Please note, the proper way to kiss involves lip on lip action. No substitute will be accepted. Until you’ve finished reading this anyway. Quite frankly, I suspect you’ll all be so horny in two minutes time that you’ll want to go away and try the lot. I shan’t stand in your way.
1. Eskimo Kiss. It might seem like a good idea at the time, but you have no idea what your fellow kisser has up their nose. They could be suffering from a hideous cold. The impact of nose on nose could cause an embarrassing and traumatic experience for both of you. Especially if the words, ‘Bloody hell, it was a marble’ are soon heard.
2. Butterfly Kiss. It’s pretty obvious what can go wrong here. Eyelashes may become tangled. You will have to pull apart in a move reminiscent of a Christmas cracker. Who will end up with the extra eyelid?
3. Fishlips Kiss. Just so there is no doubt as to what I am referring to here, please see the photo above. Thanks. This is a particularly dangerous kiss as it may result in you sucking so hard on the inside of your cheeks that you actually bite a chunk off. You don’t really want that floating about your mouth while partaking in a little romance. It’s also a particularly awkward kiss as you both have to tilt your heads quite a long way. Neck strains are commonplace.
4. Earlobe Kiss. This is quite sensual. So long as earrings aren’t involved. Choking on such a thing completely spoils the mood.
5. Glasgow Kiss. As the name suggests, this a particularly romantic kiss. Also known as the headbutt. You’ve got to be really sure the object of your desire is a sadist before giving this a go. Either that or make sure he/she has something soft to land on.
6. Gum Kissing. This is a strange one. People – that’s us – have long had a fascination with pretending we have no teeth. (I imagine it must be the sound we make when trying to talk as opposed to the thought of our dentures floating in glass next to us). Really this is where such a fascination should end. Just you. On your own. Looking in the mirror. Under no circumstances should you try and kiss someone like this. Not only does it feel weird, it is an accurate representation of how kissing each other will feel in fifty years. Can you live your life knowing what is around the corner?
7. Vacuum Kiss. This is best tried when someone is least expecting it. Perhaps when they are driving a bus. However, this move is also the most dangerous of the lot. It is one thing distracting the driver, quite another sucking the life out of them.
*All information has been researched and verified by a kissing expert.
1. Socks. Our washing machine broke recently. It was calamitous. I was down to my last seven socks when the washing-machine-man came and mended it – and seven is certainly the wrong number of socks. Only two of them matched each other – the pink ones. The other five were variously; ropey, frumpy, crappy, bobbly and greasy. Which reminds me.
2. Dwarves. Seven is too few dwarves for a good song: “Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, it’s off to work we go” is the best you can expect from seven dwarves, and that’s rubbish. No one’s that jolly on their way to work (except dolphin trainers, and that’s not even a real job). But if you get a greater number of dwarves and paint them orange, they’ll sing “Ooompa-Loompa, doompadee-doo”, which are far superior lyrics that everyone can relate to. And they’ll make you some chocolate while they sing them.
3. Maths. Seven is a prime number, and it was while I was trying to come up with a mathematical explanation of a prime number that this occurred to me: We call maths maths. Americans call maths math. If we follow the logic of the British way of doing things, then surely mathematical should be mathsematical, mathematics should be mathsematics and a mathematician should be a mathsematician. But they’re not. This means that we are wrong and Americans are right – which is very, very, very wrong indeed. Thinking about the number seven made me realise this.
4. Viagra. When a man takes one Viagra pill, his penis assumes the shape of the number 1 for a considerable time. Therefore, if a man takes seven Viagra pills, his penis must assume the shape of the number 7 for a considerable time. I’m not sure why anyone would want a 7 shaped penis – unless they wanted to make love to someone round a corner – so it’s probably the wrong number of pills to take. I don’t know how taking 7 Viagra pills would affect a woman*, but I would advise against it; it may tousle the hair…or…something.
5. Human pyramid. Seven is the wrong number of people to construct a human pyramid. You can make one with six, but then the seventh person is just standing about, feeling left-out and unloved. Or it will lead to a human rhombus, and no one wants one of those.
6. Brides. Exhaustive research on Wikipedia has yielded the statistic that between 2% and 13% of people are gay. This means that, in the film Seven Brides For Seven Brothers, seven is the wrong number of brides. The brothers (0.14 to 0.91 of whom would be gay) would require 6.09 to 6.86 brides and between 0.14 and .91 additional grooms**. So, logically, the film should be called 6.09 to 6.86 Brides and Between 0.14 and 0.91 Grooms For Seven Brothers. I’m only about 85% sure that my calculations are correct but I am 100% certain that at least 50% of the 7 Reasons team now has a headache.
7. Reasons. It’s a well known fact that there are only six reasons for anything. Don’t just take my word for it. Ask Jonathan Lee, he’s an expert.
1. U2. As in, ‘I’m going to the festival! U2?’ Now what I understand from this is that someone is going to a festival. What I can’t work out is whether they are asking me if Bono is playing, if there is a submarine docking station nearby or whether I am going too.
2. LOL. As in, ‘Was great to see you today. LOL.’ Does that mean lots of love or are they laughing at me? Outloud? Are they being sarcastic? My Mum doesn’t want to see me again does she?
3. ATM. As in, ‘Hi. I’m in Barclays ATM. See you in five minutes.’ What?! How on earth did they get inside an automated teller machine? And how do they know it’s only going to take them five minutes to get out? Is this a regular occurrence? Oh good golly! I’m friends with a serial cashpoint raider.
4. PLZ. As in, ‘It would be great if you could join me plz.’ Again I’m very confused. Do they want me to join them at Port Elizabeth Airport or in a random German postcode (or Postleitzahl)? There is quite a difference.
5. TOY. As in, ‘I hope it goes well today. TOY.’ What is this? A name change? A new signature? Is it a new nickname for me? Do they just think I am a play thing? I’m being used. That means last night I was abused.
6. ENUF. As in, ‘ENUF is ENUF’. The Ethiopian National United Front is The Ethiopian National United Front? Why am I being told this? If I knew one I probably knew the other. Did my previous message imply that I was in a pub quiz? My brain hurts.
7. BOT. As in, ‘Anyway, BOT.’ Are they referring to me as a robot or do they just want to address my backside? Something that sounds quite painful in all honesty. Especially if they intend to use a franking machine. And what happens if they don’t want to treat it as first class? Because I do. I treat my backside with the utmost respect. But I digress, let’s get back on topic.
1. Romance. I don’t know if you woke Julie up, but I suspect that you probably did. Women are mysterious creatures and, who knows, perhaps your innovative approach to wooing Julie by interrupting her slumber and slurring, “Julie, I miss you Julie” is a piece of revolutionary brilliance which will completely change the way that men conduct their pursuit of women. Or perhaps she won’t be swayed by that. Have you considered a more traditional approach? Flowers seem to go down well. As does being George Clooney. Try those.
2. Focus. Your fundamental argument for reconciling with Julie is flawed, if repeating,”…but why Julie, why?” eighteen times can be considered an argument at all. It will be helped by losing the repetition and irrelevant rambling and by focussing it a bit. I’ve made a cue-card with some bullet-points on it; these appeared to be the main things that you wanted to say.
*But why?
*I miss you.
*JOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLLLIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
*Dave. Dave. Dave?
*You’ve taken my shoe.
Space
3. Virgin. You’re on the wrong mobile network. Virgin Mobile has a multi-hour specific-number-ban system option (catchy) on its network, designed to stop people drunk-dialling in the wee small hours. This is yet another great innovation from Richard Branson, who was frustrated when every time he drunk-dialled his love interest, it went straight to voice-mail.
4. Alcohol. You dropped the phone. Twice. I’m no relationship scientist, but I think that Julie probably doesn’t enjoy it when you do that. I suspect that it hurts her ear. There’s a fine line between being endearingly-tipsy and being a paralytic-nuisance. You may have erred across it during your fifteenth pint of Carling.
5. Bad comparison. You asked, “What’s Dave got that I haven’t?” Well, a nice smile, a fake tan, a knack for not stating policies and popular support among his party, for a start. Unless you were referring to a different Dave, in which case, who knows? Dave definitely has a girlfriend though. She’s called Julie.
6. Texting. You used your phone incorrectly. You could have texted instead. A simple one would suffice: “Julie, I’ve been a fool. Please end it with Dave and take me back. I promise not to sleep with Debbie again, that was a mistake. Kind regards, Very Drunk Man”. That’ll do. Pop it into your phone now, then you can just send it the next time you’ve had a few beers. Julie will be able to enjoy your attention at a time that’s convenient to her (and her solicitor) and you won’t be billed for a half-hour phone call.
7. Audience. Your audience didn’t appreciate you. There’s a time and a place for drunkenly phoning people at 3am, and that time is during the day (when you’re sober) and that place is not-outside-our-bedroom-window, York, England. You left your shoe on our front wall, by the way.
1. Language. A successful French invasion would result in the British speaking French. That’s not happening. The British have about as much interest in learning French as they do in my trousers. They are also incapable of learning something so… well… pointless. (The British I mean, not my trousers. Though, come to think of it, my trousers are fairly incapable in that department too). The fact is, we Brits just wouldn’t turn up to the classes. The French would eventually get fed up and go home. Then they’d find that while they were out for the day we took over. Genius.
2. Beaches. The French have dainty little feet. It’s a well known fact, in my mind, that they spend 56% of their time in the bathroom moisturising their toes. If they try and invade by boat it means making an assault via our beaches. These are made from stone. That’s enough to make them turn around and run out of petrol in the middle of the English Channel. Please note that name. The English Channel. None of this French Chanel No.5 rubbish.
3. Flights. Attempting to invade by plane would be particularly stupid as most of the planes destined for Heathrow get diverted to Charles de Gaulle anyway. Or Luton. Both are pretty horrendous.
4. Time Difference. The French are an hour ahead of the British. Not in common sense, just in time. Supposing the French finish work at 5pm their time. It would take them two hours to get to London. That would be 6pm our time. Rush hour. Told you they didn’t have common sense.
5. Food. There is no point in invading and then going home for tea. We’d just take our country back. The French would actually have to occupy the UK. This would mean eating British food. Well they’re not going to do that are they? Who wants a plate of fish and chips when you can have frog’s legs dipped in snail fluid?
6. Nelson. Horatio still gives the French nightmares. That is why you never see an onion-selling cyclist in Trafalgar Square. Fancy losing a battle to a bloke with one arm and one eye. Do you know how difficult it is steer a ship with one arm and one eye? That’s pretty lame France.
7. Scared. The French are big pansies. In the early 1800’s Nelson had both the French and Spanish fleets blockaded in at Toulon. Instead of fighting back, they slipped through the back entrance. (A nasty habit). Nelson ended up having to chase them all the way to the West Indies. And back again. And they still didn’t bloody engage in battle. If that is their attitude how could they possibly invade the UK? They’d run away crying if the foghorn on the Calais to Dover ferry was a bit too loud.
We didn’t make this – the internet sent it to us, and jolly good it is too. If we were in the habit of coming up with an eighth reason we could add that we’re not French. But we don’t come up with an eighth reason. That’s not our job. We only do seven. Or, sometimes, five with with a lot of extra-shiny-words to distract you. Not eight though. That would be unthinkable.
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.
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