t assume that it’s OK to tell everyone all about your personal life if it involves belittling other people, you crass, awful, caterwauling harpies.
There, I said it.
If a guy takes you for a date and isn’t your type, that’s not his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. But if it was somebody’s fault, it would be 50% yours. So stop whining about it: he did nothing wrong, he just had different taste than you. Who knows, maybe he had better taste than you! The failure of the date doesn’t automatically signify that he was worse than you were. Maybe he’s a sophisticated, intelligent and considerate man, and you’re a shrieking, preening slapper who just wants a pint of Lambrusco and a fight at the taxi rank. Does that make him bad? Or you? Maybe he liked Rousseau and you like Hello. Maybe he liked Sibelius and you like Shakira. Maybe he liked good films, and you liked Twilight.
Stop liking Twilight.
OK, it’s a bit hypocritical of me, considering how excited I am about the new Batman (which will probably be good, but hokum, and in any event it’s hardly Kieślowski’s Three Colours Trilogy).
But Twilight? Really?
The plot could be written in finger-paint, and probably was. The dialogue sounds like it was dribbled out accidentally by someone who was, moments earlier, listlessly licking the window of a Variety Club bus.The bloke is wetter than a haddock’s pocket, and the girl looks like she’s haunted by a truly terrifying series of mysterious drifting farts. It’s so dire. It’s more dire than Danny Dyer, and that’s about as dire as a thing can be, and still live. So stop it.