I’m sure you sometimes have problems, like what to do about the tattoo on your arse of tweetie pie or how much you can smell out a small room with the scent of chip pans, lice and fags. Occasionally, I have a problem. It’s usually the sort of problem sexy intelligent folk suffer from, like, should I take the contract to be the face of ‘Sennokot’ or ‘Herp-eze’. It’s tough decision. Curse my gorgeous visage. Here are some problems I have suffered in my past:
- It vexed me on a packed London bus to observe a t-shirt the reads ‘coco bay’ on a woman with big coconuts
- Simon Cowell’s blood jumping from a tube in his arm, like a leapfrog fountain
- Confronting Simon Cowell’s ex girlfriend about dressing like she’s still in the 1990s. Block heels, belly tops, hakecheif hems. T shirts with chinese symbols on them.
- Katy Perry
- a maggot uprising
- men and meat
- a flood preventing the Vengabus’ safe passage to Ibeeza.
- Setting fire to people’s houses with my mind.
- Dissociating myself from a tricky record contract with the London Boys.
- Disliking reggae to the point of setting fire to people’s houses with my mind
- Rage at ‘smug’ adverts with ‘pom-pom-pom’ type music. Tesco, Sainsbury’s Lloyds TSB and, worst of all at the moment, Morrison’s ‘earthy’ drudgey ‘Let it Shine’ adverts. Appealing to our middle class values of ‘let’s plant things in the ground’, ‘let’s do ethical shit’ or ‘saving for your daughter to become a ballerina’. FUCK OFF.
They are all interesting problems, sure. The sort of problems you’d write on the back of a fag packet or commit to the Dairy Book of Home Management.The type of problems that might have you reaching for a tealight.
More recently, some of you may have picked up if you follow me on twitter http://twitter.com/WorldofSheds that I haev begun to co-habitate with my other half, ‘The Cow’.
Whilst the Cow is a lovely gentle beast, I have noticed some difficulties with this arrangement. Warning! Sweeping gender based generalisations coming up!
Men can’t make beds. Sure, they can pull a duvet cover across, but they can’t make a bed like your mum makes a bed, all fluffy and plump. Mum-style beds involve shaking up bedding to resemble a cloud. These style beds make you exhale all the air in your lungs going “aaaahhh”. This is the type of bed I make.
When I get home from, as Alf Steward would term it ‘A hard day’s yakka’ (work), The Cow looks like he’s wrestled a hippo in the bed, made mad passionate love to it, and then chewed the bed up and spat it out. Pillows are flat, duvet cover is pulled across but all wrinkled, cushions are lashed without any thought for artisitc positioning or interior design. Additionally, there seems to be no thought for airing the bed. I was always led to believe there’s a good few organisms living in your bed, thriving in the warmth and feasting on the supper of dead skin cells and have always pulled my covers back to air the bed and cease the survival and breeding of these beasties. The Cow? No. He’s farming them and hoping to incite some kind of revolution with bed bugs as his footsoldiers. The covers are on, the window is shut. The room smells of sighs.
Men have a wonderfully intimate relationship with teatowels. Who do they turn to for any household tradegdy? Trusty Terry the Tea Towel? Too much water on your work top? Reach for Terry. Spillage on the laminate flooring? Come on Terry, help us out here.
Women have been socialised to understand differnt cloths have different functions. A spillage on the floor requires a floor cloth or a mop.
Too much water on a work surface? That’s a sponge or a dishcloth .
The microfibre cloth…surely that’s for cleaning grime off the car alloys? Isn’t it?
No, it’s for dusting inside. Well, it was. We have a drawer full of ‘ruined’ pieces of material, relegated from the premier league of cleaning, to the first division of shit jobs.
Hey. Just stop right there, cowboy. What if there’s a SPILLAGE on the worktop. And what if that’s spillage is RAW EGG? Surely a job for Terry the teatowel the Cow would assume.
Maybe. And maybe we’ll wake up the next morning with emissions projecting from both ends as we wrestle with Salmonella poisoning after wiping egg up with a teatowel and then DRYING THE FUCKING DISHES WITH IT. Writhing in the heat of our fever, bed saturated with our sweat, clinging onto our lives with our finger tips, while Terry laughs malevolently downstairs.
There is distance. Like from here to work, or from Land’s End to John O’ Groats, or at least from here to the corner shop at the end of the road. Then there is the one foot of distance between the bog roll holder and the empty, gaping, hungry for cardboard bin. And, o, my bin is so hungry for empty cardboard. It withers away, starved, looking longingly at the bog roll holder.
Once I came home and the empty bog roll was ON TOP of the bin. An improvement, yes, but why didn’t it make it in? Maybe the Cow thought it was a paritucualrly attractive bog roll holder and wanted to gaze admiringly at it on one of his soujourns to ceramic land.
The recycling is a predictable business. It happens on the same day, on the same time. It is usually held in the same place outside the house, holding it’s plastic and glass goodness. However, unless I specifically say ‘Cow, Remember to put the recycling out” at which he pulls a pissed-off gurn at me, the recycling won’t be put out. Oh, all the joyous duties are mine! Since when was it decided I was put in charge of ‘recycling’ or ‘reminding about recycling’? I must have missed that meeting. Presumably at the same meeting it was decided that I’m in charge of toilet rolls finding their final resting place.
So ultimately, moving in with your bird means that she over takes all the mum-jobs and you snarl like a teenager, like you did with your mum, when asked to perform a simple duty.
The Cow really is a wonderful, kind person, but men, beware that you are making your girl a mum substitute, and that’s not sexy.
Don’t spoil it for yourself.