Tag: Women

7 Reasons It’s Not My Fault I Thought He Was A Woman

Today is World Tourism Day and as I couldn’t think of one single reason as to why we should celebrate it, I decided to write about men who I once thought were women instead. So here are 7 men, who to me, were once women. Enjoy.

Josephine Rebecca Rachel Tolkien

1. J.R.R.Tolkien. I have absolutely no idea why I thought Tolkien was a woman. Maybe it was the slightly effeminate font on my copy of The Fellowship Of The Ring or maybe it was something in the tone of voice on the first page. (I don’t think I actually got to page two). Either way, for a good few months I thought John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was in fact Josephine Rebecca Rachel Tolkien. Sorry about that John.

2. Leslie Neilsen. Oh come on. Anyone could make this mistake. Admittedly it may have taken them slightly less than five viewings of Naked Gun to realise that the person who they initially thought was Leslie Nielsen was actually Priscilla Presley, but hey, we all make mistakes.

3. John Denver. How the hell did I think John Denver was a woman? Probably because I thought he was called Joan Denver.

4. Neil Sedaka. I didn’t know the name at the time, I had just heard the song. Laughter In The Rain probably. And, well, he just sounds like a girl doesn’t he?

5. Lily Savage. Yes, seriously. For a good ten minutes, I actually thought Paul O’Grady’s alter-ego – the one who looked like a man and spoke like a man, but wore a dress, heels and wig – was a woman. I was naive. I didn’t know cross-dressers – or as I prefer to call them, perverts – existed. I clearly lived a sheltered childhood. In a house where Lily Savage was on the TV.

6. Ashley Smith. If this name is not familiar to you, then good. One day, in circa 1996, my friend Tom came into school and told a select group of us that he had kissed someone called Ashley the night before. Being the lads we were we ‘high-fived’ and congratulated him on his conquest. As a spotty 13 year-old at the time, I was outwardly happy for him. Inside though, I was full of jealousy. I had never kissed a girl – not properly anyway. I wanted a go. (Frustratingly, I would have to wait another four years for that particular delight to occur. And even then, I am not entirely sure she knew much about it). But anyway, I digress. We were very happy for Tom and he seemed very happy for himself. Then Tom went ten-pin bowling. And he invited a few of his friends along too. Including me. And Ashley. And that was when I realised Tom was gay.

7. The Stylistics. Okay, so this is more a group, than a singular person, but the theme still remains. I still thought they were women. And you can’t blame me. I’ve tried many an implement in many a painful place to try and get my voice that high. Cricket bats, clothes pegs, garden rakes, soldering irons (not on purpose), next door’s cat. You name it, I’ve tried it. But to no avail. I just can’t sound like The Stylistics.

September 27, 2010
7 Reasons Standing Outside Female Fitting Rooms In Zara Is Awkward (For Men)

We’ve all been there. Female changing rooms. Women go in them. Men stand outside them. That, at least, is the usual practice. And it is certainly what I practised on Saturday. In Zara. And when I say it is what I practised, I don’t mean I went into Zara and practised standing outside the fitting rooms. That type of behaviour is strictly frowned upon and usually ends up with you being escorted from the shop by the police. Apparently. So no, I was not practising standing outside the fitting rooms. I was standing outside the fitting rooms in Zara because my girlfriend was inside the fitting rooms in Zara. And boy, is Zara awkward.

1. Positioning. It’s very difficult to know where to stand in Zara. I am no expert – if I was this post would have been called ‘7 Reasons I Laugh At Men Who Feel Awkward Outside Fitting Rooms In Zara’ – but I imagine the optimum place to stand must be at a 45 degree angle to the fitting room entrance. This, at least, is what I am trying to perfect. By standing at a 45 degree angle you can see out of the corner of your eye when your lady steps out of her cubicle to model her potential new outfit for you. It also means that you are not going to be staring at a lot of…

2. Other Women, who keep popping out of their cubicles. I have made the mistake of looking directly at the fitting room entrance before and it’s not a pleasant sight. Quite why other women seem so determined to try and fit into dresses that are at least two sizes too small for them is way above my level of intellect. But this isn’t really the awkward bit. The awkward bit is when the other women see you looking at them with your eyebrows raised. Or your mouth wide open. Or your head shaking. Or your shoulders lifting up and down as if to suggest you may be trying to suppress a titter. Which, coincidentally, is what many of them seem to be trying to do too. Obviously, if you do catch their eyesight, then you quickly look away. Which is when you notice the…

3. Mirrors. So now, instead of looking at other people, you are staring at your reflection. Which seems a little odd so you look to the other side of the fitting rooms. Where there is another bloody mirror. What is it with Zara and mirrors? They are all over the place. And the one you are using now is also being used by a women. So now you are staring at a reflection of a woman trying on a jacket. And now she has noticed you staring at a reflection of her trying on a jacket. And so has her husband. Which is when you turn back to the other mirror. Now you have a choice. Remain fixed on a reflection of you and you alone or look directly at the fitting rooms? Remember, you can’t stare at the floor, look the other way or run because your lady could step out of her cubicle at any moment. And you must be there. Given my previous with staring directly at the fitting rooms. I go for the looking at myself in a mirror option. I’ve done that before. And it hasn’t felt awkward since my Mum caught me singing along to Elvis with a comb. Thankfully, I don’t have a comb with me on this occasion, so instead I try and work out whether my shoulders are more sculpted than before or whether it’s one of those funny mirrors. I then realise someone else is hoping to use the mirror and so I have no option but to turn back to looking directly at the fitting room. This is where you have to resort to Plan Z. The phone. As…

4. Behaviour whilst waiting for someone goes, looking at your phone is the worst kind. Looking at your phone not only screams, ‘I am waiting for someone and I feel awkward,’ it also says, ‘I am bored’. Which is not good. Especially if that is the moment when your lady needs your attention. There is a way to rectify this however. I have named it the ‘look at your invisible phone’ technique. Basically it involves you, pretending you are looking at your phone. Or, in layman’s terms, just looking downwards a bit. You can also throw in some robot dance moves if you feel inclined, but most don’t. The good thing about the invisible phone/looking downwards move is that your periphiral vision still takes in your lady’s location in the fitting room. This is all well and good until you sense there is…

5. Another Man Waiting. This really shouldn’t be a problem. But ridiculously it makes it far more awkward. Not only are you are both checking on the behaviour of the other person to see if you can pick up any good ‘waiting outside fitting room’ tips, you are now in direct competition. You are both proud of your lady and you want to show the other guy that you are the better boyfriend/husband. Unfortunately, this means telling your lady that she looks wonderful in whatever she steps out of the fitting room wearing. Even if you’re not 100% sure about it. That’s until one of you decide you need to step up and show your relationship really is based on honesty about clothes. You need to show that your lady respects your opinion and if you aren’t sure about something she won’t feel let down. Which is when she steps out of the fitting room and you immediately say, ‘I’m not sure about that sweetheart. It’s not you at all.’ And then she scowls at you and you realise it’s what she has been wearing all day. Still, it could have been worse. You could have been standing outside the fitting rooms with…

6. Other Women. And this really is awkward. You feel awkward not just because you keep thinking, ‘Am I standing in the right place? How should I be acting? What the hell is she wearing?’ but because you are never 100% sure what they are thinking. Are they thinking, ‘That’s nice. I wish my boyfriend/husband was happy waiting for me in Zara instead of hanging around in HMV’? Or, are they thinking, ‘I wish security would come and remove this pervert’? I’ll be honest, the latter makes one feel very awkward. Especially when they wander off in the direction of an important looking person. You’re just waiting for a tap on the shoulder. Which is when you realise that your lady has been in the fitting room for a long…

7. Time. What is she doing in there? Is she okay? What happens if her hair has got stuck in a zip and she is now stuck? Do I phone her up? Do I ask a member of staff to go and check? Do I wander down and find out for myself? A knot twists in your stomach. She might be stuck with a dress over her head and you’re not doing anything. You’re just standing here. Feeling awkward. And now you’re feeling awkward for feeling awkward. Why? What have men done to be punished like this? Why does Zara punish men like this? When will this torture end?

September 21, 2010
7 Reasons You Should Choose Your Holiday Read Carefully

There’s so much to think about when choosing your holiday read and so much can go wrong. Here are seven reasons that you should do it carefully.

1. The Cover. People say you should never judge a book by its cover. But they do. Which is why everyone who sees your choice of book will automatically form an opinion of you. And it will probably be the wrong opinion. Take Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange for example. The Penguin Modern Classic version depicts a glass of milk. If I see someone reading a book that has a cover featuring milk I immediately think, ‘Cows. The reader likes cows’. They probably don’t. In fact, had I asked them, they would have probably shrugged with indifference. But that’s the peril of the book cover. To me, that person will always be a cow lover.

2. Trilogies. These are a big no-no. No one reads more than one book on holiday, so never start on a series that is going to take you a further two holidays to finish. By the time the second holiday comes around you’ll have forgotten what happened in the first book. This means you’ll have to read it again, only for the process to repeat itself on the next holiday. Basically, you’ll spend the rest of your life holidaying with the same book. And you’ll never find out who kills who or what the wizard said to the pixie or why the girl next door is so addicted to sex with vampires.

3. Love. Lots of people meet the love of their lives (or their night) on holiday. The last thing you need – having plucked up the courage and charmed a beautiful lady at the bar – is for her to come back to your suite and see your copy of How To Talk Women Into Bed resting on your pillow. That kind of behaviour is strictly frowned upon by the fairer sex. Apparently.

4. Language. When you take a book abroad, it’s disrespectful to your hosts to read an English translation of a book originally written in their language. In Barcelona, several people were upset to see me reading a translation of Lorca’s Yerma, but that was nothing compared to the reaction of Berliners to my English version of Mein Kampf. Never read a translated work. They were livid.

5. Practicality. The Da Vinci Code is the ideal book to take on holiday. If the weather takes a turn for the worse you can use it as kindling; if you spill your drink on the table, it’s quite absorbent; if you need to hold a door in your villa open, you can fashion a papier-mache doorstop from it; if you find that people are trying to engage you in conversation, you can pretend to read it (they’ll soon leave you alone). There’s almost nothing that this versatile book can’t be used for. Except as reading material, obviously. That would be stupid.

6. The Lord Of The Flies. If you have teenage children, do not take this book on your island-break with you. Okay, so it’s pretty unlikely that they’ll put down their iPods and PSPs for long enough to read it, but if they do, they may descend into savagery before you know it. And savages do not make relaxing holiday companions. As anyone that has vacationed in Ayia Napa will testify.

7. Airports. A copy of Frank Barnaby’s How to Build A Nuclear Bomb and Other Weapons of Mass Destruction would be a particularly poor choice of holiday read. It’s sobering, serious and thought-provoking; none of the things that are conducive to the holiday mood as you attempt to relax and get away from it all in your detention cell at Heathrow Airport.

September 8, 2010
7 Reasons The Sinclair C5 Was Destined To Fail

The Sinclair C5 was relentlessly ridiculed. And quite rightly so, it was rubbish. Any Industrial Design & Technology graduate/person will tell you that. But if they had just made a few small changes, it could have sold at least 500 more units.

1. Women. Quite why Sir Clive Sinclair thought his bucket-on-wheels was going to appeal to a market that needs to check make-up upon arrival at destination, is anyone’s guess. But he did. And he was wrong. If only he had doubled one of the wheels up as a mirror. Sure, it may have looked a bit ‘bling’, but it would probably have appealed to the ever growing pimping community.

2. Date. Unfortunately for Sir Clive, he decided to launch the Sinclair C5 on 10th January 1985. It just so happened that the Viennese zither player, Anton Karas, passed away that day. And as we all know, a zither is much more powerful than a Sinclair C5. The 11th January 1985 was a very slow news day. If only Clive had waited 24 hours.

3. Hills. Always a bit annoying having to get out of your vehicle and push it up a hill isn’t it? Which is why the Sinclair C5 should have come with a tow rope. Or a map that just showed hills that went down.

4. Stirling Job. Getting Sir Stirling Moss to promote the Sinclair C5 may have seemed like a stroke of genius, but they really should have prepped him first. “Just treat it as if you are riding a bicycle,” probably wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement Clive was after.

5. Washing Machines Live Longer With Sinclair. There is an urban myth that says the Sinclair C5 was powered by a washing machine motor. It’s a myth because although the motor manufacturers, Polymotor, do supply to the washing machine industry, they also manufacture torpedo motors. Unfortunately, it is true that the body work of the Sinclair C5 was manufactured by Hoover. Clive should have waited for Dyson. Then maybe I wouldn’t be trying to think of witicisms that involve ‘Sinclair C5’ and ‘cleaning up’.

6. Britain. Sir Clive’s biggest mistake was probably that he tried to sell the Sinclair C5 in Britain. Not only did Britain already have things called cars, it also had weather. And sadly it was never very good. If Sir Clive had been any good at geography, he would have realised that the Sahara desert would be a much better place for his bits of plastic. If it had come with a spade too, the owners could have made sandcastles.

7. Elephants. There is a joke about elephants and minis that I have never really understood. It goes something like this. Q: How many elephants can you fit in a Mini? A: Four. Two in the front, two in the back. Hilarious it may not be, but it does at least make you think of four elephants. In a Mini. Now that’s a terrific endorsement for both Minis and elephant dieting tips if ever I have heard one. So now let’s try it with the Sinclair C5. Q: How many elephants can you fit in a Sinclair C5? A:

August 18, 2010
7 Reasons That I Shouldn’t Have Got The Bus

I used to travel by bus a lot when I was younger. But now I don’t need to use one, as there are always better alternatives available to me. Last Saturday, however, I had to make a journey for which a bus seemed like the best option. I know now that it wasn’t.

1. The Women. I realised quite soon into my ride on the bus (occupied by about thirty people) that I was the only man there. When Margaret Thatcher said, “A man who, beyond the age of 26, finds himself on a bus can count himself as a failure,” did she scare all of the other men away? Obviously I disagree with her statement; there are many good reasons for men over twenty-six to be on the bus, probably seven. That doesn’t mean that I disagree with everything Thatcher said, of course. She once stepped out of 10 Downing Street, strode up to a microphone and said “Good evening” to the assembled journalists, and I didn’t find that too objectionable. But I’m at a loss as to why the bus was an otherwise-man-free-zone, and it felt strange to be intruding on whatever it was that the sisters-of-the-bus would otherwise have been doing.

2. The Heat. It was a hot, sunny day, and buses are vehicles that are constructed almost entirely from windows. Unlike just about every other public building or vehicle though, there is no air-conditioning. This meant that the bus was a very hot place indeed. It is said that men sweat, but women perspire, and I discovered that this was true while I was on the bus: I sweated, and the women on the bus perspired. A lot. They perspired so much that the interior of the bus developed its own tropical microclimate and all of the windows steamed up, which actually improved the view of some of the suburbs we passed through.

3. The Baby. There was a screaming baby on the bus. She bawled persistently for the entirety of the journey. She cried so loudly that I began to wish I had more earwax. Not that I could blame the baby for her wailing, of course. I daresay I’d have cried too, if my mother had looked like Brian Blessed and worn pink velour leggings that were six sizes too small.

4. The Girls. The bus seemed to be the place where the city’s mardy-faced fifteen year old girls go to hang out in pairs. They were wearing most of Superdrug’s range of make-up simultaneously and all of them had hair so dazzlingly shiny that it hurt my eyes. When not scowling contemptuously at me, the baby, Brian Blessed, the strange old woman or the driver (as we were clearly idiots), they were engaged in weighty conversations of substance with each other:

“D’ya know that Kerry?”

“No” (said as a long word, pronounced nerrrrrr).

“She finished with that Ryan”.

“Who?” (pronounced ooo, and said like a gorilla)

“The one what lives next to Judy” (pronounced Ju-deh)

“Who’s Judy ?” (oooze Ju-deh)

At this point, mardy-faced-girl number nine scowled at her friend, mardy-faced-girl number ten, who was clearly an idiot for not knowing who Ryan or Judy were, and I inserted my fingers into my ears and began to hum The Marseillaise.

5. The Strange Old Woman. There was an old woman at the front of the bus, in a priority seat. She had many bags surrounding her – two of which were tartan – and, from one of those tartan bags, she produced an unappetising looking sandwich which appeared to contain some sort of luncheon meat. She proceeded to eat the sandwich. Now you may be thinking that this isn’t really strange behaviour, but I alighted from the bus when it arrived at my destination and, when I got back on board (lighted?) several hours later, she was still there. Shortly after I sat down she reached into the other tartan bag and produced a slice of fruitcake, which was presumably her dessert. She’s probably still there now, having coffee and mints.

6. The Speed. I wasn’t on the bus because I wanted to get to my destination in a hurry, which is just as well, as the bus was moving at almost glacial speed. In fact, there was only one thing on the narrow road back to the city centre that was slower than the bus; and that was the enormous fat man wobbling along in the centre of the carriageway on a tiny bicycle. His legs were rotating at 11 revolutions per minute. I know this, because I had time to calculate it. We were stuck behind him for 19.4 renditions of The Marseillaise until, eventually, we ground to a complete halt.

7. The Prisoner. By this point, I’d tired of the bus and, when we had been stationary in traffic for several minutes, I decided to get off and walk. “Can you open the doors please, I want to alight” I said to the driver, taking full advantage of the rare opportunity to use the word alight.

“No. Sorry.”

“But we’re not moving. I wish to return home during my cat’s lifetime.”

“No. Sorry. We’re not at a stop.”

“But we are at a standstill, will that do?”

“No. Sorry.”

“We’re stationary and next to the kerb: A situation that isn’t remotely different to being at a bus stop. Not that I’m an expert on bus stops, but one of the things that I have observed about them is that they involve both a stationary bus, and a kerb; and our present circumstances fulfil both of those criteria. Furthermore, I put it to you that…”

At this moment the doors opened and I was free to alight from the bus, never to return. Twenty mardy-faced girls scowled at me as I got off.

7 Reasons Transport Week continues tomorrow.

August 17, 2010
Guest Post: 7 Reasons That It’s Pimm’s O’Clock

It’s another Saturday here in Blighty and that means another chance for Marc and I to leave the comfort of the sofa and go and air our hairy legs. All four of them. In our place today then, is John Phipps. A man who, when not painting Gordon Brown’s face, can be found doing other things. Though we’re not quite sure what. For those of you in the twitterati, you can follow John here. But do that after he’s talked to you about Pimm’s. It’s only courteous.

So far in England we’ve had a summer of sporting mediocrity – topped off with headaches from the whine of Vuvuzelas and Sue Barkers’ bitter tone. Amazingly the sun is still looking favourably upon our otherwise gloomy Nation as music festivals and sporting events help draw our attention away from our melancholy lives.

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to a proper English summer. With everything in place, it seems appropriate that the mind should turn to Pimm’s – the quintessentially English Summer drink. In its traditional style, 7 Reasons is here to help celebrate “Pimm’s O’clock” with seven somewhat ironic, self-mocking pointers.

1. Quality refreshment. A sensible man would say refreshment comes in the form of water. Brian Badonde would even join me in saying “Bah!” to those opting for some Council juice on a warm day. What sets Pimm’s aside from the rest is its ability to truly refresh. The fabulously fruity rich mix, shifts the clouds with sweet honey-like sunshine resin. Your palate will explode long before your bladder as you taste the heady delights of the English summer.

As an added bonus for those of you clogging up the NHS, the fruit not only gives added enjoyment but counts for a significant part of your important 5 a-day too.* Your Consultant will be (slightly) pleased.

2. Prudence. Guardian columnist Oliver Thring (who by the way sports a truly magnificent side parting) wrote that Pimm’s “epitomises seasonal events featuring irritating rich people: trilbied fops in preposterous blazers; hawing women in silly hats; drunken trustafarians lounging on riverbanks; fans of Nigel Farage doorstepping ahead of European elections.”

Now, I’m not a fan of Nigel Farage, more of a Bercow man myself, but young Oliver is spot on; this bizarre scene is a fundamental part of the attraction. Some drink Stella and go home and beat their wife. Others sip Pimm’s and go home after beating themselves because they threw a game of croquet. It’s a drink for those with common sense.

3. Social Mobility. Fortunately the price seems to dissuade anti-socialites and general miscreants from dropping their favoured bottle of White Lightning for a Pimm’s. I defy anybody to find evidence of Pimm’s being drunk neat, or otherwise, on park benches by the Adidas tracksuit brigade. It is widely believed too that Staffordshire Bull Terriers will not drink this refined goodness. That being said, there is every opportunity with Pimm’s to elevate your standing – therefore perfect for the character who some years ago failed the 12+ or an entrance exam at Stowe and ended up carrying a briefcase into a modern Comprehensive on his first day in Year 8.

You see a nice ‘whistle’ or a posh frock only go some of the distance in pushing you up the ladder. However, put a jug of Pimm’s on the table and a glass in hand and you my friend could be someone with symbolic capital. The power of absolute mobility that this drink possesses is indeed, absolute.

4. Grandeur. Only a sexually insecure beefcake or a leftie with a face like a melted wellington would refuse a Pimm’s – regardless of cost. Pimm’s is Land Of Hope And Glory and Jerusalem in a glass. It screams Pomp and Circumstance with its typeface let alone its taste. It arouses illusions of grandeur, times gone by; an idealised Nation; a Country under Thatcher; a home-grown Wimbledon winner; Mr Darcy; cricket at Wormsley, the majesty of Temperate House; an impassioned Glyndebourne.

Prince William and his Army chums once cleared the supermarket shelves in Weymouth just after I bought my first bottle of the summer. I hope the lucky bar-stewards didn’t choke on a strawberry, but love him or hate him, be assured that this is a drink of Kings.

5. Women. Proper ladies don’t drink Pints of lager; it’s not the done thing, so be on guard for freeloaders. Make sure your flys aren’t undone etc. First impressions count and Pimm’s has already done the hard work for you. Don’t let yourself down.

6. Create Perfection. The official recipe is one part Pimm’s to three parts lemonade, strawberry, orange and mint, mixed generously with ice. Generally speaking one should stick to it. I would suggest perhaps using Tonic Water instead of lemonade, adding cucumber and maybe a stick or two of celery.

If your greengrocer has run out of celery, a Chelsea fan is bound to have some.

7. Imitation is suicide. The world is full of pretenders, I urge you not to join them by succumbing to a cheaper and quite frankly, poorer alternative. You will think you are cool, but instead you are unquestionably sad. You need to ‘wake up and smell the cock’ before your half-empty glass ruins your life.

You will not reach more of a lower point in life than if a guest samples your fake product and comments accordingly. At this point you will probably continue drinking the alternative just to forget what happened. This is not clever and you really should have read points 1-6 more carefully.

*Not scientifically proven, just an educated guess.

**DRINK RESPONSIBLY. Pimm’s is not good to binge on and can make quite a mess for your partner to clear up the next day. It will also quite probably smell most foul.

July 24, 2010
Russian Roulette Sunday: Make Do And Mend.

Hello. It’s Sunday again. And Sundays come as Sundays do – after five days of hoping that the other 7 Reasons writer has come up with something for Sunday. They never have. Which is why Marc came to me yesterday, breathless and devoid of inspiration, and said, ‘We don’t have anything for Sunday do we?’

‘No,’ I replied, supping on a cup of tea and stroking my mirror.

‘Damn,’ was his silent reply.

We sat in silence for a minute or twenty. Neither one of us prepared to say, ‘Let’s have a Sunday off’. Then, just as I was about to snap my gingerbread man at the neck, Marc leapt out of his chair and kicked the cat. ‘Let’s do some more advertising!’ he declared.

‘Marc,’ I began, my blood beginning to simmer at my colleagues scant disregard for our lack of money, ‘we don’t have any finances. You gave all our money away to Pearl & Dean and my masks have proved about as popular as Esther Rantzen in a…well about as popular as Esther Rantzen’.

‘You make a good point Jon,’ Marc said, taking off his pith helmet and vaulting over the desk, ‘but maybe we can just make do and mend.’

I looked puzzled, Marc was using phrases from World War II again. ‘How do you mean, Marc?’

‘I mean, we just use a load of old adverts and pimp them to suit 7 Reasons. Then we can ask people to put them up in their windows and on the back of their cows.’

‘Genius!’ I shouted, sending tea all over my groinal department. And with that Marc left, leaving a waft of whisky and a cat stuck in my plant pot.

Thirteen hours later we were finished. And so was the cat.

So yes. Please choose your preferred poster and stick it up in your place of work, caravan, shed or personal telephone box. Then take a photo and send it to us. It’s not that we are an unbelieving duo, we just like to know our hard work has been worth it.

June 6, 2010
7 Reasons The Osmonds Were Right

Today I am offering a public service. To man. By addressing you. The woman. I know man is seen as the least romantic of the sexes, but man still likes to be loved. And, as The Osmonds so wisely stated, he likes to be loved because you actually love him. Not because he’s good with a screwdriver. Something like that anyway. Basically, what I am trying to get at is this. I’ve taken this classic Osmonds tune and edited it. So that you, the woman, will not make mistakes when you tell a man of your reasons for loving him. You’ll thank me one day.

7 Reasons The Osmonds Were Right

Don’t Love Me For Fun Girl, Let Me Be The One Girl, Love Me For A Reason, Let The Reason Be…

1. My DIY Skills. I assure you ladies, telling your man that you love him because he is great with a hammer is not the way to go. Would you like it if man told you that he loved you because you are good at ironing? No. Exactly.

2. My Memory. Don’t tell your man that you love him because he has a great memory. He’ll probably forget. Then you’ll get annoyed that he keeps forgetting. And he won’t know why you’re getting annoyed. And then you’ll split up. So don’t do it. Not if you really love him.

3. My Ability To Be Tall And Reach The Top Shelf In Sainsburys. Man doesn’t mind being tall and actually he is happy that he has some use in the supermarket bar getting in the way and trying to manoeuvre the trolley too fast. But telling him you love him because he’s tall is like him telling you he loves you because you are short enough to get in the attic without bashing your head.

4. My Hair. Facial Hair. Always a delicate one this. And actually you are probably doing yourself a favour by not using it. Man is programmed to reciprocate without thinking. “I love you” is reciprocated with “I love you too”. “I love your moustache” becomes “I love your moustache too”. Not good.

5. My Collection Of Sporting Memorabilia 1994 – Present Day. Man likes his collection of programmes and fixture lists and photos from years ago. It brings back good memories. And he also likes it because you don’t. Man doesn’t share your passion for American Idol or knitting, so don’t share his passion for signed pairs of Gary Lineker worn shorts.

6. My Dislike Of The Lesser Boyzone Version Of This Song. Man likes to think he knows about such topics as music. A woman’s job is to say, ‘Ooh I like this new one from Boyzone’. This gives the man a chance to show off and scoff and say, ‘This isn’t new. This is a cover of a far superior song’. What he does not expect is for woman to switch off the radio and say, ‘Why did Boyzone make such a rubbish cover?’

7. My Marc Fearns Mask. Seriously, man is just going to get very annoyed if you love it when he wears the mask. Unless you are Marc Fearns yourself of course. In which case you’ll probably think it’s a right result.

May 31, 2010
7 Reasons You Shouldn’t Display Too Much Cleavage

At 7 Reasons, we’re not experts on everything we write about. Today, however, is an exception. Who better to write about cleavage than a man? After all, we think about breasts a lot. This can only go well.

1. Temperature. Women are often at the wrong temperature. They’re usually either too hot or too cold. Chivalry isn’t dead, however, and if a man sees a woman that looks chilly, he’ll say something like, “You look cold. Would you like to wear my jumper?” If you’re displaying too much cleavage though, a man might realise that you’re cold when your overexposed décolletage comes out in goose-pimples. This is bad. When you deny being cold (you always do), what is he to do? Point out the evidence? I’m not an expert on tact, but I can’t help thinking that, “You are cold, there are goose-pimples on your breasts” would be an unwise statement to make, and may well cause drink-throwage.

2. Distraction. Often women that display too much cleavage do so because they feel that it will distract attention from other features that they are less proud of. This does not work. Men, though easily distracted by breasts, will not fail to notice if you have a big bottom. Not that you do, obviously. It’s probably twice as big in your mind as it is in actuality. This does not mean that I think you have a big head, by the way.

3. The Human Race May Die Out. Too much cleavage can ruin your love life. To illustrate this, we’re going to go on a date. Well, two dates. Both first dates. We’re going out for dinner. I haven’t been on a date since years began with the number one, but I’m pretty sure I remember how. If you’re not a woman, you will need to imagine that you are one for this. Try to imagine that you’re one without hairy arms.

Date 1

You arrive at the restaurant. I’m already there, seated at a table (at least I can be punctual in my own head). You remove your coat. You are wearing a top which displays a moderate amount of cleavage. Having removed your coat, you glance upward and see me at the table, we make eye contact, I smile and give you a subtle wave of greeting. You walk over to the table, I stand up, you had forgotten how tall I am – no matter – we embrace and I kiss you on the cheek. Seated now, we make light and pleasurable conversation. You’re having a good time in my company. You think I’m very funny and the conversation flows freely. You laugh a lot. You love my expressive eyes. You like that I smile so easily. You can tell that I’m really listening to what you’re saying. I’m thinking about your breasts (I can multi-task too).

We order the food. For starters we order tiramisu, followed by a main course of tiramisu and a dessert of tiramisu (it’s an imaginary date, I like tiramisu. Don’t worry, it won’t go straight to your imaginary thighs). We hand our menus back to the waiter. You’re certain that you’re falling in love with me. You believe that I’m a hopeless romantic. You wonder if I style my hair with clay or wax.

The evening ends well. Taking your hand in mine, I walk you back to the gate of your lighthouse (I like girls with lighthouses). We enjoy a long, languorous kiss and say goodnight (this is a first date, remember). You turn away. You are besotted. I stare at your bottom as you walk up the garden path.

Date 2

You arrive at the restaurant. I’m already there, seated at a table (that’s twice I’ve been on time for something now. Hurrah!). You remove your coat. You are wearing a top which displays an immoderate amount of cleavage. Having removed your coat, you glance upward and see me at the table. I stare at your chest. I forget to smile and fail to give you a subtle wave of greeting. You walk over to the table, I stand up, you had forgotten how tall I am – oops – we embrace and I gaze down your top. Seated now, I realise that I’m staring at your breasts. I become flustered. I resolve not to look directly at them, to maintain eye-contact with you at all costs, but they’re there, staring back at me. They are the elephants in the room; lustrous, shapely, lovely elephants. I can’t stop thinking about them. I don’t want to, but it’s hard not to look at them. I redden. I develop a stammer you never noticed before. I begin to sweat profusely. I’m certain that you must know I’m thinking about them. We make terse and fragmented conversation. You’re not having a good time in my company. You wonder if I’m having a funny-turn. My perspiration flows freely. You don’t laugh at my jokes. You hate my bulgy, anxious eyes. You hate that I smile so sleazily. You can tell that I’m not really listening to what you’re saying. I’m trying to think about something – anything – other than your breasts (it turns out I can’t multi-task).

We order the food. For starters we order tiramisu, followed by a main course of tiramisu and a dessert of tiramisu (it’s a nightmare date, he’s clearly insane, what’s with all the tiramisu? Just look at his mad, staring eyes!). You hand your menu back to the waiter. I keep mine to shield my eyes from your chest. You’re certain that you’re a bit afraid of me. You believe that I’m a hopeless neurotic. You wonder if I murder with a knife or an axe.

The evening ends badly. You go to the toilet and call a friend. You arrange for her to ring you back five minutes later. You answer the phone back at the table. You tell me there’s an emergency at your lighthouse, you have to rush away. We endure a brief, clammy handshake and say goodbye. You turn away. You are relieved. I stare at your bottom as you walk out of my life forever.

4. Engineering. When Howard Hughes developed the under-wired bra for Jane Russell to best display her assets in The Outlaw he did something wonderful. But take note, the bit at the bottom is called under-wire. It shouldn’t be visible. If a man can see any part of the structural element of the bra, his thoughts will turn to engineering and you may find yourself involved in a conversation about the load-bearing capacity of flying buttresses or the hyperbolic cosine of the catenary or some-such nonsense.

5. Indecent Exposure. I realised that I needed to illustrate just how much cleavage is too much, but I had a problem. I’m a man. I have no breasts. I was alone in the house except for the cat (a brief examination revealed that he too, has no breasts). I required a woman for the purpose of demonstration. I couldn’t draw one, I’m hopeless at that, but I had an idea. I decided to do what no man left alone in the house has ever done before; I searched Google Images for breasts. After some time (approximately nine hours) I still hadn’t found the image that I was looking for – in fact, I’d totally forgotten why I was looking – and had to abandon the search. The cat was hungry, and I went down to the kitchen to feed him. It was there that I realised that I could illustrate my point using props. My Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, 7 Reasons.org are proud to present:

The 7 Reasons Pictorial Guide To The Correct Amount Of Cleavage (Using Two Bottles Of Sparkling Water And A Tea Towel).

There, I hope that’s clear. If you bear this guide in mind when dressing, you won’t go too far wrong in most countries. In summary: If people can see any part of your bottle tops – or the plastic ring beneath – you’re showing too much cleavage and it could cause offence. This does not apply to anyone engaged in the act of breast-feeding; those women are giving food to children for fucks sake – Daily Mail readers take note.

6. Men. If you are a man, you shouldn’t even have cleavage, let alone display it. Go to the gym!

7. Because of a lack of preparation. Men are generally taller than women. The average height of a man in the UK is 5’10”, while the average height of a woman is 5’4”. Also, eyes are higher up than breasts. This means, while dressing, a woman needs to be aware that half of the population’s view of her cleavage will be from at least eighteen inches above it. It’s not enough just to look in the mirror to check whether you’re displaying too much. You need to look in the mirror while standing on a chair.

April 16, 2010
7 Reasons That Golf Is The Wrong Sport For Businessmen

Businessmen play a lot of golf, and business golf is a accepted part of business culture – there are even books about it. Here are 7 reasons that golf is the wrong sport for businessmen.

1. Location. Business takes place in the city – an urban environment – but golf takes place in the suburbs or in rural environs. Therefore, golf is in the wrong place. As a businessman, this means you have to travel to the golf course. What you need is a sport that you can play in cities, thus saving travel-time and expense. Snooker or pool would be ideal. After all, things always go better with a drink and you’ll have a big table that you can put your paperwork on.

2. Stuff. Golf requires an astonishing amount of equipment. There’s all manner of paraphernalia to lug around – so much of it, in fact, that you need to carry an enormous golf-bag, or hire a man to carry it for you. Some people even use electric buggies (a whole special car to convey golf equipment!). This is clearly ridiculous. Carrying your golf equipment around is incompatible with being businesslike. What you need is sports equipment that fits into a briefcase. A Frisbee is perfect.

3. Assessment If you compete against potential business partners over a few holes of golf, what are you really learning about them? That they don’t like to get their pink trousers muddy? That they can chat about very little while waiting to tee off? A more challenging sport will teach you far more about them. Rugby union, for example. You’ll learn far more about your potential business partner’s drive, desire, sense of ethics and commitment when he’s growling, biting your ear and trying to remove your testicles with his hand or when he’s spear-tackling your head of marketing. Rugby union is a team game. There’s no “I” in rugby union. Well, there is, but someone will poke it out sooner or later.

4. Clothes. Golf requires you to physically exert yourself. Golf also requires a different set of clothes than business. This means that you have to shower and change once your round of golf has finished. This is inefficient use of time. This is time you could spend working and earning money. Unless, that is, you earn your money in the men’s changing rooms, in which case…er…er…do carry on.

5. Women. You don’t see women heading out to the golf course to “network” or play “business golf”; they usually prefer to conduct their business at their business premises, and it’s quite hard to fault that sort of logic. If you’re playing business golf, you’re doing business very inefficiently – as you’re only meeting men. You need to be in an environment that’s agreeable to both sexes. I don’t know what that place is, but there must be at least one, even if it is always at the wrong temperature.

6. Length. Golf takes too long. It takes you out of the office for hours. If you must use the company’s time to participate in sport, you could find one that takes less time. 100 metre sprinting is a quick sport. Here’s how to combine it successfully with business: Walk to a point that’s 100 metres away from your desk, then run back to your desk as fast as you can; because that’s where you should be – at your desk – getting work done.

7. Displacement. Is your work really so dull and frustrating that you need to go to a field and repeatedly smack a ball with a stick? Aren’t you just avoiding work when you’re playing golf? If you didn’t hang around on the golf course “working”, then your actual working day would be so much shorter and you could spend your free time doing what you really want to do. Spending more time with your family or…er…playing golf.

March 31, 2010