Finding The Ideal Woman, Photographs And Emotions

Ian S, the onetruecoolguy published this post recently that I find extremely interesting. It's about the qualities that he looks for in his ideal woman and how these has changed in the last four years. I was going to leave a comment but realised that it would be about as long as a post, then I thought I might as well write a post anyway.

Ian's post contains his list of five key areas and each one is split into specific points. I won't give the details as I'm sure you'll just click on the link if you're interested. But I find it thought provoking and a bit too logical for my liking. That's the bit I wanted to write about. I know Ian's work is some kind of business analyst thing, something way too technical and complicated for me, but I wonder where there emotion and feelings come into play, if at all, in his hunt for Miss Ideal.

You see it's like this. I was recently asked how I judge a great photograph. I'm no great photographer but I've been attempting to take decent pictures since I was about sixteen. Over the years I've read books and magazines, studied photographs and photographers and spent quite some time peering through viewfinders of the optical and the digital type. I've had masterclasses with Dominic Sansoni and tried to pick up tips about how to take the perfect picture. Oh yes, the theory's all there, even if the practical application is like a young Sri Lankan girl making it big in the US; M.I.A.

I can look at a photograph and judge it on a technical basis. I'm quite comfortable with that. I can spend a few seconds thinking about how the lensman has used the depth of field, how the choice of shutter speed has helped to give a sense of movement to the image, how the rule of thirds has been thrown out of the window to give the picture impact. I can look at the straightness of the horizon, the choice of ISO speed, the lighting conditions and the way the photgrapher clenched his right arse cheek at the point he's pressed the shutter release.

Dom taught me that trick by the way. If you clench the right cheek it somehow adds colour and impact to a photograph, clenching the left one however can add camera shake and ruin a picture totally. If you see him sitting in the garden at Barefoot have a look at his bum and you can often see him practicing this as he's sitting chatting to someone.

But back to the judging photos thing. I usually disregard all that logical and theoretical stuff and ignore my brian totally, something I'm pretty damn good at. Instead I focus on my stomach, something I'm good at too. Specifically I focus on the feeling in my stomach. A great photograph makes me feel excited, not in that "oh my God Soixante Neuf I loved that post and how you described oral sex" way, I mean in that "oooh I feel like I'm just about to go on stage" way. I get a feeling at the top of my stomach and it negates all the logical and very right brain bits.

When I get that feeling I know it's a good photograph, I know that the technical things may, or may not, be there, but they're irrelevant. Like one of those poncey art experts who advise fledgling art collectors to just buy what things they like, I know I like the picture, even if it's photographic equivalent of a dodgy Nike T shirt bought from one of those stalls opposite the Mitsubishi showroom near Odel.

That's the thing about women and Ian's post. For me, looking at a photograph, listening to a song, loving Colombo or finding a partner isn't about the thing or woman, fitting into a nice neat set of ticked boxes or matching all the requirements on the "shopping list"

No, it's just about how I feel when I encounter these things. It's all about gut feeling far more than logic and objectivity.

When I'm casually sitting in a garden minding my own business and dreaming about drums and rice and curry and I get confronted by one of those females things, women, I believe they're called, I'm going to leave the "shopping" list in my pocket. I'll peer at the girl, obviously at certain parts of her body first, then I'll just let my gut feeling take control.

Logic, objectivity and the ticking of boxes can take a hike.

As long as she likes a drummer!

Trimming The Bush - Sunday's Music

Some of my weekend was devoted to coming down after the last drum outing with Mimosa. The gig was fun, the band was tight and the drummer was fucking excellent, even if I say it myself. The presence of my successor in the audience made me feel a bit more on edge than usual but I'm a relaxed sort of chap so I was never going to be edgy and nervous like a bag of lemmings who have just joined Al Qaeda.

Also in the crowd were my parents and three of the four guys from my covers band. I was told by Chips, the singer, at the break, that watching me play was like watching his wife sleep with another man. I took this as a compliment but told him that it was the last time it would happen. The thing with his wife was a one off too and I hadn't realised she'd made a video.

Plans to relax and do next to nothing yesterday were slightly ambushed by the parents after I'd woken up. It's quite sweet really, I sense that they're glad to have me around and for me it's a bit like living with kids, just ones that happen to be in their seventies. I had barely woken, showered, done my hair product and all the other everyday shenanigans of an everyday metrosexual when they asked me if I'd help my Dad cut the bush, that one in the garden. As the good Sri Lankan son I couldn't object and set to work with all the enthusiasm and gusto of a Saturday teenager in an English shop when being interrupted by one of those things, you know, "customers" I think they're called.

Three of us were in the garden. It was one of those late summer early autumn English days. Blue sky, bright sun and warmth tinged with that touch of chill in the air. My Mum was moaning about my Dad and my Dad was ignoring her, I was floating around doing my best to ignore them and failing with spectacular success. All was quite normal. My Mum's specific reason for moaning was that my Dad wouldn't let her mow the lawn, not that a Sri Lankan Mother needs a reason of course.

My Dad, whose relationship with danger and risk taking is about as close as my sexual relationship with Britney Spears, had decreed that using the lawn mower would place her in severe danger of electrocution. And by "her" I mean my Mum, not Britney. Why? Because there was a slight dew on the ground, not rain, not swampy conditions worthy of a strange marsh in the Lake District in Winter. No, just a vague misty sheen on the top of the grass.

My Mum complained to me about this, saying that she'd asked Academic Bro about this a while ago and he had diplomatically said that my Dad was talking rubbish. I went with Academic, always a good move when the question is about lawnmowers, grass and a thin layer of dew. I said that I didn't think there was huge danger. I was ignored, as was Academic.

The bush trimming commenced. Dad trimmed and I bagged up. After about five minutes I felt the need for music and sloped off, hoping my absence wouldn't be noticed. I did some scrolling through the iPod menu but there was only one artist I seeked; Morcheeba. I don't know if you know the Morcheebans, well their earlier stuff, but it is, along with Moon Safari by Air, the perfect accompaniment to a chilled Sunday morning. The contrast couldn't be greater as I sit here typing this while listening to the calming tones of the Distillers.

After Morcheeba ran out I switched the music to Ojos De Brujo, a Spanish Flamenco outfit that I discovered some time ago while poking around the iTunes store in the same manner that an old slightly eccentric Uncle would look around second hand shops for old watches. Track one was a little bit too wild for the 'rents so I skipped ahead to track two as the old man and I carried on with our bush trimming.

Things were smooth and Latiney, organised and peaceful until I saw it. It was my Mum, in the garden and on the patio. She was heading towards me with that Sri Lankan Mother look. You know the look, like a female elephant just before it charges, I think they must have special classes at Bishop's College or something; Sri Lankan Matriarch classes.

The look was accompanied by my Mum doing some sort of dance. Now I say this as a man who can't really dance to save my life, something you may be surprised about what with my reputation as a fiercely grooving drummer and all, but it's true. Give me a drum kit and I'm happy to attempt to make you dance, moving limbs of all sorts in time with the music as I use them to hit an assortment of things. However, give me the sound of another fellow on the drums , or any other instrument, and those very same limbs move with the rhythm of a jelly using a pneumatic drill.

My Mum had decided that we were listening to Salsa and therefore felt a desire to dance and a need to get me involved. She said something like

"Ah Salsa, come and dance"

I didn't. This is England after all, it was Sunday morning and there's a Vicarage next door. At the next break I went inside and changed the music to the Dhol Foundation. The bush trimming continued to the sound of those Dhols and my Dad and I were quite happy. Salsa girl wasn't so happy but she was weeding or something and rapidly forgetting things.

After the gardening session was over I had an idea. I went online and bought three tickets to see Billy Cobham with Asere, his Cuban band. They're playing in Teddington of all places in couple of weeks time, in a venue in which I've played, probably the biggest achievement of my drumming career. So, in a fortnight I'll take the olds off to see Mr Cobham and some Cubans. I can't wait.

Now, as I finish this they've gone out to watch some Jazz and I'm home alone. My God. Being a child to parents who are music obsessed is tough at times. I'm glad I'm not like that!

Have a good week all!

Copying Or Creating

Tonight I'll be playing my very last gig with Mimosa, the funksters. It feels quite sad, but in a positive way. I'm excited about and looking forward to the gig in its own right but can't help pondering and wondering about things.

Since I started drumming I've lost count of the number of bands I've been in let alone the amount I've auditioned for, but the Mimosa experience has been almost totally pleasurable and certainly a learning experience that will stay with me forever. The biggest reason for this is that it's the first and only originals band I've been involved with.

Playing in covers bands is fun, of that there's no doubt. To play a couple of sets and be Dave Grohl in one song, Chad Smith in the next and Stevie Wonder next is challenging and stimulating. I've seen many a drummer play a covers set and play each and every song, no matter how varied they may be in their original form, as if there's only one style of music in the world. Bashing their way through Superstition as if it was a punk song, tearing into Creep as if it had been written by the Sex Pistols and making Hotel California (which I hate anyway) sound as if it was the song that heralded the birth of grunge.

Style is everything for me and the art of drumming in a covers band (IMHO) is to replicate the style of each song accurately. That doesn't mean that we have to copy the part note for note but that the feel of the original song has to be retained.

It's all well and good and an art in itself. Listen and learn the original, make sure you're technically capable of playing it, which isn't always the case, practice your part, then put it together with the rest of the band and perhaps add your own touches and flourishes.

And then we come to Mimosa, or the originals situation. Rather, and then I came to Mimosa, the originals band. I auditioned with them but it wasn't slotting into an existing band as it was more of a start up thing. The name hadn't even been chosen at that stage and there was one song that was about three quarters written. I got the job, as you know, and fuck me it was a new and different scene for me.

I knew that it was a funk project and therefore that it I was expected to be funky. The rest was a whole new world for me. One of listening to a guitar riff and trying to come up with a drum groove to go with it, then remembering the part until the next rehearsal, which was one of the big challenges. I was used to having a CD or the original song to listen to but in an orginals band, unless each band practice is recorded, there are no points of reference other than memory. Remembering a drum part is tough. A guitar line can be sung in the head, vocals involve words, drums are very different.

It was my first time being in a band with a brass section and a percussionist too. I've always considered my drumming to be groove oriented but I realised that I had to focus on that even more than before. The sound is so big and busy, particularly with a busy and funky bassist, that sheer groove and being solid matters more than ever. So much of the filling out of the sound is achieved by the other instruments that there is little space for the drummer to demonstrate his ability to play like Billy Cobham falling down a flight of stairs.

Over the three and a half years the songs have been written, nurtured and developed. My playing has improved endlessly and I'm sure my overall musical knowledge has matured considerably. I feel pride in each song and for my own little contribution of a drum part to them, as if each is a little baby that I've given birth to, perhaps without the pain. Learning to play in an originals band has definitely helped my ability to play covers, my competence in flying by the seat of my pants has gone up several notches.

As I prepare for the final gig I realise that I now understand the difference between copying and creating. Both are valid ways to do something, both are hard to do, but they're very different.

Whenever I've heard those stories about chaps who are brilliant forgers of art, who can copy a Da Vinci or a Rembrandt so perfectly that that even Mrs Da Vinci or a random art expert couldn't tell the difference, they always say that the forger was a brilliant artist himself. That may be the case but he's not the one who thought of what to do in the first place. Copying the Mona Lisa is one thing, having the idea in the first place is another.

That's the difference. Some people can look or listen to something and critique it, judge it and often improve it. They're the forgers, the people in covers bands. Some can come up with the brilliant idea in the first place and may be weaker at improving it. They're the Da Vincis and the Rembrandts, though the theme tune to Friends was about the only thing they did. Others can do both.

I strive to be in the second group, I often find myself in the first group and I would love to have a foot in each of them.

Thanks Mimosa. I've learned, I've enjoyed and it's been an honour.

The Mile High Grub Club

I've been doing quite a few long distance flights lately and they're something that I usually enjoy. Yes, they're tiring, but the inflatable pillow I bought some months ago has helped with that aspect. Like some sort of Jehovah's witness, whenever someone tells me how they can't sleep on a flight I go into a mini lecture on my inflatable pillow (IP) discovery and how I could never sleep on a plane before D day, or IP day. Of course it wasn't actually me that discovered inflatable pillows, Christopher Colombus did, but you knew that.

I'm not yet at the wealth level in that enables me to fly business class either. Economy, on a packed plane on a twelve hour flight, with a video screen that doesn't work and the seat in front that is always reclined because the locking mechanism isn't working is just plain unfuckingcomfortable. But, I haven't been on a packed plane for a while as it's only Sri Lankans and NGOs that want to go to Sri Lanka and there are so many flights a day from London to Singapore that they're often half empty, or half full if you're an optimist.

A wise man once said to me that the surest sign of real wealth is when someone flies business class and they pay for it themselves. I concur, though the fact that my parents do this throws the theory into chaos. Perhaps all those little tupperware pots in the fridge, each with one prawn or one piece of meat in them, all add up.

In recent months I've been on a couple of the A380s, which have, in economy, cossetted me in a level of comfort and space that has made me think the only benefits in going business class would be getting my luggage quicker on the conveyor belt. Flying to Lanka just before SAARC meant that I had two seats to myself and the girls had the other two seats in front of me to themselves. And you thought that SAARC provided no benefit to anyone didn't you?

I sit there, I read, I watch the screen, though rarely do I listen to the sound. I've now seen that film "Run fatboy run" three times but haven't listened to a single second from it, yet I can pretty much tell you exactly what happens. I read books, I listen to my iPod and I learn and practice songs. I do all of this without the stress of a phone, which is probably the single thing that makes it most relaxing.

Last week as I came back to London I took my seat on the plane. After considerable complaints from people I put it back and sat down, I'm good like that. Then the aircrew came round and did their thing, dishing out menus and headphones and telling people to remove the grain of rice that was on the floor in front of them and to put it in the overhead locker, you know the scene. I perused the menu, wondering why they bother printing and distributing them when everyone except me just asks the steward or stewardess what the meal choices are anyway.

I settled into my little den. The plane was a 747 and I was on the aisle seat of a set of three next to a window. The window seat in the trio was occupied by a Singaporean looking girl who took up slightly more space than the grain of rice that was now in the overhead locker. The seat in between us was empty.

My hand bag, as opposed to a handbag, was in the overhead minus the things I needed for the flight. Those things were my book, that Indian Tiger one I told you about here, my iPod and the pillow, though it was deflated. I mean that in a physical no air in it way, not in an emotional or motivational way as if I'd just told it that it's performance wasn't up to the required standard and was letting it go. Apart from the sort of physical pining feeling for Colombo that I often get I felt pretty comfortable.

And as I read the menu I thought how much, in general, I love aircraft food. I'm not sure if this is normal or just plane weird. I did that "plane" thing deliberately there by the way. There's something I find so fascinating about the way they fit all the little rectangular plates into the tray. How it's just so organised and how the people who work in the aircraft food places, whose job it is to put it all together, must have really high IQs and be great at doing those shape puzzles.

I'm not too fussed about the bread rolls that are always hard on the outside, soft at some point inside and warm. The dessert, when it's one of those rectangular spongey things with the tiniest puddle of something that vaguely resembles custard but isn't, doesn't excite me much either. Like lager, custard should be served by the pint, not by the teaspoonful.

A flight is more or less the only situation in which I eat cheese and biscuits. The cheese is such a small portion that it would fit inside an Indian condom. Careful cutting of cheese and dividing up of the butter portion is all well and good and part of the fun but then, as the butter comes into contact with the cream cracker, the thing explodes into a mix of crumbs and tiny little biscuit pieces. These cream crackers must be specially designed to explode when they touch butter. I end up stuffing the whole mess into my mouth and savouring and loving the taste anyhow.

The salad starter thing, usually with some pasta and a prawn or two, is actually quite nice and gets me revved up and ready for the main course, the bit I almost always love. Like any good Sri Lankan I always opt for the rice and curry type dish. The portion is tiny, about the amount I'd lick off my fingers after I've eaten a proper rice and curry, but it always tastes divine.

Last week I had an airborne mutton curry with some vegetables and yellow rice that was comparable with the best mutton curries I've sampled. And I've done some serious sampling I tell you. If I'd been served this in a decent Sri Lankan restaurant I would have complimented the chef, after complaining about the portion size. The return flight saw me piling into a beef steak thing with some vegetables and potatoes that was quite the gastronomic treat. It was a rare occasion on which I hadn't chosen the Eastern fare over the Western blandness.

On Singapore Airlines, or SQ as those of us in the know like to call it, the food is served on the most high tech and sexy trays I've ever seen, and I've never even thought of a tray. let alone written about one, with sexual overtones before. They're plastic things with silvery edges, but the surface of the tray is made from a weird blackish rubberised grippy thing, obviously designed to grip the plethora of rectangular plates that go on it.

Nothing slides around on these trays. I want to get hold of about ten of them and build a big ramp with them, then put things at the top of the ramp and see how steep it needs to be before they slide downwards. Or maybe just to eat my dinner from as I watch Walker Texas Ranger.

The love of plane food has given me an idea and I'd like to know your opinions on it. I plan to open a restaurant, probably somewhere in Colombo. We're going to serve aircraft food on SQ trays. You'll get a choice of about three main dishes but one will be always be unavailable, red wine will be served cold in a small water glass, it will be almost impossible to open the cellophane wrapper that your cutlery will be in and after you're finished you'll be trapped in your seat by the used tray while bursting for a pee for about half an hour.

When you finally can get out to go for the pee there'll be a long queue at the toilet and you'll have to stand with your bum next to the ear of someone who's trying to sleep.

The food will be scrumptious, but served in tiny portions.

We'll call it the Mile High Grub Club. Come.

Know Woman, Know Cry

I told you that I was heading off shopping in Singapore last Thursday. Well I did. I went to Orchard Road, which is to a confirmed shopper what Dinidu is to a chap manning a checkpoint; a massive opportunity for some guilty pleasure and enjoyment, even though it might cost someone a few quid.

If you like designer labels, if you like consumer goods, if you like food, whether expensive or cheap or medium, then Orchard Road is the place. If you like cheaper fake designer things or even cheaper genuine non designer things then it's the place. If you like shops where they treat the customer properly, where they don't follow you around like they do in Sri Lanka and put things back as soon as you've put them down, making you feel guilty that you looked at them, but also where they don't ignore you and act as if you're an unwelcome interruption to their conversation, as they do here in the UK, then Orchard (as we call it) is the place for you.

Rudyard Kipling eat your heart out, I think I've just written an even better poem called "If", without any of that deep and poncey stuff about being a man and walking with Kings and stuff.

Orchard is stuffed to the brim with malls. Each mall is about the size of Majestic City, but as you walk along the road there's one mall after another. They have real shops in them too.

In short, Orchard Road is a total blast for materialistic and shallow shopping loving girls like us.

I've got to a nice stage in my shopping life, one in which I can get a lot of enjoyment from browsing, trying on a few things but not necessarily buying. This is specific to clothing, trying on books looks weird and I've never quite mastered the balancing them on my head thing. But it means I can check things out, see if they suit me and reject things that look crap on me. That's the theory anyway.

I was in a mall called Paragon, I think, out of all the Orchard malls I've investigated, this is my favourite as it's got a G Star shop and a Diesel shop practically next door to each other. G Star is my current beau in terms of jeans and Diesel is a label I'm always curious about. I own a small clutch of Diesel T shirts and have grown rather fond of them but as yet haven't bought any other attire with the big D on it.

I walked past a white woman, she had that dowdy English look about her. It's a look that exists as sure as taxes do, I just can't describe it. As I passed her I realised the dowdiness was mostly because she was crying. I'm a highly sympathetic sort of chap who likes shopping but the sight of a crying woman sends me off into an area of manliness.

You would think that with two daughters, an ex wife and a Sri Lankan Mother I'd be used to dealing with crying females, that I'd be the perfect chap for a sobbing woman to come to and rest her teary head on. But no, I am to crying women what George W is to American international relations. Well, I exaggerate, I'm obviously not that bad, but you get my drift.

To me crying women are scary and dangerous, even more so than normal women, a term I use with that je ne sais oxymoron feeling. Give me a cryer and I don't know if it's best to cradle the head and rub the back in a burping a baby sort of way, or if I should hold a hand or make a joke. Often I do them all to play it safe. I have been advised, by a woman no less, that it's best not to say "it's ok, just let it all out". I have taken this advice in good faith but I don't know why it's correct. I'm told that good comforting of crying women involves saying not too much but also not too little.

If you're a woman I bet that makes perfect sense doesn't it? Well to us men it's jibberish, which is why most of us are scared to crap of you lot crying.

The woman, the crying one, was in her thirties, perhaps even her twenties, and she was holding her phone. I assumed that she was crying over some sort of boyfriend or relationship issue, the tears had that look to them and the crying seemed to be that sort of romantic variety. I walked past her, clocked the crying and contemplated asking her if she was alright, us being Brits together and all that. The other British bit kicked in, the one that makes us keep ourselves to ourselves and mind our own business, so I carried on with my perusing of designer labels.

Five minutes later I walked out of the Calvin Klein shop and passed her again. She was still crying but this time was talking on her phone. It was clear to a me, with my superior empathy, that she was talking to the boyfriend, begging him to reconsider but he was holding firm. Again I contemplated offering help, but the next shop was calling me and the boyfriend (ex) probably had it all under control.

Then, after coming out of the interesting travel shop, which had a magnetic globe that I sort of messed up, I saw her again. There was an older man talking to her, a white bloke, and he was asking her what "he" looked like, does he have short blonde hair and is he about this height. He led her up an escalator where he was saying he saw him a minute ago.

The cogs started to whirr in the old Rhythmic head as it dawned on me that this was no lovesick young adult business, it wasn't some romantic shenanigans because of an argument over which red wine to drink or which film to see. No, it was a mother who had lost her child.

Even now, as I think back, I wish I had asked if I could help her. As a parent I know how she must have been feeling. Being Singapore I know that the child would have been found safely and all would have been okay. As she was led up to the child there was a small crowd of Singaporean security guards looking on with looks of total cluelessness. They didn't have the faintest idea what to do and were happy that the older white bloke was taking care of the situation.

If it had been in Sri Lanka there would have been a crowd of about a hundred people watching and offering help. If it had been in the UK the Police would have been called and things would have been highly organised and serious, rightly so. Singapore didn't have a system for this and was lost.

I learned a lesson though. I may be crap at comforting the fairer sex when they're bawling their eyes out, I may have some stiff upper lip Brit in me and I can be an arse at times but, if I see a crying woman, next time I'll ask her if I can help.

Any Of You Noticed...

...that Kottu seems to have gone a bit weird lately?

I've emailed the puppet master but I'm not sure if it's to do with my blog or the feeds or the dilithium crystals or other technical things. But, it does seem as if it's all running a bit slow. Is it a poya day there again?

Why Are There No Sri Lankan Authors?

I'm venturing down that lesser trodden path, the one where I get a bit serious. It's dangerous ground, so much so that at any stage I may shit myself and run back to the safety and sanctity of writing about total rubbish. Or sex, I believe that's quite popular in these parts!

I've been thinking about this for a while. I could be wrong and, if I am, I'm sure there'll be a queue of people jumping at me with lists of Sri Lankans who have sold more books than WH Smith or Amazon.com.

There are talented Sri Lankans who write books. People like Ashok Ferrey, David Blacker and Carl Muller. There are journalists galore, esteemed editors of newspapers, some of whom write their own articles. Outside of the emerald isle there are a bunch of diasporic Sri Lankans like the Ondaatjes, Shyam Selvadurai and Karen Roberts who churn out world class books to a worldwide audience. There are creatives galore, just ask any Sri Lankan tattoo parlour.

But within Sri Lanka I don't think there are any professional authors.

Why?

Any suggestions or theories on this one will be welcome.

It's Monday And I'm Back With The 'Rents

Here I am, Monday morning and back in London, back in my office and back living with my parents.

Now that the heat and humidity of Singapore is beginning to evaporate I'm coming to terms, or failing to come to terms, with living with my parents again. As other bloggers struggle to find topics and what's it calleds to write about I'm hit with so many possibilities that I can't make a straight choice.

There are tales from Singapore, of the crying woman in the shopping centre or the close call with the woman's coat I nearly bought. The tales of shopping, of massages and of little lychee like desserts that are one of the best things I've found since I discovered the joys of drumming. I've got plenty to say about food, books, foot hygiene and foreigners and potloads to chew the cud with you on Sri Lanka compared to Singapore and Singapore compared to Britain.

There are things about work that I can't tell you about, mostly because I can't trust you. I'll talk about drumming of course, which bores most of my readers but keeps me happy, about Friday being my last gig with Mimosa and tonight being my last ever rehearsal with them. How it's good and fun to learn songs on a plane, but why I must be careful with my arm and leg movement.

The temptation to rant, to vent and to fume about my parents is high. I'm resisting it though, as I know I'm lucky to have them and their kindness and hospitality. Being Sri Lankan has many good points and the parents are just two of them. Just now I'm not going to tell you about my Dad's lecture to me on mineral water being a total waste of money or about my Mum's continual attempts to persuade me to play jazz drums, or to try to. No, around these parts positivity is the thing and I'm happy for the food, grateful for the kindness and abundant about the lessons in life (ongoing and free).

The week is young. As it develops I'll figure out which bits I'll share and which I'll keep inside. Needless to say there'll be no bloggers block in these parts, there's just too much going on in my head.

In the meantime I wish you all a good Monday and hope 6 is happy now that I'm back and there are a couple of pics on my flickr account for her to see.

What Is It With The Chair Covers?

It's an Asian thing for sure.

You know the way our lot covers a dining chair with a sort of dress. It's close fitting, hugging the chair at the top, the bit above the horizontal part that we sit on, I believe the technical term is the arse rest. Then, it kind of hangs over the legs of the chair so that no one knows for sure if the chair's actually got any legs.

Smart people realise that the legs are there, otherwise the chair would collapse in a heap. The material used to make this chair dress from is always white, or very nearly white. Inevitably there's some kind of pattern cunningly weaved in to the fabric.

The overall effect is to make an otherwise clean and slim looking chair appear like a big futon. All the air and light and space that would have existed happily underneath the chair is sent into hiding.

It's not right,
it's not fair,
to ruin a lovely looking
quite nice chair.

Final Day Blues

It's early morning on my final proper day in Singapore. A nice dinner with friends last night, complete with a scary drive with a newly qualified driver, put me in one of those moods that made me crash out like a lightweight on a night out with Java.

In a short while I'm heading off to Orchard Road, to mooch, browse, shop and look again at the jacket I almost bought the other day. Buying presents for the girls is like a Sri Lankan bus trip; filled with danger and scariness and very few winners. I'm banned from buying clothes for them and buying music is something I wouldn't dare try. What to do? Though I must add that I discovered these fantastic fake lychee things, little packets of artificial goodness shaped like the fruit of a lychee and smelling like the bastard chemical cousin of the real thing. I bought a packet each for the girls.

The heat here is a feeling on the skin and body that I just love. Warm climates are cool, if I never saw a cold and grey day again I wouldn't miss that little piece of Britain for sure.

Right then, I'm off.

Laters.

Arse Crack Hair, Indians And Book Buying Sprees

I was reliably informed yesterday, reliably because it was an Indian who did the informing, that Indians have more arse crack hair than others. Don't get me wrong, the informer isn't a chap who would win prizes at the local school's informer of the week competition but I did figure that an Indian might know more about the subject than a Sri Lankan Brit drummer would.

I can truthfully tell you that this is an area I have little to no experience of, but I'd be lying if I said I had no interest in it. Is it true? Perhaps, if it is true, then there might be a correlation between arse crack hair and willy length, an inverse correlation but one that exists nevertheless.

On other notes I found myself in a huge book store today. By that I mean a massive store that sells books, not a normal store that sells huge books. I went a bit mad and bought a couple of Wodehouse books, another great looking one about the art of the Samurai and a book written by a Indian about a Tiger of some sort. They all look highly exciting and will be added to my library with pleasure.

Oh 6 will be pleased that I bought a rather fetching Gant shirt too. Just to prove that I'm still a man with that extremely rare but much sought after by women blood type; man who loves to shop I believe it's called.

24 Hour Tarts

Hello, just popping in for a minute with something I want to share with you.

About five minutes' walk from where I'm staying in Singapore is a 24 hour bakery. By this I mean a bakery that's open a full 24 hours a day, not like in England where "open 24 hours" would mean it would be open for that many hours in a week.

A bit like the old line about why a 7-11, which is open 24 hours a day, needs doors, this bakery is open to the outdoors. It's just kind of there, on a bit of pavement, serving a mixture of sweet things and savouries, from curry puffs to husband cakes. Honestly they have husband cakes and wife cakes. I haven't tried either but I look at the wife cakes with a sense of fear and trepidation.

I've woken up in the middle of the night and contemplated walking down to the outlet for a quick sausage roll or one of those weird looking Singaporean cakes that are decorated with the detail and skill previously used on the Taj Mahal. So far I've resisted the temptation but I don't know how much longer I'm going to last.

Just about everyone's excited about the Grand Prix here and it's hard not to get caught up in that fervour and feel the energy and intensity myself. I've seen bits of the course, instructions about where to park during the race period and things that make me wish I'll be here when it's going on. Even if I wasn't actually "trackside" I would have loved to have been here to soak up the atmosphere fully.

I saw 6 has put out her newest post and I'm one of the many who's been reading it with interest and is glad to see her back. We've been lonely without her and a good post about a woman's mastubatory habits is just the thing to read on a cold winter's night.

Talking of reading I whizzed though a PG Wodehouse book the other day and it reminded of exactly why I think he's the wittiest writer to chuck ink on a page since writing began. His use of language and portrayal of characters is to English comedic literature what Fawlty Towers is to British TV comedy.

Like a 24 hour bakery. Pure class.

Have a good week all.

I'll Be Back

I vanished without telling 6 where I'd be going, sorry about that.

I'm in Singapore for a week so things on LLD will be fairly quiet for some days. It's nice and hot here and I'm chilling and giving the new Converses a good run in.

I flew past Sri Lanka on the way, I waved to you lot but it was early and no one waved back.

Regular checking in will be done. Then, 'pon my return I'll bore you with tales of plane trips, the great PG Wodehouse book I'm reading, why I wish my iPod would go louder and the fantastic rice and mutton curry dinner served on the plane. And not forgetting what if felt like to fly on 9/11.

Have a good weekend all.

Fashion - What's It All About Then?

I'm a caring sort of chap, as you may know. I'm continually aware of those around me, those who are less fortunate than myself, who are perhaps less privileged and less well off. Sometimes I see these people as they walk around a shop or a city. They sometimes appear quite normal but I can sense their unhappiness and their gloom. It lurks beneath the smiles, behind the mask.

And frankly they usually need a mask.

Yes, you've got it. I'm talking about people with no sense of fashion.

I see them everywhere. Not just old people either. I see young people wearing things that might be almost a year old, women wearing colours that are so last month, styles that shouldn't be called a style and jewellery that BA Baraccus would reject for being a bit too loud and jangly.

Fashion's a funny thing though isn't it?

Why do we decide that something looks good? What makes us think that Naz Sansoni a random person, no one specific of course, has got style and sexiness oozing out of all her pores but that someone else hasn't?

It's Converse Allstars that got me thinking about this. As I took delivery of my latest pair I began to think about why they're the in thing at the moment, at least over here they are. Actually they seem to be pretty in all over the world right now. How? Why?

They've always been around, since as long as I can remember at least, which is a damn sight longer than most of you can remember, except Java. But in the last year or so they've become the thing to wear in trendy circles. If I was Nalin Converse or Ajith Allstar, one of the founders of the great shoe company, I'd be rubbing my hands together with glee right now. This is not to be mistaken for ghee, a different thing altogether.

If you walk into a shoe shop in London the display of Converse Allstars is invariably one of the biggest in the shop. They come at you in all colours and sizes. The boots and the cut offs, not to mention the other types of Converse shoes, the ones that aren't even Allstars. I think the name "Converse Allstar" has a more resounding ring to it than that of "Nalin Ajith" but I understand it was merely a toss of a coin that was the deciding factor.

Odel is chucking them out by the bucket load and many other companies are now making and selling what I can only describe as copycat Converses. They're okay but they're not the real thing. The real thing is a shoe that crosses age barriers and everyone from schoolkids to old people is wearing them. I can sit on a settee with K, my twelve year old bundle of cruelty and evilness, and she won't mock my footwear for a second if they're Allstars. That, in my world, is a big result.

As I unboxed pair number five I tried them on and smiled in that knowing way. Knowing that I looked good despite the very basic raw materials I started with. I wondered why I thought that the shoes looked good when they've been around for so long and yet two years' ago they didn't look good, yet they looked exactly the same.

It's fashion, that weird and wonderful phenomenon. Some people can exist in a remarkable bubble of style without being a slave to the latest trends. They look good and cut a stylish dash without looking like they've just copied page fifteen of Womens' Fashion Monthly and worn it. There are women and men who can do this, who have a decent stylometer and know how to use it.

Or is it because we're so influenced by what's in vogue, from reading the mags and seeing footage of Brangelina at the latest birth/adoption/awards ceremony that we don't actually have an innate sense of what looks good.

Am I so shallow that I think pair number five, the brown sunfaded ones, look good just because they're in fashion?

Does my latest trendy shirt actually look good or does it look good because of what I've been conditioned to think? Will it still look good next month?

What about you, are you a fashion slave or a style icon?

Or do you just wear what you like and get on with life?

Songs I'm Learning

On Saturday I was sitting in my hairdresser's salon waiting for my hair to be cut. This was handy as, had I been waiting for a train or a waiter to take my order, it could have been a bloody long and fruitless one. I was sitting there, reading a gadget magazine and pretending not to be looking at the scantily clad hairdressers pouting their way around the salon, mirrors are useful sometimes.

I turned a page in the magazine and came across a review on one of those guitar hero / rockband type of games, I honestly can't remember the name of it but it doesn't matter. It was one of these ones that come with a pseudo electronic drumkit and you can "form" a band with your mates and pretend that you're, well, in a band. You can choose make up, tattoos, clothes and all sorts and then play along to your heart's content.

According to the review the supplied drum kit was very realistic and at times the fellow couldn't help but feel compelled to reach up and hit one of the crash cymbals in an intuitive way. I read it with my musician's scorn and my real drummer's disdain, while feeling happy that people, mere mortals, might get to experience a little bit of the fun and adrenalin of being in a band.

Then my mind went off on one. It kind of left my head and went round the back. After having a look at the arse of the cute blonde hairdresser it started to pat me on the back. I felt all pleased and chuffed with myself after reading the band game review. Why Rhythmic? I hear you ask.

Well it's because I'm one of the many people who get to do it for real. Not professionally of course, but I get to be in a band or two. While many play games and play along to Aerosmith or Lenny Kravitz songs on pseudo guitars and plastic drum kits I get to do the real thing. I've even got myself a real tattoo rather than a virtual one.

Sometimes I make people dance, sometimes they clap at me. On rare occasions a woman applauds my drum solo or smiles at me flirtatiously with those "get out of my bed" eyes. I get to do that smile thing, the half grimace, half smile, half "I knew I should have worn pants today" look that is only done by people in bands or in care centres.

Oh yes, it's a pretty cool thing. I like it.

In between other bits of life I've been busily trying to learn some new songs for the covers band. They're all quite straight up rockish songs and still interesting. One of the cool things is learning and playing songs that I've loved listening to in the past. Songs that I've grown up with and have accompanied me through bits of my life I actually get to play.

Here are some of the new ones.

Pride (in the name of love) - U2

Tempted - Squeeze

Starlight - Muse

Living for the Weekend - Hard Fi

Rock 'n' Roll - Led Zep (you know about this already)

Pick a Part That's New - Stereophonics

Are you gonna go my way - Lenny Kravitz

Mr Brightside - Killers

What do you reckon?

Girly Books

Many years ago, when my daughters were very young, I had dreams that they would do boyish things. I suspect these dreams are normal for a father of girls, but I'm not sure on that. I would picture them playing football with me, being into cars and music and generally escewing lots of "girly" things in favour of the more masculine activities.

Now, roughly ten to twelve years later, I've succeeded in achieving my dream. If you define success as achieving nothing like you set out to do that is. Both the girls are firmly in the feminie camp. Their interest in the more boyish side of things extend to K being heavily into music and A being heavily into drums and it's highly debateable when they're "masculine" things anyway.

When I cast my mind back I do recollect that it was when they were young that I gave up on the whole idea anyway. At even pre school stage they began to play with "traditional" female toys. Things like dolls, cookers and kitchen things and the like. I noticed that they were getting much of their stimuli and the desire to play with those things from outside influences like TV and their friends.

It was all well and good me trying to get them interested in football and cars but everything they were exposed to demonstrated that they were boys' activities and that little girls should be doing other things. It was a lesson to me that the defining of traditional roles of the sexes starts so young and is hard to battle against.

Yet I'm not immune to it, as I unwittingly proved to myself the other day. I was browsing at some slighty trashy books in a shop and felt the urge to buy something that would be easy to read and gentle on my mind. If you know me you'll understand that, for something to be gentle on my mind, it's got to be pretty damn simple. A huge font, a plot that's a bit simpler that that story about the girl and the three bears and the porridge and some pictures of drums is my definition of easy reading.

I chose a couple of books and that night began to read one of them. It was a book about a family of private investigators told from the persepctive of their twenty eight year old daughter, also a private investigator. She (the narrator) is single and goes through boyfriends like a Jones goes through spliffs. The book has a story of sorts and is interlaced with details (of the emotional sort) about the many romances of the heroine. The top section of the front cover of the book is pink, the bottom section is a lighter shade of pink. The back cover is rather prettily done in the same colour scheme.

By now you may have spotted what I hadn't; it's a girls' book. Pure and simple.
I started it the night I bought it, the blurb had said it was funny, witty and full of side splitting insight. After a few chapters I'd come to the conclusion that I hadn't made up my mind yet. After a few more chapters I thought it was mildly witty but there was no need for me to wear my whale bone corset as I read it. I stuck to the regular one.

I had the girls with me one day and K, who's always interested in everything, looked at the book and grimaced.

"Dad, why are you reading this?"

"I just fancied it"

"But it's a girls' book" she said indignantly.

Her statement irked me somewhat. As if I'd go out and buy a book written for girls by mistake.

"Why do you think that?" I asked feebly, already feeling that feeling, the one where someone tells you something you'd known all along but you hadn't quite grasped it and yet, when they tell you, it's so obvious that you want to argue a bit to prove your point, particularly when it's your twelve year old daughter doing the pointing out of the obvious bit.

"Well didn't you read the blurb?"

"Of course I did, but why?"

"Well didn't you spot that the reviews are from womens' magazines? And the book's pink."

She had me there. Like a bat out of Belgium it hit me. I had bought a book written for women. It was too late though, I needed to know what was going to happen. I continued to read the book, being careful where I took it and who might see me reading it. I finished it last night and felt nothing. It had a nice happy ending, always good for my reading pleasure, but it dealt with things that men just aren't well versed in. Things like emotions, periods and undoing bras without looking.

It made me think about books and writing and target audiences. Most books are written to appeal to both sexes; male and the other one. But there are some that are written for men to read, mostly written by men. There are others that are written by women for women, like this one.

As I was saying to Frenchy the other night, it would have to be a brilliant man who could write pretending to be a woman. The likelihood is that a man writing as a woman would give away little clues as they went along, little signs that they're not as smart as they think they are.

Then again I reckon the average woman could have half her brain removed, do a couple of lines of coke and still write something that makes her sound like a highly intelligent man.

What do you think?

How Do You Feel About Your Blog?

If you're reading this there's a high chance you've got a blog and I was wondering about something that you might be able to answer.

Most of us bloggers go through the whole "why do you blog?" thing. In my considerable monitoring I have observed that the average blogger writes their own "why do you blog?" post sometime within their first six months of blogging. They, or we, think that's it's a unique and intellectually stimulating post. They, or we, think that we've come up with something that's the blogging equivalent of the wheel when what we've actually done is to discover water, or to think we have.

My new question is related but different, like a transvestite cousin, unless you're a transvestite.

How do you feel about your blog?

This may be a hard question for men to answer but please try. I'm sort of getting at whether you feel proud about it, whether you're a bit embarrassed or ashamed? Do you feel imprisoned by it, does it make you feel nerdy?

Is it a distraction or a means of letting off steam? Is it your way of changing the world or is it a couple of words that you chuck out when you're bored between important political decisions?

So, pray tell.

If I Was God - Men - Part 2

The improvements that will be evident in Woman V2.0 are documented here. As God I think I did quite a good job with woman V1.0, even if I say it myself.

Man V2.0 is a different matter. Drastic improvements are required in some important areas. It's not going to be a case of fine tuning but serious redesigning. So much so that I've been thinking about giving Man V2.0 a new name altogether. Any suggestions on this would be appreciated.

Here are the key points:

1. Emotions. These will be installed in Man 2.0 and will take the place of some of the huge amount of logic installed in V1.0.

2. Shopping. Currently there is only one man on the whole planet who likes shopping, a Sri Lankan drumming blogger. The improved man will like shopping. He will be happy to help a female browse through numerous items of female attire that, to his eyes, look exactly the same as each other anyway. His vocal programme will come pre installed with a selection of words and phrases that were only available in the female model before. Things like:

"I think the colour of those buttons really suits your eyes"

"Yes, it's very similar to the one Jennifer Aniston wore at that award ceremony"

These new phrases will replace the previous ones of

"Yeah it's fine" and "Why don't you just buy both and then we can go and eat?"

3. Penis. A ground up rethink has been necessary. The old model was too small (particularly in India), prone to stop working too early and frankly a bit ugly. The new model will be 9-10 inches long (5-6 in India), it will have a vibrate feature and a camera installed at the end. It will curve. The curve and camera will help the owner to locate the G spot on woman V1.0. Woman V2.0 will have the new G spot between the breasts. The new penis will be available in a series of bright colours and flowery designs. The owner will suffer immense pain if the new penis is involved in any uphill gardening. This will help women.

4. Post Coital Activity. The new and improved man will be able to do kissing, cuddling and general love type of stuff immediately after intercourse. Version 1.0 was programmed to roll over, fart and then fall asleep. Version 2.0 will be based on some of the men that are written about in books and sex blogs.

5. Eyes and ears. As a God it's important for me to live and learn. After all it's not as if I'm perfect or anything. Version 2.0 will feature eyes that work independently to each other as well as ears that do the same. I feel this will be useful, maybe even essential, for both men and women. It will mean that men will now be able to watch a woman as she talks to them and still eye up a sexy woman as she walks by with the other eye, thus avoiding getting a slap or an afternoon of silence. The independent ears will mean that the man will be able to watch TV and still listen to the woman as she talks in the background. Many years ago I had thought that introducing commercial breaks to TV programmes would enable women to talk without spoiling a man's enjoyment of the main programme. Sadly the women's brain couldn't deal with this.

6. Arms. The hands will be at the end of the upper arm, there won't be that lower arm bit, I don't know what it's called. This will stop men from scratching their balls at every opportunity.

7. Directions. Man V2.0 will find it a pleasurable experience to stop and ask someone for directions. The original version sees the act as a dent to the male ego, an admittance that he has failed and is not worthy of being labelled as a proper man. Then, once he's asked directions, he forgets what he's been told after the first bit anyway. The update will stop and ask the way at the first sign of getting lost, then will remember the exact directions that he has been given. I may even programme him so that he stops and asks ugly women as well as good looking ones, but first things first.

8. Toilet Roll Replacement. The final, maybe most important change, will be that Man V2.0 will have the amazing ability to change a toilet roll when the old one finishes. V1.0 can change tyres, TV channels and everything except his mind and toilet rolls. V2.0 will have special bits in his brain to enable him to grab a new roll and chuck it onto the holder. It's the most radical of all my changes and perhaps the hardest to develop but I'm determined to make it work.

So my people, these are the changes and improvements that will feature on the much awaited Version 2.0 of Man. If any of you women, or men, want anything else then please let me know.

Days Of RD (What's going down)

Now and again it's nice to do a little catch up post, to tell you what's happening in my life. It's like a signpost except it's a blog post and has far more words.

Frankly, things around these parts are a bit mental, so mental that it would be far more productive if I got on with sorting stuff instead of writing stuff. Oh well.

The gig on Saturday with Mimosa was great. It was a venue that was new to us but well established and we went down well to the small audience. A small audience in this case is one that was low in numbers, it wasn't a small audience as it would have been if we'd played to a dwarf convention. Our percussionist had to cancel at the last minute so I was left with all the hitting things duties, which was interesting and surprisingly challenging.

It meant a couple of extra and unexpected solos for me and I had to play with a "bigger" feel at times. With the percussionist there I often have to lay back in my playing to stop it sounding like a teenager doing his work experience in a drum shop falling down the stairs while carrying too many drums. On Saturday I had to do the opposite and it was a nice little challenge to face.

Packing up the contents of my house continues. This weekend sees me moving back to my parents' place while the house sale of the former family home ticks away nicely. So, at the ripe old age of 42 27 I'm going to be back with the rents, as I believe you call them, for a while. This is both good and bad.

Having Sri Lankan parents is great when you need some of the things at the bottom end of Maslow's hierarchy, food and lodging and those sort of things. I'm looking forward to the food and the company. I'm dreading the whole Sri Lankan motherliness and the other bits. Positives and negatives.

Being a drummer isn't very space friendly I must admit. When I was looking for my house the drums were a major consideration. Space for my electronic kit and easy parking and loading are requirements that can be limiting in London. On top of that there are noise issues, even with a "silent" electronic kit that's played through headphones. My Dad is pretending not to be, but is seriously excited about the prospect of having my electronic set there. He's kindly cleared space for them and I know that he'll be spending lots of time when I'm at work sitting in front of them.

The packing, the bubble wrapping and the driving car loads of things continues. Sunday is D day.

The first evening of practice with the covers band after our summer break happened on Monday. We all had our "homework" to do over the summer and, just like schoolkids, we'd all done it to different levels. It's fair to say that I'm the Dinidu of the band, the swot, the teacher's pet, the only one who actually had done all his homework. I'd learned the intro to Rock 'n' Roll, something I was proud of, then found out that it was "too complicated" for the guitarist to understand and he wanted me to simplify it.

It's one of the best and most recognisable drum intros ever and so often played wrong by dodgy drummers in dodgy pub covers bands so it hurt my pride a little bit to be asked to simplify it. I guess it's similar to asking a lead guitarist, after he's meticulously learned the lead guitar part to "Sweet Child of Mine", to forget it because the band have decided to do a bit of karaoke and maybe a toilet break there instead.

Talking of toilet breaks we had an amusing thing happen during Saturday's gig. Our guitarist began "Little Wing", that long bluesy sexy Hendrix intro and, as he started playing A, our bassist, literally put his guitar down and ran off the stage. He returned several bars later, I think it was sixteens bars after the bass was supposed to come in, and carried on playing. Later he told us that he was "busting for a piss" and couldn't hold it in any longer. It was one of the more bizarre things I've seen at a gig, though I accept it's probably not right up there in the top eschelons of bizarreness at gigs. It's not quite in the same league as Aerosmith running off stage to do hard drugs in between songs, but close. I don't think he washed his hands though. Chee!

Next week is a no mercy week. On Sunday I move, then Monday evening there's a covers band pratice, Tuesday there's a Mimosa practice, Wednesday will be with the girls and then Thursday sees me jetting off for just over a week. But they're all my choices and I love them all.

And I'm still writing the post about the improvements God will make to Man. There's a lot of them!

Dear Uncle Rhythmic

I've been thinking about the whole doing good to others business. I'd like to help the less fortunate among us and I'm aware that many look up to me for my wisdom and level headedness, particularly in matters relating to sex.

To say that people look up to me in reality would be farcical. I'm about average height for a Sri Lankan which brings me in at about 4 foot shorter than the average white chap. It might well be the only major negative in being a Sri Lankan; we're all so short that we don't actually get any bigger as we walk towards you.

I'm often asked by the younger blogging crowd for advice on sexual matters. I think it's time to offer this as a formal service. If you need a question answered and you want the matter kept private, between you, me and the whole of the Sri Lankan blogosphere, then please ask ahead.

Of course I can't promise to respond to each and every one of you but I'll do my best.

You'll Smile

This song, by a band called Noah and the Whale, has been all over the radio and TV here for a couple of weeks. It's one of those that makes you feel happy. A few moments ago I saw the video and listened to the lyrics and it made me feel even happier.

Check it out. I bet you'll smile.

If I Was God - Women - Part One

I think now, give or take a couple of millenniums, would be about the right time to launch a new version of the species known as Humans. Let's face it, since I created the universe and all of its bits I haven't really done that much. I've kind of let things develop naturally.

Sure, I stepped in at times and gave things a little shove in the right direction. I bunged in that ice age to get rid of dinosaurs. After so many years I got bored with dinosaurs, they were far too big and scary and they had to go. Besides Jurassic Park would never have been made and Ross would never have been a paleontologist unless I killed them off.

Then, a couple of years later, I helped man figure out how to make fire. I got sick and tired of watching you lot eat cold food. All I ever saw was people sitting down to dinner and eating gazpacho, salads and cold pizza. Enough I thought. You need some fire.

After all the years of the Human body as it is I do think now is a great time for a relaunch. Version 2.0 will contain improvements to the male and female version. These tweaks will be both on the body and in the mind. Here are my plans:

FEMALE

1. Periods. These are necessary but the new version will have PMH instead of PMT. The H is for happiness. Bad moods and snapping at people will be replaced by happiness and joy, goodwill to all.

2. Lesbianism. This will be replaced by bisexuality. It's not fair that men fantasise about having two women and have little or no chance because those women aren't interested in men.

3. Does my bum look big in this? That whole thing when women ask the man how they look, whether the dress/trousers/shirt suits them, will stop. Women v2.0 will have a segment of brain that will understand how men think. That segment will signal that, when you ask a man how you look, he will always say that you look good or great. No man will respond with an answer like "Actually that doesn't suit you at all, your arse looks really fat in it and the colour makes you look like a sunburnt tourist."

4. The G Spot. I think I made a mistake in the positioning of it the first time around. Even I don't know exactly where it is so the phrase "God knows where it is" wouldn't even be correct. After some thought I've rejected the idea of putting the new redesigned G spot on the face, just next to the nose. This would create problems with make up and sunglasses etc. The new G spot will go bang smack in between the breasts. It makes it easy to find and it will mean men won't have to move around so much in bed. Truly a win win scenario. There'll be none of this "making a come here motion with the index finger" business. That just didn't work.

5. Logic. I'd chuck some of this into each woman's brain. Version 1.0, with no logic at all, was prone to unpredictable behaviour, so unpredicatable that it was only understood by other women and gay men. This will all change.

6. Headaches. Women V2.0 will still have headaches, but the best way of curing them will be by having sex. A simple fix to a age old problem.

7. Toilet things. The new and improved woman will be comfortable peeing while standing, thus avoiding issues about men leaving the toilet seat up. I'm considering making V2.0 like the smell of mens' farts but am aware that this may detract from the sheer pleasure men get from saying to their female companion "Uuuurgh smell that".

8. Channel Surfing. Women V2.0 will understand man's need to channel surf and to continually seek a better song on the music system of choice. I may build in an appreciation of Baywatch and Walker, Texas Ranger.

That's about it. Please don't feel left out. Tomorrow I'll announce the improvements to be made in Man Version 2.0.

Helping Sex Addicts

I saw in the news recently that David Duchovny, or Fox Mulder as we know him, has recently entered a clinic to be treated for sex addiction.

How cool is that?

Wikipedia tells us that "Sexual addiction is a term used to describe the behavior of a person who has an unusually intense sex drive or obsession and addiction with sex."

But why is it that only famous people, those who have been caught dipping their soldier in other people's boiled eggs, are the ones who are diagnosed with sex addiction?

Normal chaps don't get carted off to a clinic when they're caught in a compromising position with their secretary do they?

I think I've discovered my dream job; working as a counsellor for female patients in one of these sex addicts' clinics. Obviously the way to treat these fabulously wealthy and glamorous women, many of whom would have have plastic surgery to give them perfect looking bodies, would be through a process of gradual withdrawal. They'd have to have a lot of sex and then reduce the amount they get over a period of time.

Well I'm willing to put my balls on the line, I'll step in and help the ladies, with little or no thought for myself. It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it.

I've always thought of myself as a kind and considerate chap, someone who wants to do his bit and to put others first. This would be my way of helping these poor unfortunates, of giving something back to society.

I've been sending CVs round to the clinics and am waiting for my first interview.

You'll be kept posted.