This is quite fun: http://www.savetoby.com
or you could veiw it as the sad decline in standards in the mad rush for profit in this capitalist hell we find ourselves living in
O well its the weekend!
Friday, February 25, 2005
Come friendly bombs to Croydon!
This week I have mainly been zooming around the country in a high powered hire car, breaking the law and doing some work.
I would like to give you an insight into what I did this week by badly misquoting John Betjeman (once Poet Laureate)
Come friendly bombs and fall on Croydon!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Yes I had to go to Croydon. It was hell! How can people live like this? The mean streets of Croydon are mean and it’s in the middle of nowhere, or more accurately it’s in the middle of somewhere, but that somewhere – the conurbation of London - that great expanding sore, has created this anonymous geography.
Croydon is simply an abstract collection of houses, streets, shops, office buildings and litter that has lost all its identity except that it is now simply an outskirt of London. A refuge for the worker ants to come home to after a hard day at work, to while away a few hours resting, before once more following the well worn path back into the City.
Croydon is the vision of the future. That time a century from now when the whole of this crowded island is concreted over and every hamlet, village and charming county town has disappeared under the planners red pen with their ‘vision for the future or my vision of Hell’.
I’m sure Croydon was once a beautiful place as the Saxon’s named it 'crooked valley' or 'saffron valley' – I guess I am spoilt and lucky as I live in Plymouth. From my office building I can see, on one side, the sea and the other Dartmoor. I can breathe. In Croydon, I started to suffocate and started to experience some slight claustrophobia that bordered on panic – and I was only there two hours!
I would like to give you an insight into what I did this week by badly misquoting John Betjeman (once Poet Laureate)
Come friendly bombs and fall on Croydon!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Yes I had to go to Croydon. It was hell! How can people live like this? The mean streets of Croydon are mean and it’s in the middle of nowhere, or more accurately it’s in the middle of somewhere, but that somewhere – the conurbation of London - that great expanding sore, has created this anonymous geography.
Croydon is simply an abstract collection of houses, streets, shops, office buildings and litter that has lost all its identity except that it is now simply an outskirt of London. A refuge for the worker ants to come home to after a hard day at work, to while away a few hours resting, before once more following the well worn path back into the City.
Croydon is the vision of the future. That time a century from now when the whole of this crowded island is concreted over and every hamlet, village and charming county town has disappeared under the planners red pen with their ‘vision for the future or my vision of Hell’.
I’m sure Croydon was once a beautiful place as the Saxon’s named it 'crooked valley' or 'saffron valley' – I guess I am spoilt and lucky as I live in Plymouth. From my office building I can see, on one side, the sea and the other Dartmoor. I can breathe. In Croydon, I started to suffocate and started to experience some slight claustrophobia that bordered on panic – and I was only there two hours!
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Irritable Male Syndrome
OK I going to admit it, come out of the closet, bare my soul to the world, I think I’m suffering from Irritable Male Syndrome – there I’ve said it, happy now? It seems nowadays that the smallest thing can make me irritable. It’s like if Kylie was lying there, naked, on my bed, covered in chocolate sauce, I’d be ‘o Kylie, now you’re dripping on the quilt cover, stop writhing around, I only changed them last week – I think’! See, where Irritable Bowel Syndrome can have the effect of not releasing anything, Irritable Male Syndrome means one has to vent one’s spleen and it all comes out!
Take yesterday for instance, I had to go into town (to the bank) it was a nice crisp spring day here in Plymouth, the sky was blue, the sun was shining – I needed a sandwich, so I decided to repeat my earlier ‘Subway’ experience. I went into the shop and ordered their veggie option, I asked a question about it and the girl was sarcastic to me, like I was some no brain who couldn’t understand the pictorial menu on the wall. So of course I remonstrated with her and reminded her that all I wanted to do was buy a sandwich and I didn’t need the sarcastic wit of somebody who thinks being able to cut a bread roll in half will look good on her CV. And I got irritated. Even more so when I went along the line and noticed that the woman serving the meat, was, after smearing the meat onto the roll, diving her hands into the various boxes of salad thus cross contaminating them with every thing from the black death to animal fat (eeyuuu). By this time I was truly irritated. So I asked for the manager. He/she was out on lunch and if that’s not some sort of sign, when the managers go out for lunch and not eat in, I don’t know what is.
Now take the wife….no skip that
But let’s talk about teenage boys, why o why o why o why can they not ever flush the toilet after taking a wiz. I’m sure it’s not some sort of water saving campaign they are on, lets get to it, it’s just plain laziness isn’t it? They cannot be bothered after pointing percy to reach out 6 inches and flush the goddam toilet, how many times have I told them – its irritating.
There’s a million and one things about work that’s gets one’s gander up but that’s par for the course I guess. People say well move jobs if you get so irritated, but moving jobs just changes the nature of the irritations. There’s still going to be those annoying people who can’t do the simplest things right which makes your job ten times more difficult. And of course there’s the technology.
Take this laptop I’m working with, yes folks I have a laptop not a desktop because I am mobile and need to work on the run – hah! Last year, not six months ago I had a lovely Toshiba laptop, it was my friend, it worked, and nothing ever went wrong. Then the institution I worked for decided to have all their laptops provided by a contractor on a lease.
Lets get things into context here, before I become irritated just writing about my computer. On Sunday I went to a car boot sale. While I was there I bought my 6 year old daughter a Vtech (childs) laptop for £3. It’s great, it works, it’s more reliable than this heap of black plastic sat in front of me. My computer crashes, hangs up, takes for ever to load, isn’t it strange now how we can even get irritated if a computer takes five nanoseconds longer to load that your old one? I want to throw it out the window – but I can’t I’d get the sack, the problem is even if I were to get it ‘stolen’ it would be replaced with a similar piece of junk as per the spec of the contract.
I’m sure being irritated all the time is not good for ones health and perhaps I should do tai chi or something, but doesn’t it make you sick seeing all those goody goody two shoes doing Bruce Lee moves in slow motion, reminding you what an unhealthy layabout your really are and anyway what’s the good of it being in slow motion? If I was a mugger, I’d have their handbag and be 300 meters away before they got into the ‘heron’ or ‘snake’ posture.
I even irritate myself. And that’s not good is it?
Take yesterday for instance, I had to go into town (to the bank) it was a nice crisp spring day here in Plymouth, the sky was blue, the sun was shining – I needed a sandwich, so I decided to repeat my earlier ‘Subway’ experience. I went into the shop and ordered their veggie option, I asked a question about it and the girl was sarcastic to me, like I was some no brain who couldn’t understand the pictorial menu on the wall. So of course I remonstrated with her and reminded her that all I wanted to do was buy a sandwich and I didn’t need the sarcastic wit of somebody who thinks being able to cut a bread roll in half will look good on her CV. And I got irritated. Even more so when I went along the line and noticed that the woman serving the meat, was, after smearing the meat onto the roll, diving her hands into the various boxes of salad thus cross contaminating them with every thing from the black death to animal fat (eeyuuu). By this time I was truly irritated. So I asked for the manager. He/she was out on lunch and if that’s not some sort of sign, when the managers go out for lunch and not eat in, I don’t know what is.
Now take the wife….no skip that
But let’s talk about teenage boys, why o why o why o why can they not ever flush the toilet after taking a wiz. I’m sure it’s not some sort of water saving campaign they are on, lets get to it, it’s just plain laziness isn’t it? They cannot be bothered after pointing percy to reach out 6 inches and flush the goddam toilet, how many times have I told them – its irritating.
There’s a million and one things about work that’s gets one’s gander up but that’s par for the course I guess. People say well move jobs if you get so irritated, but moving jobs just changes the nature of the irritations. There’s still going to be those annoying people who can’t do the simplest things right which makes your job ten times more difficult. And of course there’s the technology.
Take this laptop I’m working with, yes folks I have a laptop not a desktop because I am mobile and need to work on the run – hah! Last year, not six months ago I had a lovely Toshiba laptop, it was my friend, it worked, and nothing ever went wrong. Then the institution I worked for decided to have all their laptops provided by a contractor on a lease.
Lets get things into context here, before I become irritated just writing about my computer. On Sunday I went to a car boot sale. While I was there I bought my 6 year old daughter a Vtech (childs) laptop for £3. It’s great, it works, it’s more reliable than this heap of black plastic sat in front of me. My computer crashes, hangs up, takes for ever to load, isn’t it strange now how we can even get irritated if a computer takes five nanoseconds longer to load that your old one? I want to throw it out the window – but I can’t I’d get the sack, the problem is even if I were to get it ‘stolen’ it would be replaced with a similar piece of junk as per the spec of the contract.
I’m sure being irritated all the time is not good for ones health and perhaps I should do tai chi or something, but doesn’t it make you sick seeing all those goody goody two shoes doing Bruce Lee moves in slow motion, reminding you what an unhealthy layabout your really are and anyway what’s the good of it being in slow motion? If I was a mugger, I’d have their handbag and be 300 meters away before they got into the ‘heron’ or ‘snake’ posture.
I even irritate myself. And that’s not good is it?
Monday, February 21, 2005
Women + Shopping = Hell My advice to shop keepers
After going clothes shopping with my wife I thought that I would offer some useful advice to the clothing retailers who trade upon our high streets. I can only vouch for the United Kingdom and ask for our colonial chums to relay the state of affairs in their own backyards to us via the vehicle of this blog.
It seems to me that we men are of secondary importance when it comes to women’s clothes shopping. This is a huge mistake on the part of the retailers because if they did their research properly they would probably find that the vast percentage of their takings at the till comes from the wallets and back pockets of the men who loiter sour faced in their store.
It is my contention that if these stores were made more man friendly then the resultant outlay would be returned a thousand fold across the counter.
Here are my humble suggestions:
1. Whilst it is rather nice, whilst the wife is scouring the rails for that pair of jeans, blouse, t-shirt, skirt and so on in that particular shade of puce that will match the shoes she bought on a whim last week, to watch the other young things going about their shopping business, it would be an even better way to while away those tedious minutes by being able to sit down and rest the aching feet whilst watching the pretty young things.
2. It would be even better if the store also provided us bone weary, tired, bored lecherous men with a cup of coffee, tea or even a beer whilst sitting on a comfy sofa watching the pretty young things draping stuff over themselves and twirling in front of the mirrors.
3. Store owners should also pay attention to the TV schedules, and in particular the sports fixtures so that should, say England be playing the French at Rugby during the 6 nations tournament, then what would be the cost of providing a big screen TV? Minimal and then we men would be happy to spend the whole afternoon in the shop rather than exclaiming ‘its fine – lets go’ every time some flimsy piece of chiffon is waved in front of our eyes.
4. Sort out the changing room situation. Currently whilst hanging about outside the changing room one feels like some sort of pervert because every time a door swings open. One can, if one is lucky, catch a glimpse of bare thigh, beknickered bottom, or lacy bra, but its difficult to stare properly because it just feels wrong. One has to hang around the door looking at ones feet in a shamefaced way as everybody knows your just waiting for the door to open so your partner can ask your opinion (which basically boils down to ‘Does my bum look big in this? – even if it’s a jumper). When the door does open then you can look up expectantly as if it’s the wife, or girlfriend coming out, but of course ones gaze is focused 5 feet behind the person coming out in the hope of a quick thrill.
So my advice is, let’s do it properly lets have a viewing window installed. By the settee, next to the big screen, between the coffee and tea dispensers. Of course it would have to be one of those two way mirrors so we could see in but they couldn’t see us. Well they’d only be a bit embarrassed wouldn’t they? So they could turn, adjust and pirouette to their hearts content. Of course if it was an electric one we could turn it off during the important points in the match, like when Jonny Wilkinson was kicking. But if say Scotland and Italy were playing then most of the attention would be on the mirror.
Its not much to ask is it? The amount of our hard earned cash that travels across the counters probably amounts to the GNP of one of the smaller South American countries. So retailers think about us men. Do it right and we’ll happily spend every Saturday afternoon in your shop whilst the wife/girlfriend/significant other spends every penny on this gods earth on another fluffy jumper and sequin covered thongs (which sound painful to me but hey I’m no fashion victim!)
It seems to me that we men are of secondary importance when it comes to women’s clothes shopping. This is a huge mistake on the part of the retailers because if they did their research properly they would probably find that the vast percentage of their takings at the till comes from the wallets and back pockets of the men who loiter sour faced in their store.
It is my contention that if these stores were made more man friendly then the resultant outlay would be returned a thousand fold across the counter.
Here are my humble suggestions:
1. Whilst it is rather nice, whilst the wife is scouring the rails for that pair of jeans, blouse, t-shirt, skirt and so on in that particular shade of puce that will match the shoes she bought on a whim last week, to watch the other young things going about their shopping business, it would be an even better way to while away those tedious minutes by being able to sit down and rest the aching feet whilst watching the pretty young things.
2. It would be even better if the store also provided us bone weary, tired, bored lecherous men with a cup of coffee, tea or even a beer whilst sitting on a comfy sofa watching the pretty young things draping stuff over themselves and twirling in front of the mirrors.
3. Store owners should also pay attention to the TV schedules, and in particular the sports fixtures so that should, say England be playing the French at Rugby during the 6 nations tournament, then what would be the cost of providing a big screen TV? Minimal and then we men would be happy to spend the whole afternoon in the shop rather than exclaiming ‘its fine – lets go’ every time some flimsy piece of chiffon is waved in front of our eyes.
4. Sort out the changing room situation. Currently whilst hanging about outside the changing room one feels like some sort of pervert because every time a door swings open. One can, if one is lucky, catch a glimpse of bare thigh, beknickered bottom, or lacy bra, but its difficult to stare properly because it just feels wrong. One has to hang around the door looking at ones feet in a shamefaced way as everybody knows your just waiting for the door to open so your partner can ask your opinion (which basically boils down to ‘Does my bum look big in this? – even if it’s a jumper). When the door does open then you can look up expectantly as if it’s the wife, or girlfriend coming out, but of course ones gaze is focused 5 feet behind the person coming out in the hope of a quick thrill.
So my advice is, let’s do it properly lets have a viewing window installed. By the settee, next to the big screen, between the coffee and tea dispensers. Of course it would have to be one of those two way mirrors so we could see in but they couldn’t see us. Well they’d only be a bit embarrassed wouldn’t they? So they could turn, adjust and pirouette to their hearts content. Of course if it was an electric one we could turn it off during the important points in the match, like when Jonny Wilkinson was kicking. But if say Scotland and Italy were playing then most of the attention would be on the mirror.
Its not much to ask is it? The amount of our hard earned cash that travels across the counters probably amounts to the GNP of one of the smaller South American countries. So retailers think about us men. Do it right and we’ll happily spend every Saturday afternoon in your shop whilst the wife/girlfriend/significant other spends every penny on this gods earth on another fluffy jumper and sequin covered thongs (which sound painful to me but hey I’m no fashion victim!)
Friday, February 18, 2005
Fox off you buggers!
Fox hunting with Dogs finally banned in England as of today - Hurrah!
Fox ripped to pieces by Hounds - This is sport? I think not.
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
To you whom oscar wilde labelled:
the unspeakable pursuing the inedible
and unspeakable you truly are
in your bloody red coats
and your snarling beaks
and your nasty beastial country ways
You ride roughshod with your nose aloft
Your high and mighty snoot
But how the mighty have fallen
In Englands pleasant byways
You are true unspeakable
And now worth not a jot
Pick up your bloody saddles
And you buggers off you trot
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye
It’s there in plainest English
Your ‘sports’ a gory lie
The bigots and the bloodlust, the screaming of the fox
Are cleansed from the countryside
That suffering called ‘sport’
It’s not worth the words I write
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Not a very good poem but the best I could come up with this morning in between working etc.
Fox ripped to pieces by Hounds - This is sport? I think not.
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
To you whom oscar wilde labelled:
the unspeakable pursuing the inedible
and unspeakable you truly are
in your bloody red coats
and your snarling beaks
and your nasty beastial country ways
You ride roughshod with your nose aloft
Your high and mighty snoot
But how the mighty have fallen
In Englands pleasant byways
You are true unspeakable
And now worth not a jot
Pick up your bloody saddles
And you buggers off you trot
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye
It’s there in plainest English
Your ‘sports’ a gory lie
The bigots and the bloodlust, the screaming of the fox
Are cleansed from the countryside
That suffering called ‘sport’
It’s not worth the words I write
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Not a very good poem but the best I could come up with this morning in between working etc.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
O For Gods Sake Its Now Mothers Day!
I have just discovered to my horror that in seventeen days it will be Mothers Day! God Love Us, can’t somebody do something about all these special days – maybe I should just set up a direct debit in favour of Hallmark cards so they can just suck my bank balance dry.
Now I know that most of us in this world are lucky enough to have had a loving mother, the exceptions to this statement are - Margaret Thatcher (spawn of Lucifer) G.W. Bush (alien impostor), Michael Jackson (scientific experiment gone horribly wrong) and Robocop! And it is right that we should honour this wonderful woman with a special day, but so close to Christmas and Valentines Day – I ask you. I’m not a skinflint, but I would like my bank balance to level out for a week or two.
Now mothers are wonderful beings, despite what Freud and Jung and all those psychologists may have to say about them. I have never wanted to *&$! my mum (thankfully she was not Goldie Horn) or murder my Dad (not yet anyway, not until I’ve checked the insurance, the will and value of their house). So it is right and proper that we should honour our mums (or for the American readers moms).
We have to thank them first for doing the dirty deed with our dads (I know it doesn’t bear thinking about, but hey, they were young too - once) so that we might actually exist in the first place. We also have to thank them for protecting us from our Dad’s genetic faults as well. I mean we could all now be suffering from male pattern hair loss, middle aged paunch, knock knees, short-sightedness, loss of libido and heart problems, if it wasn’t for your mums genes fighting a deathly battle with your dads genetic warriors (if you are a woman reading this, and if you have developed any of the above because your father was selfish enough to pass on his defective dna to you, I apologise, but don’t blame me, blame that little old grey haired sex fiend in the corner who thought the sun shone out of his bottom for a few brief years as she rode him like a stallion!)
We also have to thank our mum’s for continually reminding us that our house needs cleaning because when she visits she spends half her time dusting, washing up, hoovering and generally making a nuisance of herself instead of enjoying the cakes and sandwiches we have prepared for her, she points out that our shirt buttons are not done up to the top and do you have on clean pants and vests (fortunately I have never been knocked down by a bus because now I’m a man naturally my underwear is minging and would make all the Casualty nurses pass out and my mother die of shame), she will remark that I’m looking a bit pasty, (i.e. ‘is she treating you well’ meaning the wife of course), and that the children are absolute angels (at her house - in her presence) so why do we moan about them all the time, she will make a point of telling you about all your old girlfriends and how well they are doing in front of you and your wife and get upset when you tell her to a. shut up, b. stop interfering and c. I am now fifty and can dress oneself thanks very much and chose when to change my own underwear.
Mum’s are great aren’t they?. I was trying to come up with a list of the ten best mums in the world and I actually couldn’t because there are so many great mums. My first one was that one in the Bible who kept begetting everybody (although it might have been those biblical blokes who did all the begetting and the wives were just the recipients of all that passion – my bible knowledge is a bit hazy) if it wasn’t for her, the first mum, none of us would be here, we might be all orang utans (one of the few animals I would like to be!). I guess Noahs’ wife was a good mum because she all those kids and a houseful of animals to look after. (But then again there’s loads of trailer trash that live in homes like that – ive seen them on Oprah!) See it’s difficult to come up with a list of the good mum’s – Mary perhaps, she was Jesus’ mum so she must be OK for God to have chose her to be a mum.
It’s just too hard to come up with the definitive list of good mum’s. It’s sad when you lose one (I would recommend an electronic ankle bracelet as they get older) but they have make us what we are today, the caring loving sensitive men that buy our wives cards and presents because they too will soon be the mothers of the fruit of their loins. And yes as we get older we men will need a surrogate mother as we descend into that second childhood where all our dribbling needs are met by our loving caring wives.
So Mum’s of the world I salute you, I am just sorry I can’t buy you all a card this mothers day the 6th march which, for those of you who note these things, is just two days after my birthday and four days before my daughter matilda’s 6th. I’ll be adding a PayPal link just as soon as a can for those kind gifts and donations!
Now I know that most of us in this world are lucky enough to have had a loving mother, the exceptions to this statement are - Margaret Thatcher (spawn of Lucifer) G.W. Bush (alien impostor), Michael Jackson (scientific experiment gone horribly wrong) and Robocop! And it is right that we should honour this wonderful woman with a special day, but so close to Christmas and Valentines Day – I ask you. I’m not a skinflint, but I would like my bank balance to level out for a week or two.
Now mothers are wonderful beings, despite what Freud and Jung and all those psychologists may have to say about them. I have never wanted to *&$! my mum (thankfully she was not Goldie Horn) or murder my Dad (not yet anyway, not until I’ve checked the insurance, the will and value of their house). So it is right and proper that we should honour our mums (or for the American readers moms).
We have to thank them first for doing the dirty deed with our dads (I know it doesn’t bear thinking about, but hey, they were young too - once) so that we might actually exist in the first place. We also have to thank them for protecting us from our Dad’s genetic faults as well. I mean we could all now be suffering from male pattern hair loss, middle aged paunch, knock knees, short-sightedness, loss of libido and heart problems, if it wasn’t for your mums genes fighting a deathly battle with your dads genetic warriors (if you are a woman reading this, and if you have developed any of the above because your father was selfish enough to pass on his defective dna to you, I apologise, but don’t blame me, blame that little old grey haired sex fiend in the corner who thought the sun shone out of his bottom for a few brief years as she rode him like a stallion!)
We also have to thank our mum’s for continually reminding us that our house needs cleaning because when she visits she spends half her time dusting, washing up, hoovering and generally making a nuisance of herself instead of enjoying the cakes and sandwiches we have prepared for her, she points out that our shirt buttons are not done up to the top and do you have on clean pants and vests (fortunately I have never been knocked down by a bus because now I’m a man naturally my underwear is minging and would make all the Casualty nurses pass out and my mother die of shame), she will remark that I’m looking a bit pasty, (i.e. ‘is she treating you well’ meaning the wife of course), and that the children are absolute angels (at her house - in her presence) so why do we moan about them all the time, she will make a point of telling you about all your old girlfriends and how well they are doing in front of you and your wife and get upset when you tell her to a. shut up, b. stop interfering and c. I am now fifty and can dress oneself thanks very much and chose when to change my own underwear.
Mum’s are great aren’t they?. I was trying to come up with a list of the ten best mums in the world and I actually couldn’t because there are so many great mums. My first one was that one in the Bible who kept begetting everybody (although it might have been those biblical blokes who did all the begetting and the wives were just the recipients of all that passion – my bible knowledge is a bit hazy) if it wasn’t for her, the first mum, none of us would be here, we might be all orang utans (one of the few animals I would like to be!). I guess Noahs’ wife was a good mum because she all those kids and a houseful of animals to look after. (But then again there’s loads of trailer trash that live in homes like that – ive seen them on Oprah!) See it’s difficult to come up with a list of the good mum’s – Mary perhaps, she was Jesus’ mum so she must be OK for God to have chose her to be a mum.
It’s just too hard to come up with the definitive list of good mum’s. It’s sad when you lose one (I would recommend an electronic ankle bracelet as they get older) but they have make us what we are today, the caring loving sensitive men that buy our wives cards and presents because they too will soon be the mothers of the fruit of their loins. And yes as we get older we men will need a surrogate mother as we descend into that second childhood where all our dribbling needs are met by our loving caring wives.
So Mum’s of the world I salute you, I am just sorry I can’t buy you all a card this mothers day the 6th march which, for those of you who note these things, is just two days after my birthday and four days before my daughter matilda’s 6th. I’ll be adding a PayPal link just as soon as a can for those kind gifts and donations!
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Valentines Day - The Finale...
So that’s Valentines over and done with for another year. See how quickly a mans romantic fervour can dissipate. It’s a bit like being a cheap rechargeable battery. Prior to the love fest on the 14th February one is full of romance and vigour. Planning that special treat, being just that little more attentive just to check out what might not be such a good idea for a present this year, what her mood is, is she expecting cards from another party of the third part? Then the day arrives and its full steam ahead, there’s the lovey dovey morning, as gifts, cards and bodily fluids are exchanged. A lingering cuddly kick-start to the day.
Then, for some men, its off to work with the new red satin/silk boxer shorts working their inexorable way into the crack of their bum, hoping upon hope that today, of all days, they are not going to get knocked down by a bus or something will fall off an aeroplane as it passes overhead to bash them on the head which would mean a trip to casualty and the red satin boxers adored with kisses and hearts would be displayed for all to see.
The evening, that evening which lies ahead, it meanders through ones mind all day, the planning, the seduction, the finale!!! Obviously it has been planned like a well oiled military campaign, the flowers are booked, the table at the romantic restaurant with the famous celebrity TV chef in attendance, the seduction…
That evening the romance batteries are working flat out. One has to shave and then wash all those nooks and crannies that might be kissed, licked or bitten. I know its two showers in one day but sacrifices have to be made, after all its Valentines Day! The clean shirt, the satin boxers, nasal hairs newly plucked. Its time to woo your love.
Then at the restaurant one has to mind one’s manners, no slurping, grunting, farting or burping. The true romantic will simply nibble at the over priced, but fabulously cooked meal giving all his attention to his Valentine. Feeding her titbits of food, brushing away a wisp of hair from her face, caressing her fingers across the table as he looks into her eyes. The true romantic would slip off a shoe, (clean socks remember) and caress her calf under the table. The champagne would flow and the seductive conversation would ensue.
She is now putty in your hands and the romance batteries are working at 100%. It’s back to the boudoir. For the final countdown. Of course one has to be a considerate lover on this of all days. One has to be firm, solid, ramrod in fact. Lightly caressing her body, perhaps a full body massage with aromatic oils, then all that other stuff women like ( I’ll just brush over the explicate bits as children might be reading this and I’m starting to feel nauseous – I don’t think I could be a Mills and Boon writer!)
And after that explosive finale its all over - the batteries are spent, empty, devoid of any passion or romance, not even if Kyle slipped into the bed with could the man raise even a spark of sexual enthusiasm, let alone romance. Maybe a final goodnight kiss a whispered I love you darling ('darling' or 'snugglypumps' is better than names because in that hazy glow of sated lovemaking and champagne one wouldn't want the wrong name to slip out now would one?)
(Read this in the voice of David Attenborough or your local animal programme presenter) It will take the human male another year before he is able to mate with such passion. The romantic ‘courtship’ display only happens in the New Year and then it seems that this instinct lies dormant until Hallmark cards start appearing in the shops just after Christmas. This seems to trigger some autonomous response within the male in which he attempts to make himself irresistibly attractive to his partner or the object of his desires, like Mary in accounting. This, however, often fails, which accounts for the number of lonely middle aged gits living in smelly damp bed-sits watching pornography on Sky and the rise in Lesbianism!
Hooray Easter is just around the corner. Chocolate mmmmm.
Then, for some men, its off to work with the new red satin/silk boxer shorts working their inexorable way into the crack of their bum, hoping upon hope that today, of all days, they are not going to get knocked down by a bus or something will fall off an aeroplane as it passes overhead to bash them on the head which would mean a trip to casualty and the red satin boxers adored with kisses and hearts would be displayed for all to see.
The evening, that evening which lies ahead, it meanders through ones mind all day, the planning, the seduction, the finale!!! Obviously it has been planned like a well oiled military campaign, the flowers are booked, the table at the romantic restaurant with the famous celebrity TV chef in attendance, the seduction…
That evening the romance batteries are working flat out. One has to shave and then wash all those nooks and crannies that might be kissed, licked or bitten. I know its two showers in one day but sacrifices have to be made, after all its Valentines Day! The clean shirt, the satin boxers, nasal hairs newly plucked. Its time to woo your love.
Then at the restaurant one has to mind one’s manners, no slurping, grunting, farting or burping. The true romantic will simply nibble at the over priced, but fabulously cooked meal giving all his attention to his Valentine. Feeding her titbits of food, brushing away a wisp of hair from her face, caressing her fingers across the table as he looks into her eyes. The true romantic would slip off a shoe, (clean socks remember) and caress her calf under the table. The champagne would flow and the seductive conversation would ensue.
She is now putty in your hands and the romance batteries are working at 100%. It’s back to the boudoir. For the final countdown. Of course one has to be a considerate lover on this of all days. One has to be firm, solid, ramrod in fact. Lightly caressing her body, perhaps a full body massage with aromatic oils, then all that other stuff women like ( I’ll just brush over the explicate bits as children might be reading this and I’m starting to feel nauseous – I don’t think I could be a Mills and Boon writer!)
And after that explosive finale its all over - the batteries are spent, empty, devoid of any passion or romance, not even if Kyle slipped into the bed with could the man raise even a spark of sexual enthusiasm, let alone romance. Maybe a final goodnight kiss a whispered I love you darling ('darling' or 'snugglypumps' is better than names because in that hazy glow of sated lovemaking and champagne one wouldn't want the wrong name to slip out now would one?)
(Read this in the voice of David Attenborough or your local animal programme presenter) It will take the human male another year before he is able to mate with such passion. The romantic ‘courtship’ display only happens in the New Year and then it seems that this instinct lies dormant until Hallmark cards start appearing in the shops just after Christmas. This seems to trigger some autonomous response within the male in which he attempts to make himself irresistibly attractive to his partner or the object of his desires, like Mary in accounting. This, however, often fails, which accounts for the number of lonely middle aged gits living in smelly damp bed-sits watching pornography on Sky and the rise in Lesbianism!
Hooray Easter is just around the corner. Chocolate mmmmm.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Another Tragic Love Story - where's the Republican Party when you need them?
PLEASE a REPULICAN Party PLEASE
I know it is Valentines and all but puuurleese Charlie what a stunt to pull. After all my hard work bigging up Valentines day and women you have to go and do this. I am making a plea.
Will somebody in this country please start up a republican party that's serious about things. I know we had one once but its not on the web anymore so they probably all died of boredom, I mean Cromwell had some good ideas but he sort of lost it and of course there's the French Revolution, the guillotine seems quite a good idea at the time and got the job done albeit a little messily. The Soviets just shot their aristocracy and then went about their business in quite a workmanlike way. Obviously we can't do that nowadays what with the police and everything. (this is my get out of jail on a treason charge clause)
I don't want to advocate violence (see last sentence above) not this close to Valentines day but plurleese some one save me from this tedious, boring, uninteresting, costly (to the taxpayers), neverending, embarrassing, ugly, etc etc parade of doggy do do I can't go on I'm weak with nausea. ( I can say that because its a democracy, so far, so nah nah nah nah to MI5 if you're reading this)
Viva La Revoluthion (shout in a Spanish/south American accent please)
Roses for My Lady - The perfect gift of Love
Hello girls and women it’s your favourite doctor here, yes i’m the one without a speculum, but I will speculate about the gifts we men give you at Valentines Day. Yes this is another one of my famous Valentines lectures.
As its Thursday and Valentines Day will soon be upon us, it is time to think about the gifts we should get for our loved ones. This is the time of the year when romance should rule our hearts and we should not let our minds rule our wallets. It is a time for whimsy and lovey dovey gestures. So although I am sure she would appreciate that special gift on this special of all days lets leave the purchase of the new set of pots and pans, the new steam iron and the Magimix until Christmas, when maybe she will appreciate it that little bit more. I know now you can get irons in a fetching shade of pink and Jamie Oliver signs his frying pans but it’s just not in keeping with the season.
No a Valentines day gift must be from the heart, it must have significance and the woman of your dreams must be convinced that you have thought about this gift for slightly more than the 30 seconds it took you to lift that last wilted bunch of weeds out of the bucket at the last service station you passed en-route from work.
Remember guys that this IS your early warning. Tomorrow is Friday, the last day you can slip out of work and down to the shops. Saturday and Sunday is going to be full of Six Nations Rugby Action and there’s probably some football and other stuff on, so when will you get to the shops?
And when you do get to the shops what shall we buy?
Roses are still traditional, but I am at a loss to understand why? Apparently the Rose, as the queen of flowers, symbolizes peace and war, love and forgiveness which seems to me to be a mixed message. And another thing, why roses, because as far as I know roses don’t grow in England in February so how did that come about? I can just see it now:
Wavy lines and spectural music:
Man on Bended Knee (somewhere back in History) ‘O my darling I Love thee so. It is thy bonny month of Valentines and I wish to make thee happy, any thing darling
Woman (half listening) ‘what..o darling you are soeth kindeth, what’s that you say..anything’
Man on etc: Yes my darling love I will doeth anything for thee as its Valentines Day
Woman combing hair and looking out of window distractedly as if waiting for Hello magazine to be invented: ‘I want some roses, red ones’
Man: R, roses my love but hi tis only February and the snow still lies thickly on the ground see how yon peasants are freezing to death
Woman, flicking absentmindedly through the Book of Kells looking at the pictures: ‘You said anything and I want Roses, I thought thy said thee loved me’
Man: O yes my love I doest love thee but roses my love, what about something from yon market place..surely thy needest a new pot or something for thy bedchamber perchance (he winks suggestively)
Woman (suddenly has mood change): ‘If you loved me you’d get me some roses, red ones that smell nice’ She stomps off to the wash place to brush away her tears in a muddy puddle.
Man looks stunned, but resigns himself to the 10 year journey to Africa to get his beloved some roses.
10 years later he returns with the red red roses he has nurtured across the blazing plains of Africa, protected against his bosom in the swaying bowels of the ship as they plunged across the bay of Biscay the sharp thorns tearing gashes in his chest so the blood dripped, like tears down his chest.
He bangs on his darlings front door. It is again the 14th of February. It opens, he kneels in the snow and ice and holds the roses aloft, ‘My darling’, he cries, ‘I love you and here are your Roses. I have suffered much and been lonely without you ere these 10 long years. But here is proof of my love’. He thrusts them out his hand on his heart..
Woman at the door: ‘ere ou are you, yer nutter get lost’ She grabs the roses and slams the door in his face. It is only then that he sees the daubed cross, the sign of the Black Death smeared across the front door. And from inside faintly he hears ‘Ring a Ring a Rosie a pocket full of posy’
He looks around and shakes his head: Bah Women’ he cries and goes off down the town to watch that new game with the funny shaped ball and down a few ales with the lads.
He right though wasn’t he, aren’t roses the most inappropriate gift to give in February? They don’t grow in this country in February. They grow in Kenya. So that gift of love, we purchase this weekend, has been handpicked by someone getting about 50 cents (US) a day (Zimbabwe) or $3 a day (Kenya). That’s not love that’s exploitation. (o dear I’m getting political!)
So maybe we ought to think about a more appropriate gift this Valentines Day, like the daffodil or the tulip - who couldn’t resist a huge bunch of tulips? (Voice from outside of blog: aren’t they from Holland by the way?)
As its Thursday and Valentines Day will soon be upon us, it is time to think about the gifts we should get for our loved ones. This is the time of the year when romance should rule our hearts and we should not let our minds rule our wallets. It is a time for whimsy and lovey dovey gestures. So although I am sure she would appreciate that special gift on this special of all days lets leave the purchase of the new set of pots and pans, the new steam iron and the Magimix until Christmas, when maybe she will appreciate it that little bit more. I know now you can get irons in a fetching shade of pink and Jamie Oliver signs his frying pans but it’s just not in keeping with the season.
No a Valentines day gift must be from the heart, it must have significance and the woman of your dreams must be convinced that you have thought about this gift for slightly more than the 30 seconds it took you to lift that last wilted bunch of weeds out of the bucket at the last service station you passed en-route from work.
Remember guys that this IS your early warning. Tomorrow is Friday, the last day you can slip out of work and down to the shops. Saturday and Sunday is going to be full of Six Nations Rugby Action and there’s probably some football and other stuff on, so when will you get to the shops?
And when you do get to the shops what shall we buy?
Roses are still traditional, but I am at a loss to understand why? Apparently the Rose, as the queen of flowers, symbolizes peace and war, love and forgiveness which seems to me to be a mixed message. And another thing, why roses, because as far as I know roses don’t grow in England in February so how did that come about? I can just see it now:
Wavy lines and spectural music:
Man on Bended Knee (somewhere back in History) ‘O my darling I Love thee so. It is thy bonny month of Valentines and I wish to make thee happy, any thing darling
Woman (half listening) ‘what..o darling you are soeth kindeth, what’s that you say..anything’
Man on etc: Yes my darling love I will doeth anything for thee as its Valentines Day
Woman combing hair and looking out of window distractedly as if waiting for Hello magazine to be invented: ‘I want some roses, red ones’
Man: R, roses my love but hi tis only February and the snow still lies thickly on the ground see how yon peasants are freezing to death
Woman, flicking absentmindedly through the Book of Kells looking at the pictures: ‘You said anything and I want Roses, I thought thy said thee loved me’
Man: O yes my love I doest love thee but roses my love, what about something from yon market place..surely thy needest a new pot or something for thy bedchamber perchance (he winks suggestively)
Woman (suddenly has mood change): ‘If you loved me you’d get me some roses, red ones that smell nice’ She stomps off to the wash place to brush away her tears in a muddy puddle.
Man looks stunned, but resigns himself to the 10 year journey to Africa to get his beloved some roses.
10 years later he returns with the red red roses he has nurtured across the blazing plains of Africa, protected against his bosom in the swaying bowels of the ship as they plunged across the bay of Biscay the sharp thorns tearing gashes in his chest so the blood dripped, like tears down his chest.
He bangs on his darlings front door. It is again the 14th of February. It opens, he kneels in the snow and ice and holds the roses aloft, ‘My darling’, he cries, ‘I love you and here are your Roses. I have suffered much and been lonely without you ere these 10 long years. But here is proof of my love’. He thrusts them out his hand on his heart..
Woman at the door: ‘ere ou are you, yer nutter get lost’ She grabs the roses and slams the door in his face. It is only then that he sees the daubed cross, the sign of the Black Death smeared across the front door. And from inside faintly he hears ‘Ring a Ring a Rosie a pocket full of posy’
He looks around and shakes his head: Bah Women’ he cries and goes off down the town to watch that new game with the funny shaped ball and down a few ales with the lads.
He right though wasn’t he, aren’t roses the most inappropriate gift to give in February? They don’t grow in this country in February. They grow in Kenya. So that gift of love, we purchase this weekend, has been handpicked by someone getting about 50 cents (US) a day (Zimbabwe) or $3 a day (Kenya). That’s not love that’s exploitation. (o dear I’m getting political!)
So maybe we ought to think about a more appropriate gift this Valentines Day, like the daffodil or the tulip - who couldn’t resist a huge bunch of tulips? (Voice from outside of blog: aren’t they from Holland by the way?)
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Why I Love Women and their significant contribution to History
Women – I just Love them, as you can probably guess from my last few postings and as its Valentines Month I am trying my best to keep that focus in my blogs. Yes this is the fourth in the series of Dr Robs Valentine Lectures.
You know, women have been around for quite a while, for more than a few centuries at least. It is true because I have read about it in the History Books in the Library at this very University. There’s even a few of them mentioned in the Bible, but that may just be a jolly good novel and the figment of someone’s fervid imagination. In the History Books the women mentioned there are usually Queens, Pirates or Prostitutes; although in the History Books they are a bit more politer and called them Courtesans, probably because it was only the Judges in Court who could afford them.
Some people would suggest of course that women have generally been behind the successes of the great men. But it makes you wonder though when you read about great men like Ghengis Khan, Alexandra, Julius Caesar and so on, because when they were out conquering the world they were away for about 20 years, and I can’t think that they took there wives with them. I mean most women balk at a two week camping holiday in the Sun on the Costa’s let alone 20 years under canvas (more likely rancid Yak Skin) in the middle of the wild steppes somewhere. (and of course having the wife around would put the mockers on all that raping and plundering that was par for the course then).
Nevertheless it has to be said that there have been some women who have stamped their mark on history so let’s honour those women here and look at their significant role in shaping the world and made women what they are today.
Women who have changed the World
First on the list has to be Boadicea, or Boudicca meaning Victorious, was Queen of the Iceni tribe of East Anglia. She led a rebellion in 60 A.D. against the Romans, destroying the cities of Colchester, St. Albans and capturing London. This was not a woman to be messed with. The sort of girl that you could take down the pub and then wouldn’t mind standing in the windy end of Twickenham watching the English Team hammer the French (a traditional pastime continuing through the centuries). Indeed she would probably have to be physically restrained from joining in.
She was described by Cassius Dio a Roman writer as being was very tall. Her eyes seemed to stab you. Her voice was harsh and loud. Her thick, reddish-brown hair hung down below her waist. What with all that destroying of cities and beating the shit out the Romans no wonder she seemed slightly hysterical to Cassius. Of course then they had no medicine like evening primrose oil or Valium to calm the pre menstrual woman down.
Next has to be St Joan of Arc. Now to get to be a saint in those days was no mean feat. It’s not like today when any Tom, Dick or Harriet can become a saint. She started to have visions and talking to God when she was about 12. The girls of today don’t know what they are missing. I mean they are now so fixated on fashion, boys and texting that if they had a vision of the Holy Mother, they would probably put it down to the six Vodka and Red Bulls they had just drunk behind the bike sheds at school!
No Joan was made of stronger stuff than that, she also seems to have been good at maths (another lesson to be learnt by today’s modern girl) why else would they have called her de Arc if it hadn’t been to do with her mastering of Pythagoras’s theorem.
She was also called the Maid of Orleans which shows how good she was at cooking and stuff like cleaning and laying the table. In her spare time when not doing maths listening to God’s voice and cleaning up she also managed to defeat the English Army who were trying to take over France. Good for her, I say, what a female role model for today’s girl.
Further on in History we find another women Queen – Elizabeth 1st. It was Elizabeth who almost single-handedly invented the concept of perfume and make up. It is well known that the Queen never had a bath and covered herself in ointments, unction’s and aromatic oils to cover the rancid stink that rose from her body and through her black teeth. This caught on amongst the common people who only ever could wash when it rained and then usually in a muddy puddle as this was the Middle Ages and soap hadn’t been invented yet. She was also a bit of a one with the men, although why she is called the ‘Virgin Queen’ is beyond me unless Richard Branson has invented a time machine and is sponsoring Elizabeth back in the 15th Century. She also enjoyed a romp or two with various Earls which seems to be a popular name back then. Like the strong women before her, even though she stunk, was bald and had a thing for guys called Earl (perhaps she was the first example of trailer trash too – remember Walter Raleigh invented America and chips, maybe some Earls went with him) she managed to beat the shit out of the French and the Spanish.
Bringing us up to date now lets consider some modern women who, in my book, are significant role models for women and who have made them into what they are today. Looking through the History Books and the serious research papers like Hello and OK I can’t seem to find any modern women who have beaten the shit out of France or Spain. Of course this is only a minor hiccup and it would be shallow to suggest that to be a good modern role model one just has to have got one over our European Brothers and Sisters.
Ellen Macarthur is doing a good job at being a role model. What with sailing around the world faster than anybody else, even men and getting to be a Dame! She seems to revel in being alone (perhaps she too is a martyr to her PMS) and being in cramped dirty wet conditions, I think Ghengis Khan would have loved her and taken her to invade somewhere. But the thing with Ellen that lets her down is why o why o why does she have to play Dido constantly when she’s sailing around the world. Doesn’t it get tedious Ellen? I know girls like girly music like Katie Melua and Suzanne Vega but surely when crashing through the southern ocean a bit of Motorhead or Green Day would do the trick. I can’t see her having a head full of pink candy floss thinking about what nail varnish to wear and forgetting to shut the back door, when the spinnaker needs changing in a force 10 gale. As of yet she hasn’t invaded anywhere or stopped an invasion by a foreign military power, which is, in my book, a bit of a failing, but she’s still young and maybe, just maybe, on this last trip she has been hearing voices from God. Well we can hope anyway.
So this is my way of saying to all you women out there, well done, think of the possibilities that await you in this big world, yes you might think that the pinnacle of your life is settling down in your pink fluffy slippers and dressing gown in front of Bridget Jones on a Saturday night with your man and a bottle of Cabernet but there’s a big wide world out there, so go and invade somewhere, ruffle a few feathers, become a saint – you know you can do it and this Valentines you know we love you all (except of course Margaret Thatcher who is still the most reviled woman on Earth)
You know, women have been around for quite a while, for more than a few centuries at least. It is true because I have read about it in the History Books in the Library at this very University. There’s even a few of them mentioned in the Bible, but that may just be a jolly good novel and the figment of someone’s fervid imagination. In the History Books the women mentioned there are usually Queens, Pirates or Prostitutes; although in the History Books they are a bit more politer and called them Courtesans, probably because it was only the Judges in Court who could afford them.
Some people would suggest of course that women have generally been behind the successes of the great men. But it makes you wonder though when you read about great men like Ghengis Khan, Alexandra, Julius Caesar and so on, because when they were out conquering the world they were away for about 20 years, and I can’t think that they took there wives with them. I mean most women balk at a two week camping holiday in the Sun on the Costa’s let alone 20 years under canvas (more likely rancid Yak Skin) in the middle of the wild steppes somewhere. (and of course having the wife around would put the mockers on all that raping and plundering that was par for the course then).
Nevertheless it has to be said that there have been some women who have stamped their mark on history so let’s honour those women here and look at their significant role in shaping the world and made women what they are today.
Women who have changed the World
First on the list has to be Boadicea, or Boudicca meaning Victorious, was Queen of the Iceni tribe of East Anglia. She led a rebellion in 60 A.D. against the Romans, destroying the cities of Colchester, St. Albans and capturing London. This was not a woman to be messed with. The sort of girl that you could take down the pub and then wouldn’t mind standing in the windy end of Twickenham watching the English Team hammer the French (a traditional pastime continuing through the centuries). Indeed she would probably have to be physically restrained from joining in.
She was described by Cassius Dio a Roman writer as being was very tall. Her eyes seemed to stab you. Her voice was harsh and loud. Her thick, reddish-brown hair hung down below her waist. What with all that destroying of cities and beating the shit out the Romans no wonder she seemed slightly hysterical to Cassius. Of course then they had no medicine like evening primrose oil or Valium to calm the pre menstrual woman down.
Next has to be St Joan of Arc. Now to get to be a saint in those days was no mean feat. It’s not like today when any Tom, Dick or Harriet can become a saint. She started to have visions and talking to God when she was about 12. The girls of today don’t know what they are missing. I mean they are now so fixated on fashion, boys and texting that if they had a vision of the Holy Mother, they would probably put it down to the six Vodka and Red Bulls they had just drunk behind the bike sheds at school!
No Joan was made of stronger stuff than that, she also seems to have been good at maths (another lesson to be learnt by today’s modern girl) why else would they have called her de Arc if it hadn’t been to do with her mastering of Pythagoras’s theorem.
She was also called the Maid of Orleans which shows how good she was at cooking and stuff like cleaning and laying the table. In her spare time when not doing maths listening to God’s voice and cleaning up she also managed to defeat the English Army who were trying to take over France. Good for her, I say, what a female role model for today’s girl.
Further on in History we find another women Queen – Elizabeth 1st. It was Elizabeth who almost single-handedly invented the concept of perfume and make up. It is well known that the Queen never had a bath and covered herself in ointments, unction’s and aromatic oils to cover the rancid stink that rose from her body and through her black teeth. This caught on amongst the common people who only ever could wash when it rained and then usually in a muddy puddle as this was the Middle Ages and soap hadn’t been invented yet. She was also a bit of a one with the men, although why she is called the ‘Virgin Queen’ is beyond me unless Richard Branson has invented a time machine and is sponsoring Elizabeth back in the 15th Century. She also enjoyed a romp or two with various Earls which seems to be a popular name back then. Like the strong women before her, even though she stunk, was bald and had a thing for guys called Earl (perhaps she was the first example of trailer trash too – remember Walter Raleigh invented America and chips, maybe some Earls went with him) she managed to beat the shit out of the French and the Spanish.
Bringing us up to date now lets consider some modern women who, in my book, are significant role models for women and who have made them into what they are today. Looking through the History Books and the serious research papers like Hello and OK I can’t seem to find any modern women who have beaten the shit out of France or Spain. Of course this is only a minor hiccup and it would be shallow to suggest that to be a good modern role model one just has to have got one over our European Brothers and Sisters.
Ellen Macarthur is doing a good job at being a role model. What with sailing around the world faster than anybody else, even men and getting to be a Dame! She seems to revel in being alone (perhaps she too is a martyr to her PMS) and being in cramped dirty wet conditions, I think Ghengis Khan would have loved her and taken her to invade somewhere. But the thing with Ellen that lets her down is why o why o why does she have to play Dido constantly when she’s sailing around the world. Doesn’t it get tedious Ellen? I know girls like girly music like Katie Melua and Suzanne Vega but surely when crashing through the southern ocean a bit of Motorhead or Green Day would do the trick. I can’t see her having a head full of pink candy floss thinking about what nail varnish to wear and forgetting to shut the back door, when the spinnaker needs changing in a force 10 gale. As of yet she hasn’t invaded anywhere or stopped an invasion by a foreign military power, which is, in my book, a bit of a failing, but she’s still young and maybe, just maybe, on this last trip she has been hearing voices from God. Well we can hope anyway.
So this is my way of saying to all you women out there, well done, think of the possibilities that await you in this big world, yes you might think that the pinnacle of your life is settling down in your pink fluffy slippers and dressing gown in front of Bridget Jones on a Saturday night with your man and a bottle of Cabernet but there’s a big wide world out there, so go and invade somewhere, ruffle a few feathers, become a saint – you know you can do it and this Valentines you know we love you all (except of course Margaret Thatcher who is still the most reviled woman on Earth)
Monday, February 07, 2005
10 reasons why I love women - Valentines lecture No 3.
Hello, Its Monday and its still February, the sun is shining here in Sunny Devon and aren’t women fantastic creatures? Yes this is the third in the series of Valentines Lectures by Doctor Rob.
Really, isn’t it brilliant that women are fantastic and so diverse. Isn’t it wonderful that for every male out there, even Jeffery Archer, Pol Pot, Hitler and even, should he wish it, the Pope, there is or was a woman who thinks the sun shines out of his fundamental orifice! So men, if you are out there feeling lonely and blue, somewhere in the world there’s a lassie for you, as Robert Burns might have put it and yon Rabbie did put it about a bit, so he knows, you know!
So don’t despair if you have bad breath, a slight hunch, one leg longer than the other, no personality and dandruff, there is a woman for you somewhere in this wide wide world. That she might be in Ulan Bator, Outer Mongolia, should not be seen as a barrier, what with the internet, chat rooms and dating agencies, cheap airlines and all, this geographical discrepancy should be no problems for a get up and go sort of chap! (Remember after all I found my wife in Ukraine, being that sort of get up and go sort of chap and by the way I do not suffer any of the above infirmities – thank you)
So for this Valentines season here are my 10 reasons why I like women;
10 reasons why I like women.
First of course it has got to be….erm no that’s a bit too obvious
Second then has got to be…no wait that might be misconstrued and I’m not a misogynist
Third is easy it’s got to be erm….no that’s not right
Fourth O God I can’t say THAT can I?
Fifth No skip it
Sixth O yes yes yes yes yes yes yes NO!
Seventh erm….sorry
Eighth For a fact it’s got to be …hmmmm
Ninth D for delect…. no too corny
Tenth They are so….how can I put it…..like er….a bit…..I……hum hum hum
So there we have it, the 10 reasons why I like women, aren’t they great, what would we do without them apart from the cleaning and the washing up? I LOVE WOMEN; if I could get a badge with that on it I would wear it loudly and proudly on my lapel.
Women can’t live with them, can’t kill them – that’s a motto I once read and it’s a motto I have lived by ever since, it was a very clever man, or do I mean brave, who once said that. I can stand up proudly and say that of all the women I have known and married, I have not killed one of them, never even come close.
Yes as Valentines Day peeks its happy smile above the horizon of the not too distant future, we as men, should remember why we love women so much, what joy and happiness they bring into our lives. It is as if God designed them just for that purpose, why, we cannot simply suggest that women were an evolutionary accident can we, that all that sweetness and beauty was simply an accident of nature, no some higher being had to have a hand in this creation of pure art.
Maybe God, after all, is a woman – perhaps I ought to go to church more often!
Really, isn’t it brilliant that women are fantastic and so diverse. Isn’t it wonderful that for every male out there, even Jeffery Archer, Pol Pot, Hitler and even, should he wish it, the Pope, there is or was a woman who thinks the sun shines out of his fundamental orifice! So men, if you are out there feeling lonely and blue, somewhere in the world there’s a lassie for you, as Robert Burns might have put it and yon Rabbie did put it about a bit, so he knows, you know!
So don’t despair if you have bad breath, a slight hunch, one leg longer than the other, no personality and dandruff, there is a woman for you somewhere in this wide wide world. That she might be in Ulan Bator, Outer Mongolia, should not be seen as a barrier, what with the internet, chat rooms and dating agencies, cheap airlines and all, this geographical discrepancy should be no problems for a get up and go sort of chap! (Remember after all I found my wife in Ukraine, being that sort of get up and go sort of chap and by the way I do not suffer any of the above infirmities – thank you)
So for this Valentines season here are my 10 reasons why I like women;
10 reasons why I like women.
First of course it has got to be….erm no that’s a bit too obvious
Second then has got to be…no wait that might be misconstrued and I’m not a misogynist
Third is easy it’s got to be erm….no that’s not right
Fourth O God I can’t say THAT can I?
Fifth No skip it
Sixth O yes yes yes yes yes yes yes NO!
Seventh erm….sorry
Eighth For a fact it’s got to be …hmmmm
Ninth D for delect…. no too corny
Tenth They are so….how can I put it…..like er….a bit…..I……hum hum hum
So there we have it, the 10 reasons why I like women, aren’t they great, what would we do without them apart from the cleaning and the washing up? I LOVE WOMEN; if I could get a badge with that on it I would wear it loudly and proudly on my lapel.
Women can’t live with them, can’t kill them – that’s a motto I once read and it’s a motto I have lived by ever since, it was a very clever man, or do I mean brave, who once said that. I can stand up proudly and say that of all the women I have known and married, I have not killed one of them, never even come close.
Yes as Valentines Day peeks its happy smile above the horizon of the not too distant future, we as men, should remember why we love women so much, what joy and happiness they bring into our lives. It is as if God designed them just for that purpose, why, we cannot simply suggest that women were an evolutionary accident can we, that all that sweetness and beauty was simply an accident of nature, no some higher being had to have a hand in this creation of pure art.
Maybe God, after all, is a woman – perhaps I ought to go to church more often!
Thursday, February 03, 2005
In Praise of Women's Bottoms - my Valentines theme
As its STILL February I will continue on the romance/in praise of women theme.
I am a bum man. I make no bones about it and if that is a sexist comment so be it. Yes I am a Neanderthal sexist dinosaur. But I cannot help it, like being attracted by scent is a biological imperative, so is being attracted to women via their bottoms. There is all that psychological stuff about bottoms symbolising breasts and all that guff. But I’m not so sure. You’re either a bottom man or a breast man. (Sometimes in the summer I can be a belly button man too)
So for me there is nothing like a good bum swaying away in front of me (an extra bonus of course if the woman in question is wearing perfume!) Don’t get me wrong I’m not at all particularly interested in bare bottoms so if you intend to read on looking for prurient content you will be disappointed. No, for me the bottom nicely encased in a pair of jeans is simple and attractive. It draws the eye and elevates the simple pleasures of the day from the mundane to the magnificent.
I don’t go searching the streets peering at the arses of every woman that pass by. A pert bottom is a found treasure, something unexpected. Sometimes one catches a glimpse of one in the distance like some mirage in the desert. Slipping in and out of view as the crowds ebbs and flows across the pavement. Other times one is glimpsed out of the window of a moving car, out of the corner of the eye, a time-limited masterpiece that makes you want to crane your neck around like an owl just to catch that last fleeting glance.
Then others are just there. In front of you in the queue, on the pavement, in the gym, or on the beach. Often when they are that close it feels inappropriate to look. It is too intense, too personal, and too intrusive. But like a moth drawn to a flame my eyes are drawn to that bottom. I don’t want to touch, salivate too much in public or even stare inappropriately. But one just has to let ones eyes slide over that glorious rump swinging away metronomically, hypnotically away from you. Think of Marylyn Munroe in ‘Some Like It Hot’ walking down the platform just before she is made to jump by a jet of steam.
Of course bottom overload can be found on TV and in particular on the music channels. These channels are bottom central. Some of these music videos are almost pornographic in their use of the bottom and we’re not just talking J Lo here. The majority of female R n B, Swing, Hip Hop etc artists have magnificent arses and boy do they know how to use them. How do they do that backwards and forwards jerky motion? That is so fascinating for a bum man but even I get a little uncomfortable watching them and that’s a worry, maybe its just that these girls are a little too young for my tastes, but you must agree that women like Beyonce, Ciara, ok J Lo, and the 1001 dancing girls that support these singers have the arses of angels.
It must be great to be a woman with a great arse and no wonder that plastic surgeons have jumped on the bandwagon and are offering arseendectomies or bottom replacement therapy. It’s an asset (gettit?) to treasure, not to become a great rolling heap of cellulite so stay away from the chocolate girls and think of those intense moments of fleeting pleasure you bring to the world. So swing that booty as you sashay your way down the street causing all sorts of mayhem behind you as drivers take their eyes off the road and entranced pedestrian’s crash into one another as they strain for that last glimpse of your arse.
I leave with the immortal words of KC and the Sunshine Band:
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty.
You can, you can do it very well.
You're the best in the world, I can tell.
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
And my car of choice - why the Renault Megane of course!
I am a bum man. I make no bones about it and if that is a sexist comment so be it. Yes I am a Neanderthal sexist dinosaur. But I cannot help it, like being attracted by scent is a biological imperative, so is being attracted to women via their bottoms. There is all that psychological stuff about bottoms symbolising breasts and all that guff. But I’m not so sure. You’re either a bottom man or a breast man. (Sometimes in the summer I can be a belly button man too)
So for me there is nothing like a good bum swaying away in front of me (an extra bonus of course if the woman in question is wearing perfume!) Don’t get me wrong I’m not at all particularly interested in bare bottoms so if you intend to read on looking for prurient content you will be disappointed. No, for me the bottom nicely encased in a pair of jeans is simple and attractive. It draws the eye and elevates the simple pleasures of the day from the mundane to the magnificent.
I don’t go searching the streets peering at the arses of every woman that pass by. A pert bottom is a found treasure, something unexpected. Sometimes one catches a glimpse of one in the distance like some mirage in the desert. Slipping in and out of view as the crowds ebbs and flows across the pavement. Other times one is glimpsed out of the window of a moving car, out of the corner of the eye, a time-limited masterpiece that makes you want to crane your neck around like an owl just to catch that last fleeting glance.
Then others are just there. In front of you in the queue, on the pavement, in the gym, or on the beach. Often when they are that close it feels inappropriate to look. It is too intense, too personal, and too intrusive. But like a moth drawn to a flame my eyes are drawn to that bottom. I don’t want to touch, salivate too much in public or even stare inappropriately. But one just has to let ones eyes slide over that glorious rump swinging away metronomically, hypnotically away from you. Think of Marylyn Munroe in ‘Some Like It Hot’ walking down the platform just before she is made to jump by a jet of steam.
Of course bottom overload can be found on TV and in particular on the music channels. These channels are bottom central. Some of these music videos are almost pornographic in their use of the bottom and we’re not just talking J Lo here. The majority of female R n B, Swing, Hip Hop etc artists have magnificent arses and boy do they know how to use them. How do they do that backwards and forwards jerky motion? That is so fascinating for a bum man but even I get a little uncomfortable watching them and that’s a worry, maybe its just that these girls are a little too young for my tastes, but you must agree that women like Beyonce, Ciara, ok J Lo, and the 1001 dancing girls that support these singers have the arses of angels.
It must be great to be a woman with a great arse and no wonder that plastic surgeons have jumped on the bandwagon and are offering arseendectomies or bottom replacement therapy. It’s an asset (gettit?) to treasure, not to become a great rolling heap of cellulite so stay away from the chocolate girls and think of those intense moments of fleeting pleasure you bring to the world. So swing that booty as you sashay your way down the street causing all sorts of mayhem behind you as drivers take their eyes off the road and entranced pedestrian’s crash into one another as they strain for that last glimpse of your arse.
I leave with the immortal words of KC and the Sunshine Band:
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
Oh, shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty.
You can, you can do it very well.
You're the best in the world, I can tell.
Shake shake shake, shake shake shake,
Shake your booty! Shake your booty!
And my car of choice - why the Renault Megane of course!
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Scent of a Woman
As its still February and the Month of Love I will remain true to the theme and ponder for a while Fragrant Women.
Isn’t it the greatest joy to be wandering down the street, mind cast adrift, perhaps worrying about the job, when to pay the bills, cursing that extra inch or two around your waist, when from out of nowhere comes the fragrant aroma of a woman passing by? Maybe it’s a perfume that’s instantly recognisable like Body Shops White Musk, or some other exotic and expensive perfume, but that one whiff can instantly change the colour of your day and for the better! The whole reason for this blog is that this morning I was walking behind a woman in the slipstream of her scent and I must admit it was wonderful, I would have followed her to the ends of the earth, but we got to my office building first!
This event however, seems to be happening less and less. That momentary sensual sensory experience is a rare happening. I don’t think that my nose is wearing out and I am losing my sense of smell, rather, I think that along with the make up, scent for women has been assigned to the feminist dustbin. This is a huge mistake on behalf of women.
As I understand human behaviour, one of the things that does attract us to each other is a heady cocktail of scents emanating from our bodies. I know the initial reaction is to go eeuu! But it’s a fact of life, however far we want to remove ourselves from being animalistic the fact of the matter is that we are right there with the warthog, the groundhog and the hedgehog. Like them nothing can turn us on faster than the exotic whiff of a female ready for a little action in the next burrow. It’s the pheromones that we all emit, hogs, dogs and humans that make us attractive to the opposite sex.
As we are a little more advanced than the friendly little hedgehog with the snuffly nose we have designed better and more advanced scents than a quick spray of the secretions from the scent glands (i.e. arses) of civets and musk deer (still used in the perfume industry today – yes go on eeww!). There are a whole range of wonderful perfumes, scents and sprays available down at the local store, so why are women not wearing them?
Of course there are some women that wear perfume that replicates a gas attack on the Western Front, it leaves us choking and gasping for breath, it wraps it self around the female like an invisible cloak of death aspyixiating all who get within 6 feet. (For me personally Christian Dior’s Poison is like this, I think I am allergic to it as it makes me feel ill – it really is Poison).
And some women (why am I thinking French here?) seem to think that stale sweat is the odour d’amour, perhaps it’s something to do with all those unshaven armpits. Look we all know that sweat is meant to be sexy, all those pherenemones again, but a quick swipe with a scented roll on wouldn’t do much harm would it or a deodarant spray, some of these smell quite nice, but they don’t have the longevity or the length, if you know what I mean. For us men to get that allusive fragrance that makes us stop and sniff it needs to be able to travel, to drift, to float gently into our nostrils and the cheaper stuff just doesn’t. Maybe the cheapstuff is OK in London when one is stuffed up against someones armpit in the tube, but the good stuff is essential for the full olofactory experience and the long distance ahhh effect.
Of course English women are meant to be the most fragrant on the whole planet (yes I am being hypocritical here having married a Ukrainian Woman) but I am afraid that they may be losing their crown. And by not having a scented signature they may also be losing their history. What do I mean by this? I mean that smell and memory seem to be very closely connected, how often can a single tingle in the nose of some faint delicate aroma remind us of places and people past. I can remember the scents of my past girlfriends and wives when I smell them. The scents they used, their favourite scent, their signature is engraved somewhere in the recesses of my mind and one small whiff can bring them instantly to mind, filling ones consciousness with happy memories (because however these relationships finished we were happy together and in love – once upon a time)
So thank you to the unknown woman this morning, who unknowingly, through the simple act of spraying on a perfume this morning, has made this man happy. And perhaps some of the women out there will perhaps rethink their non use of perfume and make the world once more a fragrant world coloured with the scent of a woman.
Isn’t it the greatest joy to be wandering down the street, mind cast adrift, perhaps worrying about the job, when to pay the bills, cursing that extra inch or two around your waist, when from out of nowhere comes the fragrant aroma of a woman passing by? Maybe it’s a perfume that’s instantly recognisable like Body Shops White Musk, or some other exotic and expensive perfume, but that one whiff can instantly change the colour of your day and for the better! The whole reason for this blog is that this morning I was walking behind a woman in the slipstream of her scent and I must admit it was wonderful, I would have followed her to the ends of the earth, but we got to my office building first!
This event however, seems to be happening less and less. That momentary sensual sensory experience is a rare happening. I don’t think that my nose is wearing out and I am losing my sense of smell, rather, I think that along with the make up, scent for women has been assigned to the feminist dustbin. This is a huge mistake on behalf of women.
As I understand human behaviour, one of the things that does attract us to each other is a heady cocktail of scents emanating from our bodies. I know the initial reaction is to go eeuu! But it’s a fact of life, however far we want to remove ourselves from being animalistic the fact of the matter is that we are right there with the warthog, the groundhog and the hedgehog. Like them nothing can turn us on faster than the exotic whiff of a female ready for a little action in the next burrow. It’s the pheromones that we all emit, hogs, dogs and humans that make us attractive to the opposite sex.
As we are a little more advanced than the friendly little hedgehog with the snuffly nose we have designed better and more advanced scents than a quick spray of the secretions from the scent glands (i.e. arses) of civets and musk deer (still used in the perfume industry today – yes go on eeww!). There are a whole range of wonderful perfumes, scents and sprays available down at the local store, so why are women not wearing them?
Of course there are some women that wear perfume that replicates a gas attack on the Western Front, it leaves us choking and gasping for breath, it wraps it self around the female like an invisible cloak of death aspyixiating all who get within 6 feet. (For me personally Christian Dior’s Poison is like this, I think I am allergic to it as it makes me feel ill – it really is Poison).
And some women (why am I thinking French here?) seem to think that stale sweat is the odour d’amour, perhaps it’s something to do with all those unshaven armpits. Look we all know that sweat is meant to be sexy, all those pherenemones again, but a quick swipe with a scented roll on wouldn’t do much harm would it or a deodarant spray, some of these smell quite nice, but they don’t have the longevity or the length, if you know what I mean. For us men to get that allusive fragrance that makes us stop and sniff it needs to be able to travel, to drift, to float gently into our nostrils and the cheaper stuff just doesn’t. Maybe the cheapstuff is OK in London when one is stuffed up against someones armpit in the tube, but the good stuff is essential for the full olofactory experience and the long distance ahhh effect.
Of course English women are meant to be the most fragrant on the whole planet (yes I am being hypocritical here having married a Ukrainian Woman) but I am afraid that they may be losing their crown. And by not having a scented signature they may also be losing their history. What do I mean by this? I mean that smell and memory seem to be very closely connected, how often can a single tingle in the nose of some faint delicate aroma remind us of places and people past. I can remember the scents of my past girlfriends and wives when I smell them. The scents they used, their favourite scent, their signature is engraved somewhere in the recesses of my mind and one small whiff can bring them instantly to mind, filling ones consciousness with happy memories (because however these relationships finished we were happy together and in love – once upon a time)
So thank you to the unknown woman this morning, who unknowingly, through the simple act of spraying on a perfume this morning, has made this man happy. And perhaps some of the women out there will perhaps rethink their non use of perfume and make the world once more a fragrant world coloured with the scent of a woman.
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