Life is often referred to as a game of cards. If this is really the case, then I have been playing against someone with a marked deck. And he is only letting me have one card at a time, the bastard. With three older sisters, I am quite aware of what goes on in a woman’s mind. I also happen to know what women like and dislike in a man. There is all the usual cobblers women come out with in surveys about sense of humour and personality being their top priorities, but you and I both know that if Tom Cruise and Bill Bailey go head to head in a chat up contest at any pub or bar you care to nominate, there is only ever going to be one winner. Another thing you get to see a lot of with three sisters is women’s magazines and another of their staple page fillers – describe your ideal man. And of course the alternative article: Describe the LEAST ideal man. Now if any editors of these magazines happen to be reading this blog and you do an article called “Fuck Me! Look At The State Of HIM!” I would be perfect for your photograph to accompany the said article. The usual list women give for being their biggest turn offs with men are:
Fat, or at best overweight
Red hair
Balding
Beard
Glasses
My answer sheet for this list is as follows:
Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes, and rather inevitably
Yes
This probably gives you some idea of where I am coming from. In the words of Eric Morecambe, it’s not a pretty sight. Yes, I do have a pleasing personality and a sense of humour, but as I have already stated, in this day and age it counts for virtually nothing. It would appear people today like to meet in trendy clubs and bars, where the music is blaring so loudly you have to shout in the ear of the person nearest to you just to be heard. I have a theory this is a major contributing factor to the high divorce rate in this country. Young male person A sees young female person B dancing at a nightclub called, for sake of argument, “Slapperz”. A likes the look of B, and B very obviously likes the look of A. They dance, bellow a few sweet nothings in each others ears, have a knee-trembler behind the kebab shop and within six months are married and living in their new Barrett Home. Now this is where the problems start. For the first time in their courting behaviour they are suddenly alone with that other person and without any pounding music and flashing lights. Certainly the physical attraction is still there – the countless snot faced little carpet crawlers called things like Chardonnay, Shaznay and DJ are testament to that. But they finally have discovered what their partner’s personality is like, and nine times out of ten they discover they hate each other’s guts and have absolutely nothing in common aside from shagging and loud music. Follow this through to the inevitable conclusion and you arrive at the divorce courts. Or am I just being a judgemental cynical old bastard? Very possibly, but frankly, who cares?
I have been trying all my life to meet the woman of my dreams. From an early age I was seduced by my mother’s lying, her insistence that I was “a handsome young man”, when very clearly just by looking in the mirror I could see that she was telling me a big porkie. A very early memory, locked away in the recesses of my mind, is of talking to a friend of mine in 6th form at school. He had just split up with his girlfriend of something like six weeks and so, consequently, his world was coming to an end. I was sitting talking to him in the school library, offering crumbs of comfort. In the depths of his depression, I was there, not only as a rock to steady himself on, but as yet another punch bag. He looked at me through his emotionally welled up eyes and said:
“I am down, but I feel REALLY sorry for you, though.” I wondered for a moment why I was to be the crux of his pity, but he explained quickly enough. “You are going to have to go through life looking like you do, and you’ll never have a girlfriend… ever.” This hit me hard as you can imagine. I went straight home that evening and played The Smith’s “Meat is Murder” album until the speakers were bleeding.
I want this blog to be a testament. A guide book for the ugly people in life. To let them know that I understand, I have been there and seen it and done it. And it’s fucking awful, isn’t it? All those evenings of trying so hard to impress or entertain a fairly attractive lady, and at the very last instant that smooth good looking fucker who has done nothing all evening aside from sit at the bar and drink, comes waltzing over, says something like “is this fat twat bothering you, babe?” and she is putty in his hands. And once again you are heading home to the empty flat and the big empty bed. What was it Morrissey said? “If you’re so very entertaining, why do you sleep alone tonight?” I know, and nothing my mother, your mother, my sisters or anyone else is going to change my mind. I am gonna tell it like it is.
Fat, or at best overweight
Red hair
Balding
Beard
Glasses
My answer sheet for this list is as follows:
Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes, and rather inevitably
Yes
This probably gives you some idea of where I am coming from. In the words of Eric Morecambe, it’s not a pretty sight. Yes, I do have a pleasing personality and a sense of humour, but as I have already stated, in this day and age it counts for virtually nothing. It would appear people today like to meet in trendy clubs and bars, where the music is blaring so loudly you have to shout in the ear of the person nearest to you just to be heard. I have a theory this is a major contributing factor to the high divorce rate in this country. Young male person A sees young female person B dancing at a nightclub called, for sake of argument, “Slapperz”. A likes the look of B, and B very obviously likes the look of A. They dance, bellow a few sweet nothings in each others ears, have a knee-trembler behind the kebab shop and within six months are married and living in their new Barrett Home. Now this is where the problems start. For the first time in their courting behaviour they are suddenly alone with that other person and without any pounding music and flashing lights. Certainly the physical attraction is still there – the countless snot faced little carpet crawlers called things like Chardonnay, Shaznay and DJ are testament to that. But they finally have discovered what their partner’s personality is like, and nine times out of ten they discover they hate each other’s guts and have absolutely nothing in common aside from shagging and loud music. Follow this through to the inevitable conclusion and you arrive at the divorce courts. Or am I just being a judgemental cynical old bastard? Very possibly, but frankly, who cares?
I have been trying all my life to meet the woman of my dreams. From an early age I was seduced by my mother’s lying, her insistence that I was “a handsome young man”, when very clearly just by looking in the mirror I could see that she was telling me a big porkie. A very early memory, locked away in the recesses of my mind, is of talking to a friend of mine in 6th form at school. He had just split up with his girlfriend of something like six weeks and so, consequently, his world was coming to an end. I was sitting talking to him in the school library, offering crumbs of comfort. In the depths of his depression, I was there, not only as a rock to steady himself on, but as yet another punch bag. He looked at me through his emotionally welled up eyes and said:
“I am down, but I feel REALLY sorry for you, though.” I wondered for a moment why I was to be the crux of his pity, but he explained quickly enough. “You are going to have to go through life looking like you do, and you’ll never have a girlfriend… ever.” This hit me hard as you can imagine. I went straight home that evening and played The Smith’s “Meat is Murder” album until the speakers were bleeding.
I want this blog to be a testament. A guide book for the ugly people in life. To let them know that I understand, I have been there and seen it and done it. And it’s fucking awful, isn’t it? All those evenings of trying so hard to impress or entertain a fairly attractive lady, and at the very last instant that smooth good looking fucker who has done nothing all evening aside from sit at the bar and drink, comes waltzing over, says something like “is this fat twat bothering you, babe?” and she is putty in his hands. And once again you are heading home to the empty flat and the big empty bed. What was it Morrissey said? “If you’re so very entertaining, why do you sleep alone tonight?” I know, and nothing my mother, your mother, my sisters or anyone else is going to change my mind. I am gonna tell it like it is.
