1. Shape. When the lid is on, the pen is oval-shaped and it puts me in mind of a rugby ball. That should be a good thing as the Six Nations is on at the moment, but look at the colour. It’s blue. And it’s not even the dark blue of France, it’s light-blue, the colour of the Italian team. Italy are the worst team in the competition – worse even than England. This pen exudes the acrid stench of failure. And I don’t want to smell failure when I’m writing. I want to smell coffee. Or soup.
2. Emasculation. The pen is two inches long. Two inches! To men, having a two-inch-long pen is bad. Having a two-inch-long pen is unmanly. To women, a two-inch-long pen is unsatisfactory too. A big pen is much more desirable to both sexes. Big pen is good. Small pen is bad.
3. Gift. The pen is a gift. The worst kind of gift – it’s a gift from someone who lives in the same house as me. This means that I can’t just put it away in a drawer or re-gift it. I have to keep it here on the desk where I can see it. I can see it right now. It’ll be months before I can move it to the box in the loft where I hide all of the unwanted gifts. Months.
4. Writing. Look at this picture of my hand. Do you see that blue speck in the centre of my palm? (you may need to fetch your glasses for this one) No? I’ll tell you then. It’s the pen. How, you may ask, does a hand that size write with a pen that size? The answer is badly. Very badly. In fact, if I had to use the pen to write this 7 Reasons post, it would be four words long and those words would be “bloody”, “fucking”, ”stupid” and “pen”. And they would be illegible.
5. Blue. It’s a Highlighter pen. In blue. I – like a lot of people – write in blue ink. This means that the pen is completely useless as a highlighter. It has the opposite effect. It’s an obscurer. If I want to make my words appear fuzzy and indistinct, it’s the pen to use. Otherwise, it’s useless.
6. The Horatio Pyewackett Caractacus Fearns test of Pen-Stupidity. I own a cat that attacks pens. If he sees one, he pounces – whether I’m using it or not. When hoovering under the sofa (infrequently), I always find several pens that he’s stolen and then lost under there. Can I get him to attack this pen? No I bloody can’t. And I’ve rubbed catnip on it. Even my cat knows that this pen is stupid.
7. Suppository. I’ve just realised what else the pen reminds me of. It looks like a suppository. Appropriate really, given what I’d do if with the pen if I ever encountered the feckless cretin that designed it. Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid bum-pen! Grrrr! I hate this pen!
1. Riots. There is nothing the French like more than a riot. Half the time it doesn’t have to be about anything particular, they just like getting out there and giving it a go. They haven’t had one for a while so let’s give them something to riot about. I suspect, us invading – and the French Army waving us through – will work.
2. Language. French is just very silly. What is it with everything having to be masculine or feminine? In no other language do you refer to a male cat as feminine. In no other language is my toothbrush as masculine as Freddie Mercury. In no other language is my tool box as feminine as Alan Carr. It’s a load of nonsense. Let’s get rid of it.
3. Riviera. I don’t mind the fact that the French have a Riviera. What I do mind is that it is British water they are using. It comes from the South coast of England. I have seen it go out with the tide. It slips down past the West coast of France, past Portugal, sweeps under Spain and then heads up to the South Eastern corner of France. Now, as far as I am aware, the French don’t pay us for it. Nor have they even thanked us. Well if that is their attitude, it’s time to go and get it back.
4. Liberate The Fake Named. Don’t you feel sorry for all those otherwise normally named people trapped in Frenchness. I’m referring to all the Jack’s trapped as Jacques. And the John’s as Jean. And the Peter’s as Pierre. And the Luke’s as Luc. These are men. Or at least they would have been had they not been effeminate-d upon the completion of a birth certificate.
5. Liberate Brittany. Only the bloody French could name a place after a country they pretend to hate. Brittany quite clearly belongs to Britain. In the same way that the vast majority of New England belongs to England. And the vast majority of Koreans belong to Jonathan Lee.
6. Reduce The Cost Of Onions/Garlic/Tights. I bet you didn’t even realise that onions, garlic and tights were that expensive? Well they are. And the reason for that is because the French hoard 98% of the world’s stock. The rest of the world have to fight over the remaining 2%. Of course this means the demand inflates the price to excessive levels. It’s not fair.
7. Take Down The Imitation Blackpool Tower. What is it with the French? Why can’t they have any of their own ideas? I applaud their bottle for sticking a metal pointy thing in the middle of their capital city, but it is clearly a rip-off. It’s time it came down and was replaced by a burger van.
Society has a very rigid idea of what constitutes masculinity. Often, our definitions of what is masculine are rooted in the conventions and gender roles of the past, something which makes them unachievable ideals rather than anything tangible, or real, to aspire too. Despite knowing this though, sometimes you feel that you don’t quite measure up. Here are seven reasons that you don’t feel like a real man.
1. You use moisturiser. Using moisturiser doesn’t feel manly. It’s very good at keeping your skin soft and preventing the premature aging of the skin, but it’s not manly. I once moisturised my face, exited the bathroom (which my wife then entered) and tried to open the bedroom door. I couldn’t, as my hands were slick from the moisturiser and I couldn’t grip the doorknob. I was trapped outside the bedroom for five minutes. “This never happened to the captain of the Titanic”, I remember thinking, as I waited for my wife to rescue me. Real men don’t use moisturiser.
2. Facial hair. Real men – Victorian men – sported impressive and elaborate facial hair. Who, apart from Daniel Day-Lewis and Sebastien Chabal, can even grow such magnificent face furniture today? Certainly no one at this website – the best we can manage are a sparse ginger moustache and a slightly less sparse – but still bloody ginger – beard. Modern men also trim their facial hair too much. Real men have natural and wild facial hair – not prissy, neat goatees (and you should never, ever trust a man with a neat beard. Noel Edmonds has a neat beard). Real men do not have neat beards. Real men have substantial, flowing beards that are the same colour as their head-hair. Real men probably don’t even have scissors. In fact, real men probably eat scissors.
3. Coffee. Coffee is an amazing beverage and real men drink it. What real men don’t do, however, is go into Starbucks and order a venti soy-hazelnut-vanilla-cinnamon-white-mocha-choca-latte with caramel and an extra shot of espresso. Real men drink their coffee black, from tin mugs around a fire – or some sort of black-lead-coal-stove-thing with flames and a chimney – and the stronger and viler tasting the coffee is, the better. Also, real men don’t drink their coffee from cups – even if that is the only receptacle that fits into their espresso maker properly – and they don’t have a muffin with it. Not blueberry; not zucchini-walnut. Real men have no muffin.
4. Pain. Real men shrug off pain. Pain isn’t good – it’s er…well…painful – and it can be undignified. It especially hurts when you’re plucking the middle of your eyebrow to pluralise it. That sort of pain is reasonably manageable though. Real pain, however, can only dealt with by real men. I injured my knee last year (in a very manly way – up a mountain). The next day, when I woke up, it really hurt. As I climbed out of bed and put weight on it I suddenly – and quite unexpectedly – shrieked “I yi yi yi yi”, in the manner of Carmen Miranda. Real men don’t react that way to pain; Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes chopped his own fingers off with a fretsaw in his shed to save himself a six-thousand pound surgeons bill. I bet he didn’t shriek “I yi yi yi yi” like Carmen Miranda – or like anyone else. Never mind exhorting men complaining of pain to “man-up”, they should be told to Fiennes-up (I’m really hoping that will catch on).
5. Décor. You actually care about what the inside of your own home looks like and have an opinion about it too. You have even bought Laura Ashley toile-patterned sheets in both red and blue, because they look nice. Do real men care about soft-furnishings? Did Douglas Bader rearrange the cushions on his sofa and extinguish the scented candles before going off to beat the Germans without his legs? No he bloody didn’t. Real men don’t spend their time cocking about with flock-wallpaper and vases. Nor do they have a set of Le Creuset pans. Real men don’t even need legs.
6. Pets. Real men have real pets – parrots, cats or reasonably-sized dogs. What they don’t have are little dogs that you can put in a bag or rodents, budgies, rabbits, guinea pigs, chinchillas, snakes or fish. They certainly don’t have fish. You can tell a real man by the way he interacts with his pet. No real man names his pet Fluffykins or Pookles. Real men give their pets sensible names. Real men also address their pets properly, rather than clicking at them or making baby-noises. They address them as if they were a visiting chum:
“So Mr Prendegast, the sun has just passed the yard-arm, what would you say to a spot of brandy? What’s that Mr Prendegast? You’re a cat and you don’t drink brandy? Oh I see. Would you settle for some biscuits and a rub under the chin? I’m glad. There’s a good chap.”
That’s how a real man talks to a pet – like an equal. Real men don’t address pets as if they were idiots, or children. They don’t dress them up in clothes or put them in bags. The only time a real man carries a pet is when he wants to put it outside so that it can chase something. He certainly doesn’t give his pet chocolate-drops or a hug. Or give anyone a hug, for that matter.
7. You are a woman. Women don’t feel like real men. They don’t even feel like pretend men. They feel warm and soft. They sound like this:
1. Cheery People. As soon as the sun comes out people start smiling and being happy. It’s so annoying. At least it seemed to be for the cashier in WH Smith yesterday. All I said was ‘Good Morning’ and she looked at me as if I’d just molested her cat. (Not that I know what that look is. Obviously).
2. Chuggers. Or to give them their more politically correct name, tossers. Okay that maybe a bit harsh, but there are bloody millions of them now the sky is blue. It’s hard not to feel resentment towards them when you have to get past what seems like the gauntlet from Gladiators everytime you want to get to the tube station.
3. Legs. They are beginning to protrude from shorts. I am not the biggest fan of men’s legs – you’ll probably find a whole other sex who prefer them more than I do – but it is the men who get them out first. It’s that musty aroma you can smell.
4. Near Death Experiences. This may sound cruel, but I strongly oppose mobility scooters – when I am outside. When the sun is out, the brightness makes it much harder to read the cricket score on my phone. Therefore I am going to be concentrating more on getting the angle right than looking where I am going. Under such circumstances I have a habit of not walking in a straight line and so venturing into the path of a mobility scooter is not so much a possibility as a certainty.
5. Australians. Yes, they are arriving. In droves. They seem to disappear during the winter months – probably to hibernate – but now they are back. And why do none of them seem to work? All they do is sit outside the Walkabout, drink and watch me play dodgems with mobility scooters. What am I? A tourist attraction?
6. Builders. Not that it is particularly unusual to see builders, but it is unusual to see them working. Hopefully they’ll get a bit done before they have to stop again in June due to the dangers of sunstroke.
7. Smoke Alarms. This might sound strange, but the warmer it gets the more regular the sound of a smoke alarm. Usually mine. I would like to blame this on an electrical fault, but no one is going to believe that. It’s more to do with the fact that I put cheese-on-toast under the grill, head off to open the windows and accidentally become distracted in front of the mirror.
1. The bad-egg. At any dinner party, at least one person will behave badly and annoy all of the other guests. It’s always a man. Often it’s me.
2. Multi-tasking. Women can multi-task – they demonstrate this by talking during films. This means that they approach both hosting and cooking for a dinner party with confidence, which makes it all the more tragic when your tearful hostess returns from the kitchen bearing a foul-smelling tray containing something black (possibly the charred remains of a flan) and a bowl of something green and unidentifiable (no idea). If you want to see a grown-woman cry, you don’t have to go to a dinner party. You can just hide her chocolate – which is a lot easier.
3. Candles. There are always candles on the table at dinner parties but no one knows why. I don’t want to singe my arm hair every time I pour some wine or pass the salt. Why would you want to put a fire on the table?
4. Wine. Guests always bring wine with them, and it’s always the wrong one – a Barolo when the main course is a delicate fish dish, or a New Zealand sauvignon blanc to go with lamb. Why can’t guests just do something useful and bring dessert with them? Or not come?
5. Cheesecake. A plain, unadorned cheesecake is one of the best desserts ever. I don’t want cheesecake made with Baileys, I don’t want cheesecake made with fruit, nor do I want cheesecake made with chocolate. What I would like is cheesecake made with cheese. And cake. Don’t tell me that I’m getting a cheesecake for dessert and then bring me something made with gooseberries and covered in sauce! Why can no one hosting a dinner party resist cocking up a cheesecake? Is it the law?
6. Children. I was brought up in a house that often hosted dinner parties – at least one a month – but I don’t think that my siblings or I even caught sight of one until we were eighteen years old. No one has ever successfully explained why children are banished from dinner parties to me. Is it because of the candles?
7. Restaurants. There are places where a group of people can sit around a table and eat wonderful food – made to a higher standard than they could manage themselves – they’re called restaurants. The diners don’t have to get up to fetch courses, drinks or cutlery and they don’t end up with candle-wax on their carpet. You can choose what you want to eat and drink rather than have your courses compromised by your friends bizarre and varied dietary requirements, children don’t have to be hidden – they can be taken with you or looked after by a babysitter – and you don’t have to wash-up afterwards. I sincerely hope they catch on.
Hi there, I’m Marc (feet). We had a bit of a disagreement over what to bring you this Sunday. Jon felt that my Er, Y’Know video should be brought to a wider audience, and that we should feature that today, and I wanted to have a look at 7 weird and wonderful Facebook groups. We failed to come to an agreement so we’ve brought you both – one on each side of the screen. You can choose whichever one you fancy.
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This is Marc’s Er, Y’know video. He made it last weekend. If you haven’t seen it yet, it’s well worth a watch. If you have, watch it again (I bet you can’t remember which side won).
I probably made a cup of tea while you were enjoying that. Mmmm. Tea. [/column]
[column width =”45%” padding =”5%”] There are many weird and wonderful groups and pages on Facebook. Here – as it’s a special number – are 7 of them.
A group devoted to wondering why earphones get tangled up on their own – they’re talking about earphones, rather than headphones – they’re right about the tangling though. How does that happen?
A group choc-full-of people that go weak at the knees when they hear someone speak English in a foreign accent. There are some extraordinary posts on their wall, including this one (if you click on it, it will grow)
A group devoted to explaining all scientific and technological phenomena – in fact, pretty much everything – as the work of gnomes. Yes, gnomes. They also have a brilliant Wikipedia style website. There’s some beautifully inventive thinking going on there.
5. I’ve never had sex with a goat
I’m a member of this group, but it’s like the mafia. You can never leave. Seriously, do you want your newsfeed to show you left the group “I’ve never had sex with a goat”?
Another group I’m a member of – though I’m no longer a student. I do, however, bound up and down staircases two steps at a time. The final step always requires a tricky adjustment – it’s a hazard to tall and energetic people. Architects take note.
The official Facebook page of 7 Reasons, which we’re launching today. Feel free to join. We hope to see you there.
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We don’t know which column you checked out, but we hope you enjoyed it. If you didn’t, try the other one – it might be more to your liking. Also, we’d like to wish mothers everywhere a happy Mothering Sunday. Well Done.
Joining us on the 7 Reasons sofa today is Alexandra Clement-Meehan: blogger, twitterer, Australian and maker of cheese. When she isn’t looking after her collection of meat or poisoning herself with her own cooking, she can be found writing for this wonderful sports blog, or tweeting – thankfully under the shorter name @splex.
1. Heat. It’s definitely too hot here for any normal human being to exist, and I do accept that I am, in fact, calling Australians abnormal – but as I am one, it’s allowed. Sunburnt English men and women are also not a pretty sight. One would even go as far as saying they’re a bit of an eyesore, spoiling our idyllic coasts and tranquil scenery. Not that they’re ugly, the pinkness and rawness is just so very… distracting.
2. Fauna. England doesn’t even have real native fauna. Do they even know what the word means? Australian fauna is unique to our island home, including all the wonderful spiders and deadly snakes. Do snakes even live in England? They shouldn’t. Too cold. Maybe they just slip around on the ice. Ice-snakes probably exist but they’d be unlikely to kill anyone, not like the Red-Bellied Black snake and the aptly named Brown snake. I should also mention that we have bloody big sharks as well.
3. Most of our citizens already live in England. Case in point: Rolf Harris – he’s an Australian hero. He took the wobble-board to soaring new heights before anyone else even knew it existed. You’d be hard pressed to even find a better Australian, and he resides in England, spending his time painting portraits of our* Queen. Secondly, who would pour your beers and serve you copious amounts of alcohol if not the Australian backpackers? Who would care for your upper-middle class children if not for the young Australian nannies? Exactly. There’s zero reason to leave the Motherland when you’ve got the best of both worlds in one place! Oh, and you might like to note that most of us are similar to this.**
4. Sport. It can be said that we’re a whole lot better at sport than you are. In fact, often, we’re embarrassingly better than you. Case in point: The Ashes 2006/2007. We definitely won that 5-0. Even though we were defeated in our most recent attempt, we at least won a test or two. By not travelling to Australia, any proud English-person can save face and avoid any heckling about their sporting prowess. We’re not that nice when it comes to sport, because we are just better than every other nation (except at snow-based events).
5. Distance. Everything is really far away and no one actually wants to waste their holidays in small, dingy, probably cockroach infested, coaches. Here’s an interesting fact: It would take almost an entire day to drive from the East coast of Australia to the West coast. Who has the time? Not even Australians have the time, which is why we don’t, and Western Australia remains the forgotten state. If one was to stay in England, they could spend their time going to places like Bristol or maybe even the town that Midsomer Murders is filmed in. It may actually be called Midsomer. I think John Nettles lives there.
6. TV. It’s safe to say that British television is exponentially better that anything the Australian TV world could ever produce (except maybe Neighbours, but for some reason the Brits love that, which seems strange, because – news flash! – it’s actually a terrible show). Now that has been cleared up we can continue. Any charming and pithy British television series that reach our shores do so months, if not years, after they have been aired in Britain. Another case in point: Dr Who. The recent Christmas specials have only just been screened….in February. So if any British citizen were to travel, and find themself in a state of ennui mixed with desperate homesickness, they couldn’t turn on the box and see a brand new show direct from the UK. If it’s television you like, there’s definitely no point in coming to Australia.
7. Accent. Let’s face facts here, you don’t understand what we’re saying and we definitely haven’t a clue what you’re on about – you English and your Cockney rhyming slang! We have it as well, but it’s not hard to decipher. We have things like “dog’s eye” and “dead horse” (“meat pie” and “tomato sauce”, respectively). You have things like “loop the loop” for “soup” – just say soup! It has at least two less syllables! But I digress, the Australian accent is a thing of beauty, yet it is misunderstood by most of the English-speaking world. Upon hearing feedback regarding the aforementioned accent, it’s plain that the English are unsure why we question everything. We’re an inquisitive nation – you might like to think that’s because we’re descended from convicts and therefore we have simple minds – but we’re not simple, ok? It’s just that our rising inflection, like our outlook on life, is always in the ascendant and positive.
1. The Name. My Mother is a traditional Mother. She takes two steps back if I say the wrong thing. And the wrong thing is Mother’s Day. “It is not Mother’s Day, Jonathan. It is Mothering Sunday.” Yes Mum.
2. Cards. Apart from having to ignore all the cards which say Happy Mother’s Day in the search for one that says Happy Mothering Sunday, I can never find one which doesn’t make me sound completely effeminate. I am quite happy telling my Mum she is the greatest in the world (because she is), but goodness knows what she must be thinking when I hand her something that says, ‘You are the blooming flower of my Spring, the sunshine of my Summer, the tumbling conkers of my Autumn and the turkey of my Winter’.
3. Flowers. My Mum likes flowers. I believe it’s a female thing. The problem is I can never remember which flowers my Mum likes. Sure she’ll say she likes everything, but I know for a fact that that isn’t quite true. She does have her favourites and she does tell me a day or so after the Mothering Sunday flowers have died. So why can I never remember what she said 350 days later? It’s one of life’s cruelties.
4. Music. As well as flowers I like to buy my Mum a gift. In recent years I have taken to buying her a CD. She likes The Hollies and Herman’s Hermits. My inability to mentally separate one from the other means she now has four copies of Herman’s Hermits Greatest Hits. Five if you are reading this after Sunday.
5. Household Chores. It’s not that I am bad at the ironing. Or the washing up. Or the drying up. It’s just that it is a Sunday. And on Sundays there is invariably sport on the TV. I have a habit of watching sport. Until, that is, I hear the opening of an ironing board, upon which I jump from my seat and race to the utility room where I find my Mum doing the ironing that I would eventually have started when the game had finished. On telling her to go and sit down she says, ‘No, I don’t want these being done at 7pm’. So I leave.
6. Cooking. Apparently burning doesn’t go down too well. The really frustrating thing is that when I cook for myself I never have any problems. Put a hungry woman in front of me though and I lose the plot. This year I am going to cook for myself on Friday, freeze it and reheat it on Sunday. What could possibly go wrong?
7. I’m Not There. This is probably the thing I get wrong most of the time. It is so much harder to cook the dinner, do the ironing and give her flowers when I am not actually in the same house. Ah well, there is always next year.
1. It’s unproductive. When you’re playing a current Football management game, you can at least try to justify spending all of the time engaged in a trivial activity by reassuring yourself that you’re gaining invaluable insights into the modern game. All you’re learning by re-visiting an old one is how good everyone used to think Gary O’Neill would become.
2. Guilt. You’ll feel guilty about re-visiting an old game. And so you should. You now know who most of the promising players in the game are – this is much like insider dealing on the stock markets – and you’ll feel so guilty about this that you’ll set yourself ridiculous challenges within the game. Trying to build a Premier League winning team entirely from Belgian players; trying to win the FA Cup with an entirely left-footed team; winning the Champions League with a team of players with silly names (Raphael Wicky, Chung Yoo-Suk, Bernt Haas and Olivier De Cock are always the first names on the team-sheet); trying to qualify for the World Cup with an all-Scottish team – the guilt-induced-absurdity is endless.
3. Wayne Routledge. Your Premier League team’s bête noire will be Wayne Routledge. He’ll be awesome whenever you play against him. Yes, the same Wayne Routledge that wouldn’t even get into a Premier League team picked by his own mother. “Wayne Routledge. Wayne Routledge!” will be the tortured and incredulous cry that accompanies your heaviest defeat of the season.
4. Management. The managers do weird things in old games. Arsene Wenger spends money on players, Fergie retires, Steve McLaren is English (I couldn’t resist this video), Rafa Benitez picks a squad using logic and Steve Bruce doesn’t frighten small children.
5. Imagination. Because the old game develops very differently to current real-life football, you have to keep track of them both in your mind. So you now have two Peter Crouches, both a real Peter Crouch and an imaginary one. Do you really need an imaginary Peter Crouch?
6. Match Of The Day. Settling down to watch Match Of The Day becomes a confusing experience after you’ve been playing an old game for some time – it’s like watching The Twilight Zone. All of the wrong players are playing for all of the wrong teams, all of the wrong teams are in all of the wrong leagues, all of the wrong scorers are scoring at all of the wrong ends yet Alan Shearer still can’t find a decent shirt. Where the hell is he shopping?
7. Internationals. I wasn’t managing them, but England won the 2010 World Cup. Wayne scored a hat-trick in the final against Italy. Wayne Routledge. Wayne Routledge!
1. Looks. When you think of the name Troy, you probably think of the film which starred Brad Pitt as Achilles. Or Stingray which starred Troy Tempest as a puppet. Both are handsome chaps so I am told. (Troy Tempest – who went on to be Scott in Thunderbirds – was modelled on James Garner). Even if your son is a bit odd looking in reality, he will be sex on legs by association.
2. Meaning. Troy means ‘descendant of a footsoldier’. If he has pride in his heritage you won’t have to waste money on blister plasters.
3. Brand. The name Troy is ready made for a multi-national corporation. You can imagine your son growing up to be the new Donald Trump. Troy Towers. Troy Holidays. Troy Trains. And the really good news is that www.mynameistroy.com is currently available.
4. Respect. The name is cool. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. In a class full of Jacks and Toms and Richards, Troy will stand out. Everyone will want to be his friend. He’ll probably be the new Danny Zuko.
5. Intimidating. As well as being a cool name, it will also make people cower. ‘I am Troy’ sounds so much more demanding than, ‘I am Justin’. We don’t live in a perfect world. People will look at Troy’s CV and think, ‘I better employ this guy or else he’s going to come looking for me.’
6. Friends. Parents of Troy’s friends will immediately suspect you as being weird for giving your son such a bizarre name. I accept that this may not sound like a convincing reason, but surely it is better for them to think you are weird and then discover you are not than to think you are normal and then discover you are in fact loons.
7. Mother-in-law. This doesn’t affect me so much as I have a habit of getting on well with mothers, but if you do dread the idea of visiting the mother-in-law I imagine calling her grandson Troy will mean you are only invited round once a decade.
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