Tag: Men

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 Whitstable Is A Bit Strange

I don’t know. Maybe I caught the place on a bad day, but my goodness, there are some strange people there. I mean really, really strange.

1. The Conversations. “Have you heard from your friends in Iceland?” “Oh, well not since the last time.”

2. The Stall Owners. “Would you like a picnic?” As chat-up lines go, this is quite forward. No introductions. Just straight in there, “Would you like a picnic?” I replied no, at which point the stall owner said, “Peppermint! Why did I say picnic?” She then stared at me. For far too long.

3. The Fish & Chip Shop Queue. Apparently, Whitstable adheres to the philosophy that states, ‘if you see a queue, get in it’. That would explain why I spent ten minutes standing behind two people who had absolutely no intention of buying fish. Or chips. Or even one of those small wooden forks. Idiots.

4. The Weird Family. A mother who screams when attacked by fake wasps and chucks drink down her top. A son who runs slower than he walks. Another son who gets in a strop and starts throwing stones towards his family. A father who sits down and bends the wooden bench. A youngest son who keeps going on about seeing a King Charles Spaniel. And when I say he keeps going on about it, I mean on and on and on and on. And on. Just shut up already! It’s a dog. Not a bloody Tyrannosaurus Rex.

5. The Dogs. There are millions of them. And not a single one gave me a whiff out of courtesy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I wanted a dog to give me a whiff, it’s just that they usually do. As a rule, dogs do not like me. And because of this rule they usually attack me. What is wrong with Whitstable’s dogs?

6. The Mens. I don’t want to spoil anyone’s breakfast here, but Whitstable, it would appear, has the worst designed urinal in the world. And yes, urinal. Singular. Just one. Hidden round the corner from the entrance. That of course means any unsuspecting visitor would automatically assume there were a whole raft of urinals inside. And so in they wander. Only to be confronted by an old fella being held by an old fella.

7. The Holiday-Makers. You know when Daniel Craig walked out of the water in Casino Royale and 65% of the female population went a bit weak at the knees? Well, every single holiday-maker in Whitstable seems to think they are Daniel Craig. And as a result I felt weak in the stomach.

August 9, 2010
7 Reasons They Treat Me With Suspicion In The Pharmacy

My girlfriend asked me to pick a prescription up for her. Oh dear.

1. The Set-Up. ‘Hello,’ I say, ‘I’ve come to pick a prescription up for my girlfriend’. ‘Okay,’ the pharmacist replies. This is good. I had worried the pharmacist might treat me with suspicion. But men picking up prescriptions for their girlfriends is obviously something he sees a lot. ‘What’s the name?’ he asks me. ‘Claire Elizabeth Quinn,’ I say. Or at least that is what I meant to say. Instead I can’t quite get the words out and end up saying, ‘Clar Lizabet Queen’. ‘Pardon,’ he replies, now viewing me with slight suspicion.

2. The Name. I know my girlfriend’s name. I know it off by heart. I have said it hundreds of times. I should just say it again. I can do that. Only I don’t. I actually look at the piece of paper I have in my hand and read from it. I am reading my girlfriend’s name out! I am acting as if I don’t know her! I look up and the pharmacist is looking at me. He is actually looking right at me. As if I’m a bit insane. Either that or as if I am someone trying to pick up drugs that aren’t mine.

3. The Search. After what seems like a five minute pause, the Pharmacist starts looking for the prescription. And he keeps looking. And he keeps looking. But he can’t find it! He turns back to me. I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking, ‘Is this guy genuine?’ But what is worse, he knows, that I know, that he is thinking, ‘Is this guy genuine?’. I shuffle uncomfortably.

4. The Pharmacist’s Assistant. The pharmacist calls for back-up. It appears in the form of a woman from behind me. I hadn’t even seen her when I walked in. Was she hiding? Was she a body language expert? Could she identify a prescription stealer just by looking at someone’s shoulders? Oh, this is stupid. Why am I feeling conscious? I really am Clar Lizabet Queen’s boyfriend. ‘Just a minute,’ she says to me. Oh my goodness! She’s going to call the police!

5. The Address. But she doesn’t call the police. Instead she shouts out from a room to the back of the pharmacy, ‘What’s the address?’ Oh no! What’s the address? I can’t remember the address! I can’t remember my address! I feel a knot tighten in my stomach. ‘Stay calm’, I tell myself, ‘just focus’. I take a deep breath, open my mouth and give her my address. It’s definitely the right address. I’m sure it’s the right address. I think.

6. The Wait. But then all there is silence. No confirmation that I had indeed named my address correctly. Just silence. And then the pharmacist goes to the back of the shop and suddenly I am alone. And the silence is all around me. What are they doing? I look around. I see women’s things. The pharmacy is full of women’s things! Thankfully the pharmacist’s assistant reappears. ‘It won’t be a minute,’ she says. ‘Thanks,’ I reply. But I’m not really thankful because she has gone to her place of hiding in the front of the shop again and I can feel her staring into my back.

7. The Handover. Eventually the pharmacist himself appears and hands me the prescription. But I can tell he’s still not sure. He’s still not sure about me. He’s loathed to hand it over to me. It seems ever-so-slightly like it’s stuck to his hand. I feel bad snatching it from him. I give him my thanks and leave the pharmacy. My walk home turns into a jog. I hide in the garden.

August 4, 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 That Shaking Hands Is Weird

Shaking hands is a well established custom. That doesn’t mean it isn’t a bit strange though. Here are seven reasons why.

1. Movement. We all know that the handshake developed as a way of demonstrating that the participants were unarmed (that’s the hand part). But what’s with the shake? Why do we move our hands up and down? Why don’t we move our hands from side to side or in a circular motion? Why don’t we jump up and down or stand on one leg? Why not dance the Hokey-Cokey or play the pat-a-cake pat-a-cake game – or am I thinking about Freemasons? Anyway, the up-and-down thing is odd.

2. Spouse. I once congratulated my wife for something or other (forgetting what for is probably the reason I’ve never been nominated for Husband of the Year) by very formally, and firmly, shaking her hand and saying, “Well done, Darling” in a plummy accent. Though funny, it was quite a strange experience. We’d been together for ten years by then and had never shaken hands before. She spontaneously erupted into giggles several times during the remainder of the day. She still thinks it’s one of the funniest things ever. If you want a weird experience, give your partner a firm handshake.

3. Women. Shaking hands with a woman is strange. Kissing a woman is not strange. That’s why I’m a kisser, not a shaker. Men – during their boyhood – are trained to shake hands: Women – during their boyhood – are not trained to shake hands and, consequently, they don’t do it well. I don’t know what women are being trained to do while they’re not being taught to shake hands. Possibly they’re being taught to smell nice.

4. Hygiene. I’m sure we’ve all heard various statistics about the amount of urine found in bar snacks. The urine gets there via contact with hands. Unwashed hands. The same hands that people want you to shake. Shaking hands is an exchange of urine then. Lovely. (There are actually very good reasons not to wash your hands in the men’s toilets at bars – mostly to do with having to touch the taps and the hand dryer. Here’s the rationale: If I thought my hands were dirty, what’s the last part of my body that I would touch with them? That’s right. And I’m not so inept that I ever piss on my own hands, so they don’t need washing afterwards. And I now realise that I’ve become distracted from writing about handshakes and am writing about my penis, which is not really how Jon or I envisaged 7 Reasons going: It’s more how I imagined psychotherapy going. So, anyway, back to handshaking…)

5. (…or not) Penises. While it’s on my mind: Men spend a lot of time touching their penises. Also, men shake hands a lot. So, when men shake hands, they’re touching penises by proxy. This is bad. Heterosexual men do not want to do this. In fact, direct penis-to-penis contact between two heterosexual men is the worst thing that can happen in the world: worse than anything that can happen in the Large Hadron Collider; worse than being eaten by a horse; worse even, than a day-trip to Whitstable. The proxy-penis-contact that comes about by the shaking of hands isn’t as bad as direct contact, but it’s definitely not a good thing. I may never shake another hand again after that thought.

6. Left-handed-handshakes. The Italian word for left is sinistra, it’s where we get the word sinister from. Obviously, in these enlightened times, we know that there’s nothing inherently evil about being left-handed. Handshaking with your left hand is a thoroughly bad thing though. The correct response to anyone who offers you their left hand is to take a step backwards, stare at their hand and think “git”.

7. Dogs. One of the first things most dog-owners train their dog to do is proffer its paw for a “hand” shake. Why? Why is this pointless exercise given priority over training them to use the toilet, teaching them not to chase cyclists or getting them not to stick their many-toothed-snouts into the crotches of terrified house-guests? Who the hell wants to shake hands with a dog?

April 28, 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 You Don’t Feel Like a Real Man

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:

March 17, 2010