Good Things About Being Short

At five foot five, living in the UK, I think I fall firmly into the category of 'shortarse'.

In Sri Lanka or Singapore I feel distinctly taller and, to my surprise, last year in New York I felt a bit taller too when I'd fully expected to feel like I was in a land of giants. It's all relative, and I do blame it on my relatives, even though it's not really their fault.

Frankly, and it's something I've put quite some mindwork into, I can't think of many advantages of being short. It's harder to buy clothes that fit decently, which I suppose means that I've got quite friendly with the very nice people at my local tailor shop.

I have a vague notion that short people  make better drummers, but it's entirely anecdotal based on an unproven thought that shorter limbs means we can move around the drumkit more easily.

But really my list of pros reads as follows:

1. We can fit into Economy Class aircraft seats more eaasily.

2. We are better at Hide and Seek.


Bummer.

Hair today, gone tomorrow - Part Two

In my quite bald head it only seems like about one, at most two years ago when I told you that I was investigating the idea of having a hair transplant here.

But no, on rereading that post I've now realised that it was over 5 years ago, which might explain a lot!

I promised to keep you posted, so finally I am, with a post.

For some months after February 2014 I did exactly what I committed to do. I made appointments with about  4 or 5 of these hair transplant places to see what the possibilities were for me.

And not a single one of them inspired any level of confidence in me. One in particular, the Private Clinic in Harley Street would you believe, gave me downright incorrect medical advice. I've put their full name here as it's all documented and was never resolved to my satisfaction.

But the gist of it was that the nurse who was giving me the consultation said that they wouldn't go ahead with a procedure as I was type 1 diabetic and the Doctor would not operate on a type 1 diabetic. She steadfastly refused to accept that I am actually type 2 diabetic even though I take insulin and got quite shitty with me when I argued the point.

"In all my twenty years of nursing I've never come across someone taking Insulin who's not type 1" she said at one point. 

The clinic refunded me the £100 or so for the consultation and, when I complained, offered me another free consultation with a different nurse, but never really dealt with the issue that a nurse had got her medical facts wrong. I'll be bolloxed if I'm going to go to a clinic that demonstrates its medical "expertise" like that, then fails to deal with it.

To be fair the other clinics did not demonstrate medical incompetence, more just an air of snake oil salesman trying to close a deal regardless of whether it would result in a happy customer.

One bloke kept calling me for some weeks afterwards reducing his price every time and trying to get me to buy that way. Another called a few times saying that they had had last minute cancellations and gaps to fill so could offer me reduced rates because of that.

Not once did I feel that I had been given decent impartial advice with my best interests at heart. Perhaps I had been naive in my expectation but that was what I wanted and felt I needed in order to make a good decision.

So, what with life getting on with itself the way it does and things being busy, as well as the fact that my Dad rather selfishly passed away a little after, I decided to put it all on the back burner as it just didn't feel right.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. For some algorithmic reason an ad popped up on my Facebook page for a clinic with what seemed to be an excellent reputation and was also local. I bunged an enquiry in and got myself another consultation and off I went.

The very nice Doctor, and it actually was the Doctor, not a nurse or salesperson, started off by asking me why I want to have a hair transplant. I immediately told him that I'm not sure if I do, but that I want some good advice on my prospects.

He took some photos of my head, did some computerish stuff, then gave me the news.

If you're bored and want to skip the details let's just say you can't polish a turd or you can't grow grass on a busy road.

He refreshingly and I assume honestly told me that I simply don't have enough hair left on the donor area to fill in the rather large empty bit and give me a full and flowing head of hair. There would be patches left on the donor area and I'd end up with a head of hair looking like it did around 5 years ago, not like it looked in my "are you Shehan Karunatilaka?" days.

One option would be to have a transplant and combine it with scalp micropigmentation, when they effectively tattoo fake grade zero hair on your head. I'd had a look at this anyhow some time ago and decided against it because you have to keep your hair at around grade zero constantly or you look like a total arse. Clippering my hair twice a week is way over my vanity boundary.

I pondered for some minutes and came to a decision. First of all I figured that there was no motive for the Doctor to be lying to me. Then I realised that his advice had made things clear; I simply am not that bothered and don't want to spend around £6k to look like I did 5 years ago. If he'd promised a full head of hair things might be different. But even then it's only a 'might'.

My feelings, for I know lots of you are interested in these feeling things, were mixed, in a surprising way.

Rather than feel massive waves of disappointment I felt about 10% disappointment. The remaining 90% was a sense of relief, of putting the whole thing to bed and getting on with life. It was good to feel that I'd finally got good quality information and made an informed decision.

Embrace the slaphead I guess!

Anyone want to buy some nearly new hair gel?

On Menstruation and Religion

I saw a rant by a friend on Facebook recently on the subject of menstruating women not being allowed in certain religious sites in some parts of the world, specifcally Sri Lanka.

It's mildly embarrasing to admit this, but it's a subject I've been wholly unaware of until I saw this. Though  I'm immensely proud of my heritage the fact is I've been born and brought up here in the UK and largely with a "western" attitude towards religion, whatever that may be.

One of the things I think that involves is an 'opt in' rather than 'opt out' mindset, but that's a topic for another day. Another thing it involves is no mention of women having to cover up much and certainly no mention whatsoever of women who are menstruating not being allowed to visit certain sites.

So when I heard about this in Sri Lanka I asked a few people. I was told that it's just a normal part of everyday life there and many accept it without a second thought, though many think it's archaic and sexist too.

I now know that it's considered 'unclean' by many, that it might invite the wrath of the Gods. Well it seems to me that it's mostly priests blinkered men rather than anyone else who is bothered by it.

I mean, if I were a God or a deity I'm sure I'd be focussing my efforts on helping poverty and suffering, sorting out wars or providing new snare drums to needy drummers, not whether some women are on their monthly cycle when they decide to worship me.

Fucking ridiculous. Just saying.

Keeping Things at Arm's Length

 I've noticed something in the last couple of years. Just about everyone I know, including me, has got to that "certain" age.

It's that certain age when our near vision starts to deteriorate, when we're all in denial and battling it. Which means that only a few actually possess reading glasses.

The rest of us, when presented with a page of print or something else to read, do the thing: the thing when we act as if our arm is an accordion, but quite a big one.

I was at a band practice the other day and we had to read something. Not one of us could hold it close up, we all had to strain our eyes and try to hold the piece of paper far away enough to read. But not too far, because then it just gets lost. I figured this might be the time to either join a younger band or get some reading glasses, perhaps both.

Reading instructions on bottles is a particular bane. I reckon they print them in tiny fonts just for a laugh. And kids rarely need medicines and stuff anyhow, so there's some kind of mad logic going on there.

Sometimes I mix with young people, like my kids, and they'll hand me something to read, presenting it to me about four or five inches away from my eyes. I have to move it away at the speed of light before the eye strain starts to hurt, causing a headache and rapid need to lie down with a warm drink.

Good God, what is wrong with you people?

Have you no idea?

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Pants.

I've been on a recent mission to upgrade my pants collection. And, for the benefit of any Americans, I really mean pants here, like you know, the things that your balls and willy actually are held in by, not trousers. And, for the benefit of Sri Lankans, when I say "trousers" I actually mean " a trouser".

Not that long ago I told you about my then new pants collection. Well it didn't seem that long ago, but a quick search on my blog has revealed that it was actually over four years ago. Since then I've added considerably to the collection, but the theme has remained one of Odel. There have been flowery ones, more striped ones and a generally good and colourful selection of undergarments have prevailed.

But recent visits to Colombo's finest (only) emporium have proved disappointing. It seems that these type of pants aren't around any more and I felt the need to update and upgrade. It was either that or wash them anyhow.

So the other day I could have been found lurking in mens' pants in Odel. The cheap bright ones were nowhere to be seen but there were plenty of nasty ones, the sort your Dad would wear, just not much in the way of my last collection. Before you could say "kids with jeans hanging low and showing their arse crack" I found myself browsing at those Calvin Klein ones.

I perused the options and settled on a sort of cross between a boxer short and Y front as my choice. The things were all boxed up with a photo of a muscular looking white bloke hung like a horse on each. I'm not one to fall for all this marketing hype, so merely paused to think about how much the chap looked like me before selecting about five or six pairs to buy.

Size, contrary to what they say, did matter. Trying on pants in most shops is not permitted; a great thing if you're concerned  about trying on a pair that Johnny Smelly had tried on and rejected twenty minutes ago, but a not so great thing if you're me trying to figure out what size you need.

I played the dangerous card and went for medium, knowing that small would have been a laughable option, not because of the size of my wedding tackle mind, and the only question was whether to go large or one down.

Off I went to queue at the checkouts and wait for the tourists in front of me to peer at their currency and try to figure out which notes were which and then pay for all that bargain clothing that they'd mostly end up never wearing anyhow. And a T shirt or two about saving dogs or something.  The checkout chap asked if I wanted them taken out of the boxes, to which I gave an affirmative. As a slightly serious aside isn't all this packaging just ridiculous? I'm sure I'm one of many who have no need for it and would rather see the environment protected in some small way.

A short while later and I was back at C's place trying them on. My first reaction was that they were a bit scratchy. I wondered whether this was because they were brand new and needed a wash to soften things up. Turns out I was right about that.

The choice of medium was perhaps not one of my best. There didn't seem to be a lot of room for manoeuvre and the waistband was making me do that thing stomach holding in thing that most middle aged blokes do when in the presence of
attractiveany women at all. Nevertheless I decided to give a pair a trial run out in public that evening.

I did, to discover that overall comfort was somewhat lacking. Not only that but I found my jeans sliding down to reveal the waist band of the pants, big Calvin Klein graphics and logo for all to see. Seriously I promise you I really didn't want this to happen but it did. I wasn't trying to look like Snoopy Snoopy Dog Dog or Sebastian Posingis or one of these sex gods, that's what happens when you wear these pant things. It's like it's built into their DNA or something.

So the next day I could have been spotted in that other place, Roma Four, buying a selection of almost definitely fake Paul Smith ones in a rather nice variety of colours in a size they call large.

I'm persisting with the Calvin Kleins but not as my everyday pant. I forgot to tell you earlier that being a drummer means that extended periods of playing, sitting there on the stool make me highly prone to what's technically known as "drummer's arse".

And drummer's arse means that high spec pants are often required, otherwise one can get home after an energetic band practice or gig and find all sorts of creatures and nasties nesting in there. It's so bad that sometimes I fail to even get a week of wear out of one pair of pants. Honestly I kid you not.

I live alone by the way.

Real Men Talk Crap

One of the things I've realised in recent years is that women being from Mars and men being from Venus and all that sort of thing is actually wrong. It's giving the impression that there are similarities between the sexes, when in actual fact, as we all know, there aren't.

And when I say "as we all know" I mean "we" as in we men. We're the smart one, the ones with the superior knowledge. For we are the ones who realise and acknowledge that we know absolutely nothing about the workings of the female mind. We don't pretend, we're honest and true to our species. Ask a man how a woman's mind works and he'll look at you with that quizzical expression, the one that suggests blankness and total lack of knowledge. That one we use a lot.

But, ask a woman about the workings of a man's mind, and she'll proceed to give you all sorts of lengthy explanations. Wrong ones.

Men are ignorant. Knowing that we're ignorant gives us a strange power. That kind of powerless one.

Which is where David Blacker comes in. I like him. Okay he dresses strangely, but apart from that he's alright. And we talk on Facebook chat quite often. Occasionally we chat about trivial stuff, like politics in either of our respective countries, or the lives of our kids. But, for the majority of the time we talk about really important issues.

Being men these really important issues are of course things like cars, the life Rod Stewart lives, subjects women just can't believe that we talk about. Here's yesterday morning's chat, some of it at least. It's prudent that I don't reveal how we got to the subject, but I ask you, the esteemed reader, to accept that we did and read from there on. The subject in question was planes and aircraft.

RD: I remember taking my kids into and SL cockpit when they were little.

I was far more interested and fascinated than they were!

DB: That must've been cool.

RD: keep this to yourself DB please but, when I was younger...

DB: about the cockpit?

RD: I used to be a..........

plane spotter.

DB: For a moment there I thought you were gonna say flight steward

RD: haha

DB: lol

RD: I'm not sure which is worse

DB: haha

Well I was quite into planes too, but military ones.

RD: Phew

DB: my first ever flight anywhere was in one.

RD: I used to go to LHR with my mate D and we'd get registrations and cross them out of our books.

DB: ah, proper plane spotting lol

RD: yup, fraid so

DB: where'd you get the books?

RD: well there used to be called Civil Aircraft Markings that came out each year.

DB: fuck

RD: with the registrations of all the civil planes in the world and all us plane spotters would cross them out as we saw them.

DB: there must be alot of you out there if they're printing books

RD: (Here I send him a link to Amazon's description of the current year's book. I looked for it, it's not that I had it handy or anything)

DB: lol, you seem up to date.

RD: fuck off

I just found it for you

DB: haha, looks like there's a military version too

RD: Yes I believe so, but much harder to spot I suppose. Unless you live near a military base or something

DB: and all that camouflage

RD: of course

DB: that is funny tho mate

RD: what?

DB: Luckily yo found drumming

RD: yup

now I live on the edge

DB: or you'd still be out there

RD: well. when it's safe

DB: reached a different plane?

RD: haha

I really shouldn't have told you

DB: lol

RD: My kids really take the piss out of me for it

strangely

DB: I can't believe you told them

RD: their mother did

DB: Oh ok, but I guess I'm a kinda gun geek

RD: I think being a gun geek might be slightly better for the rep

DB: I buy Janes Guns all the time

RD: You're so gay

DB: but people look at me strangely anyway when they see it on my bookshelf

and on we went to talk about trivia after that.

It's not easy being a man.

• • 
    

Marry, Shag, Kill....

It's a bit of a liberty to say it, but I think I can speak for most men when I tell you some things about sex, specifically about the way we men approach it compared to how the female persona does. As a caveat I must say that I can't talk for gay people.

The fly in the proverbial here is that I haven't quite figured out the workings of the female mind just yet, though I'm close, perhaps a mere couple of hundred years away. But I do know what we men think about, when we're not pondering on cars or pretending to be intellectual.

For men, sex (of the hetero variety) is simple. It's binary, black or white, or often both, and it works like this. We see a woman and our brain has two options:

1. Do we fancy her?

2. Do we not fancy her?

This might be seeing as in glancing at her or seeing as in meeting, getting to know her and such like.

After answering the first two questions the man will then find out if the lovely lady is available, not necessarily the same thing as whether she's married or unmarried to some, and of course make that quick calculation about whether oneself is available. ( a varied and uncharted minefield I know!)

Given the correct combination of permutations and bang, the man will try, in his usually inept and unsuccessful way, to have sex with the woman. It's a fairly straightforward process, simple and uncomplicated, like us.

Once, C asked me what happens when I see a woman who I think is cute, say at the supermarket. I looked at her with puzzlement.

"What do you mean what happens?" I asked, with a proper man's what on earth are you talking about look on my face.

"Well what do you do, what happens next?"

"What happens next?" I asked incredulously. "What do you mean what happens next."

"Well how do you approach her?" she asked.

"Approach her?" My mind was well and truly boggled.

"Nothing happens of course, we just go off and find the aisle with the cold meats (or whatever we're shopping for at the time)."

All men will understand that. No women will. Weird but true.

Things however, on the female side of the fence are another matter.

Men, listen to me, for this is priceless information that might help you at some point in the future. Women have all sorts of different levels of attraction that goes on and it goes on in their...............head. Seriously.

Women can fancy a man, can find him attractive, good looking or whatever, yet not want to sleep with him. I don't know the whys and wherefores but trust me on this.

Another conversation the other day with someone (a girl) went something like this:

"Of course you fancied him, you told me many times" said I.

"No I didn't" said she.

"Yes you did, you told me, you said how you were after him for ages but he never fancied you."

"Ah, I had a crush on him, but I didn't fancy him, I wouldn't have slept with him."

"You what?" I said and decided not to pursue.

You can imagine how this sort of information is just not processable to the mind of an average man. I merely looked at her with an expression on my face that Hugh Laurie whilst sucking a lemon would have been proud of.

They have all sorts of different classifications for men too. There are men who they want to marry, to have a fling with, to sleep with just once, all different of course, never would all of those criteria be met by one man. There are famous men who women drool over but wouldn't touch with a bargepole because of, would you believe this, their personality. I kid you not.

Then there are ugly funny men, who can apparently get any woman to do anything for them. What's all that about?

And all of those things are what made me realise the other day that that game; marry, shag, kill, you know the one, can only have been invented by a woman, possibly a gang of them. For, had it been thought up by one of us, then it would have been called, quite simply;

Shag.

The Boyfriend Of The Daughter

Keep this to yourself, but A, the seventeen year old, is now, ahem, "seeing someone". Naturally I hate the bloke, despite the fact that I haven't met him yet. I have been made to promise that I'll behave normally when I meet him, the only specific thing I was told about behaving normally was that it involves "no Sri Lankan dancing or anything like that".

It's quite reasonable to hate the boyfriend of the daughter isn't it? When I'm the Dad and I know what boys of that age want to do, when I remember what I was like at that age, rather what I wanted to be like at that age. These feelings of hatred, of anger and "get your hands off my child" are all wholly natural and normal.

Until they are felt towards me. That's me, can you believe it, by C's Dad.

There we were, Sunday before last. Two people in our forties, with C's parents and relaxing and chilling. It's weird because I can sometimes see the things going through C's Dad's mind, simply because I experience them too.

I don't know how it happened but conversation got to stomachs, as it can sometimes. C's Dad was standing in front of me and asked me if I go to the gym. Of course, this being C's Dad, a situation where my very manliness was at stake, I felt the need to answer with a mixture of boastfulness and bashfulness.

"Well, you know, a bit" was the response. My body language was all shrugging shoulders knowingly, as if to say that "a bit" actually meant "pretty damn regularly but I don't like to brag about it." It's a cunning tactic, for the real answer is "a bit", but I ponce around and do a bit of cross trainer stuff then some press ups and sit ups. Then I struggle to walk down the stairs on my way out because my legs hurt so much.

C's Dad looked at me with a look that I knew well.

"Do you do stomach exercises?"

"Well a bit"

"So let's see then" and he asked me to tense my stomach. He hadn't realised that I had been tensing it, as if my life depended on it, for most of the conversation anyhow. I attempted some more.

He punched me in the stomach. Quite hard, as it goes. Outwardly I smiled and laughed. Inwardly I groaned with pain. He smiled and he laughed. Inwardly he was loving it. I could tell.

Then he attacked again.

He laughed and smiled, as if it was all jokey boys' together pats on the back behaviour. It wasn't though. It was payback time and I had to behave in a manly way. His face smiled but his fist was clenched and punching me as hard as it could possibly manage.

"Doof, doof, doof" the stomach punches came at me in a little flurry. They didn't speak, that "doof" was the noise they would have made, if they could though.

I took them like a man. I think I passed the test, not visibly flinching, not doubling over in pain. In fact I didn't even cry.

C's Dad seemed pleased with himself and I understood perfectly.

Carmanship

David Blacker, in his comment on this post, mentioned carmanship. It's a word I'd never heard before and it caught my imagination by the balls.

For weeks I've been pondering on the word, on what exactly carmanship consists of and why it makes so much sense to me.

Firstly there's the fact that it's a word that does exactly what it says on the tin, kind of onomatopoeic, but not quite. We've got "car", meaning car. We've got "man", which seems right, even though, as you'll see later in this post, women score on the carmanship scale too. And finally we have "ship", in this referring to a form of transport rather than an ocean going boaty thing itself.

How would one define carmanship? Believe it or not but there's not even a Wikipedia entry for it, that's how obscure it is in one way. However, it's a word that just about everyone knows instantly, we all know in our heads what it means, but to describe it to someone is like suddenly having to describe a colour to a blind man.

I'm no different. I can't describe it, it's just carmanship. But, in my opinion, as well as the esteemed o of David Blacker and a few others, how highly one ranks on the carmanship scale depends on the following factors:

1 - Car history.

What cars have you owned during your lifetime? Fast cars, two seater sports cars, quirky ones like Beetles and proper Minis all earn good points. With a few exception Japanese cars will downgrade a driver significantly, as will French cars, even though I owned one once.

2 - Parallel parking.

This is a slightly contentious issue for, in my opinion, most Sri Lankan drivers are crap at reversing and so, by definition, most Sri Lankan drivers lose a few points on their carmanship score because of it. This isn't yet another example of the big bad west discriminating against the poor little Sri Lankan, bear with me and allow me to explain.

We Brits learn to parallel park as a part of our driving test. After that just about every drive involves us having to park in a tight space. We get used to it. You people in Sri Lanka rarely reverse and parallel park. You drive forwards into a space, then reverse out with some random guy in a uniform or a passer by standing behind your car and stopping the oncoming traffic. Or of course, your driver does it for you.

At the risk of alienating myself from some ladies here, as well as Sri Lankans, I think it's also a fact that women find it harder to deal with the spatial intelligence required in parking too. The end result is that the better you can parallel park in a tight space the higher your carmanship.

3 - Fuel

Diesel or petrol? We all know that diesel is regarded as being more friendly to the environment than petrol. Sadly that doesn't do you any good on the carmanship scale. Own a diesel? Go on about the better economy you get from a diesel, the impact on the environment? It's all correct and right, it just loses you a few points on your carmanship score. That's the way things are, sometimes life isn't fair.

4 - Top Gear

The ability to watch endless reruns of Top Gear is a definite plus. I was watching an episode with C the other day (romance isn't dead in these parts you know!) and she said something about Top Gear being so formulaic now. I agreed, adding "yeah but what a great formula". My words of wisdom there sum it up. Get bored of Top Gear and you lose points.

5 - Mechanical knowledge

It's not beneficial to be a total grease monkey as far as carmanship is concerned. You don't have to be one of the professional mechanics who can dismantle and engine and rebuild it with twice as much power in between breakfast and elevenses. But, a certain amount of practical mechanical knowledge is advantageous.

Knowing roughly how an engine works, how to change a tyre, why a six cylinder engine sounds sweeter than a four cylinder one or why oversteer and understeer happen are all good things. If you've ever dismantled, cleaned and reassembled the twin carbs on an MGB Roadster then that increases your score too. I have, but that's merely a random coincidence, not why I included that specific point.

Also, understanding the difference between BHP and 0 - 60 time helps, as does a realisation of what's important in a engine these days.

6 - Sex

Ever had sex in a car? Move up several notches on the scale if you have. Have I? Like fuck have I. Chance would be a fine thing.

7 - Indicating

Another slightly sore subject for many Sri Lankans. I know many of you don't believe in it, feeling that other drivers should demonstrate and work on their telepathic ability to guess where you're heading. The fact is that indicating, when used properly, is good and adds to safety. Effectively doing it raises your carmanship at once.

8 - Hating the BMW 1 series.

It's pretty self explanatory but true nonetheless. Anyone who likes these things, or God forbid actually owns one, shoots down the scale.

9 - Swarfega

If there's a tin of Swarfega in your garage that's good. If you instantly recognise the smell of Swarfega that's also good. If you think Swarfega is probably the name of something Indians use in their cooking, that's bad.

10 - Speedometer in the middle of the dash.

If you own a car that has the speedometer right in the middle of the dashboard, or if you think that's a fantastic idea then, not only are you immediately very low down on the carmanship rankings, but you're also likely to be a cab driver.

That's about it. How do you score on the carmanship scale? It is a bit sexist I suppose, as I can't think of many women I know who'd score highly. But that's because they're too busy multitasking. For what it's worth Vicki Butler Henderson and that German Sabine woman score higher than just about any man I know.

Are there any other criteria that you think should be included.

If you think your carmanship is good, try this.

Advice Needed....

"You're turning my brain into cheese" said C to me the other night.

What does this mean in manspeak?

Superman And Mr Strong

As the Americans say, here's the thing.

These T shirts, the ones with the Superman logo on them and the other ones, the ones with a picture of Mr Strong, one of the world famous Mr Men.

Well, about five years ago, for a nanosecond or two, it was vaguely amusing to see a man wearing one.

When I say "vaguely amusing" I mean that, had you or I not heard any good jokes for a while, not seen any unfortunates falling arse over tit in the street and not happened to click on one of those funny links that people put up on Facebook, then we might, just might have chuckled mildly at the sight of one.

These days, any man who thinks that he's being original, clever, witty or in any way smart by wearing one of the offending garments is truly mental.

They are not funny, they are not clever and they are not original. You, if you wear one, just look like a twat.

So don't.

If your wife or girlfriend gave it to you then you should reconsider the long term benefits of being in a relationship with them. If one of your children gave it to you then I guess it's okay to wear around the house a bit, that's it though.

If your name is Clark or your surname is Strong then allowances maybe made.

Carry on.

Jim

Sometimes I do things. And I do them impulsively. I think I'm manly in that way. I like shopping, I admit. But I shop like a man, contrary to what C reckons.

Mens' shopping is simple and uncomplicated. Women would probably say that that is like men, but we know the truth. We may seem simple and uncomplicated on the surface but, delve a bit deeper than that, and you'll find that worrying about how to adjust your balls is actually pretty taxing.

There are two types of men; those who get caught ogling womens' breasts and get a pervy reputation and those who don't get caught. Any man will tell you that it's not easy to keep oneself in the second group, let alone to work your way into it in the first place.

But, to go back to the shopping thing, we men look at a thing in a shop, perhaps even trying it on. Then we have some very basic tick boxes to decide if we buy it.

Does it fit? Yes or no. Does it look good? Yes or no. Does it make me hold my stomach in or can I relax in it? Yes or no.

And then, depending on which boxes we have ticked, we buy or don't buy. It really is that simple. Some fellows, I'm told, go further and ask themselves whether they need the thing or not. I don't really subscribe to that mindset. Unless I really need something of course.

Womens' shopping is an entirely different matter. Tick boxes, my arse. There are thousands of tick boxes to be applied before a decision is made, but then they move onto feelings and random fuzzy logic things that are wholly alien to the male psyche. I suppose, when I say "tick boxes, my arse" it's actually quite appropriate, for the "does my bum look big in this?" issue always looms large.

I kid you not here, I was with C the other day in Paradise Road and she was looking at sarongs. She was leaving for Taiwan that evening and wanted to buy a sarong as a present for the cameraman, or director of photography as they're called, on her crew. She held it up to examine the thing and within about two nanoseconds I'd decided that I'd buy it for myself, let alone for someone else.

I had to hold it against me, as apparently he was about similar size, I had to twirl, then she asked if I thought the colours would match his complexion. It was a sarong for fuck's sake, we men don't do complexions, we just buy things in colours we like. Eventually she bought it, after taking about five minutes, roughly thirty times the time a man would take, to make the decision.

At one point I thought, in my naivety, that she was actually buying a surprise birthday present for me and that was why it took so long. I was wrong. It really was a present for the cameraman.

Enough about that, there was something else I wanted to tell you about.

There I was on Friday, thinking that I probably should join a gym of some sort. Most people probably don't think about this stuff at this time of the year but I'm different to the herd. I did a little bit of googling, looked at a couple of gyms and then, before you could say "does my bum look big in this?" I was typing in my bank card details to enrol for six weeks trial membership (inc three personal training sessions!) at a local place.

Then there was a wait involved. It was the wait for one of the team to call me to arrange my first personal training session.

Now I know you, who may well know me in person, will be a bit surprised at this gym thing. My reputation as a fellow with a toned and rather chiselled physique goes before me. But, underneath this shallow exterior of good looks and muscular manliness, lurks a body just like any other man's, perhaps even as bad as David Blacker's, and I want to tone it up a tad.

I was impatient. The online thing told me that I'd get a call within forty eight hours, so naturally when I hadn't received one within about an hour I called them myself. A very friendly chap called Dominic talked to me quite nicely.

Men will back me on this. When you're faced with a chat with a fellow about going to the gym and things, you have to pretend that your level of knowledge is quite high. I don't know why, it doesn't help us in any way, but to show ignorance, to confess to the bloke that the last time I went to a gym was probably before he was born, is not good.

So we went through the conversation with me doing my best to sound as blase as I could, as though I more or less lived in a gym and was merely trying out a new one, until it got to the point when he asked me what I want to achieve.

"Well, you know, just to tone up a bit and lose a bit of body fat I guess". I responded. It was probably an answer he'd never heard before.

"Okay, that's fine, I'll send you a text confirming the appointment and the fitness consultant will see you then."

"Dominic that's great thanks, but can I ask you something?" said I.

"Erm what exactly should I wear to this appointment?"

This totally blew my cover as an experienced gym user, but it was necessary. You see I knew that this was going to be some kind of session where a chap, probably blonde and looking like he's just narrowly failed an audition for a boy band, measures me, weighs me, makes me try to do a sit up and tries to find out how flexible I am. At that point I'll be sorely tempted to crack my joke about not being able to make Wednesdays, but am unsure if I would.

But I really didn't know if I should turn up in civvies, risking the shame of being asked to change into kit I don't have, or whether I arrive in shorts and lycra, only to be laughed at as I wouldn't actually be doing anything physical that time.

Dominic was good though.

"Oh just wear your normal gym kit." he responded, with a total lack of understanding about how confusing those words actually were.

"Sure" I said, chuckling with him at my stupidity.

"Normal gym kit, normal fucking gym kit!!?" I thought to myself. What the hell is that?

My mind started at floor level. Trainers? Okay, I own more pairs of trainers than the average kid who loves Blink 41 or Sum 182, but none of those are meant for physical exercise. I'd have to see if I could get away with one pair, or buy a new pair at the weekend. But I didn't want to run the risk of looking like Keith Richards doing his first gym session and being surprised that he wasn't allowed to smoke.

Socks? Ah yes. Somewhere I have a pair of white sporty looking socks, on that front I'd be okay.

Shorts? Again I own a pair of proper Adidas sports shorts. Finding them, figuring out if they still fit and dealing with the fact that they're older than some of the younger Greek Gods would be another matter.

And the rest. What T shirt do I wear? I don't know if I should go for a trendy one or perhaps an old and knackered one, what's the procedure here?

The most important question is about the bag. What sort of thing shall I take?

I figure that I'll have to buy one of those trendy retro style sports bags very soon. You know the ones that are remakes of the type we used to use for school, made from the cheapest nylon and so small that you can't get much in them. Well they're all the rage in these parts at the moment.

But what to use for the first few sessions?

I don't think a manbag will be suitable. The only options I have are a hefty looking rucksack with more compartments and pockets than a train full of clothing salesmen or a dodgy looking flimsy thing that I bought some time ago to carry my swimming trunks in.

I'll probably use the swimming trunk bag, if it doesn't smell too much.

Either way, this evening at seven of the clock I'll be going through my first personal fitness review. Wish me luck, I have a feeling I'll need it.

Happy Monday all.

Man's First Car

I saw a friend on Facebook the other day who had bunged up an old picture of his first ever car. It was a beaten up mini with character, memories and no doubt oil too, oozing out of every pore.

Said friend had written a little thing talking about the car; the parties he used to go to in it and the good times, stuff we can all relate to. Then, he'd rounded off with the all important sentence, the one that made me think and made me write this post, not that I've written it yet. He said

"And it was surprisingly fast, it went like a bomb."

I did a double take at the photograph. In fact I did two double takes, then thought "hmmm". No way did this little Mini, with its engine that probably wouldn't be sufficient to power the fellow's hairdryer these days, go "like a bomb".

And said fellow is bald as a coot these days too.

But I chuckled, for this isn't a criticism of the particular fellow, it's more a prod at all men, for we all do this. When it comes to cars, driving and men there's some sort of link to our ego that doesn't apply to women.

You'll never catch a man (and I include myself in this) tell you how his first car was actually a heap of crap that would get overtaken by bullocks and milk floats. You'll never hear a man tell you how his first car was cheap, nasty and devoid of all character. You never hear a member of the male species tell you how his first love car was old and unreliable.

Oh no. The correct way in man world to put across these points is to say that the car went like a bomb, that it was full of character, probably with a name, something only women continue to do with good cars. And old and unreliable becomes "I used to do all the work on it myself you know, in those days you could work on a car yourself".

Somewhere in the recesses of the automotive world, is a hidden fleet of crappy cars. Things like old Minis, Beetles, Ford Fiestas, Nissan Micras, in fact any old Jap cars, and they've all been secretly fitted with Ferrari engines. No one knows about them openly but, when a chap buys his first car, nature's car fairies covertly supply one. I'm not sure what the situation is with gay men though. I can see that somewhere within the framework of car fairies and gay men is a very funny joke, I just can't pinpoint it.

Women never get given one of these car, except Vicki Butler Henderson, the exception to every rule about men and cars.

As we men get older, usually increasing our wealth and buying cars that are better, faster and more damaging to the environment, our first car becomes more legendary, faster and more stylishly full of character.

Women use cars as a means of getting from A to B, always doing it more quickly than men because, mysteriously, they think it's perfectly acceptable to stop and ask for directions within a few minutes of getting lost. Yet every man without exception thinks he's the next Lewis Hamilton, Mark Webber or Benjamin Button's brother just waiting to be discovered.

Mad no?

For the record my first car was an orange VW Beetle, registration HRY 113L. I never had to do any maintenance on it, I called it Henry and it was a beauty.

Oh, and it went like a bomb.

Gaydar, Drums and Sri Lankan Mothers

This is a slightly awkward but necessary thing to confess. You might know me and think I'm talking rubbish, you might not know me and think that I'm being boastful or you might just think I'm talking a load of tosh.

The fact is that, since I was about sixteen, I've often found that gay chaps like me. And by "like" I mean "like" not just 'like'. I don't know why this is. Perhaps they like the cute little Asian boy thing, maybe I flirt when I talk or it might be my collection of George Michael T shirts and penchant for dressing up like a fireman when I go to nightclubs.

The details aren't important. What matters is that this is the case and some time ago I accepted the baton and now carry it with the responsibility it deserves. I've found myself wishing I were gay sometimes too, purely for the way in which gay chaps can befriend women and make them want to spend all their time with them.

All women want a gay best friend, the negative also being the positive; that said fellow won't be trying to jump the woman at every available opportunity and so the woman can relax without feeling threatened. My knowledge of women is limited, I'm a man after all, but I suspect that all of them secretly harbour a desire to be the one to convert their gay friend, to make him finally realise that women are the real thing.

Often though I've found myself being chatted up by a bloke, something that, truth be told, I quite like. Thinking about it, it's probably because I never get chatted up by women. But, when the man chat starts I tend to go along with it for a while before revealing that I'm almost entirely heterosexual. It's fun and harmless and I reckon my gaydar is fairly well tuned and able to spot the difference between casual chat between hetero men and a chat up scenario from a good distance.

As far as sexuality is concerned I think I'd be classed as anti homophobic. I must stress that to you now.

Last Sunday I went to a local pub where I'd agreed to meet my parents. It's a fantastic riverside pub that, on a Sunday evening, has truly world class musicians playing a relatively low key jazz session. I go fairly often as it gives me the opportunity to watch some of the best drummers in the country if not the world (really I'm not exaggerating there) in a close setting.

This week I saw Ian Thomas play. Unless you're a drummer you probably haven't heard of him but he's one of the first call guys that many big name artistes use all the time. I've seen him play on TV with Eric Clapton more times than I can recall, with Tom Jones and with just about everyone you can think of, so to watch him close up, to chat about drum stuff with him and see his every move is truly a privilege.

My 'rents, who go to this jazz session almost every week, have built up a little circle of likeminded friends there. Oldish people who like music and all look like trainspotters (retired).

There we were on Sunday. The band had finished the first set and I was enduring another round of a game me and my Mum play. The game is called "name the drums" and involves her asking me what the various drums in a drum kit are called. It always starts the same way

"Rhythmic, tell me one more time, what's the drum to his right called again?"

"That's the floor tom, Mum."

"Right, got it, and what are those ones in front of him?"

"Well those are toms too, but not called floor toms as they're usually mounted from a rack."

"What's a rack?"

I then explain that.

"But I can't see one"

"Well there isn't one, but they're still called rack toms, or mounted toms"

"So which are the tom toms then?"

"Those are" say I pointing to the toms.

"But you said they're toms"

"They are, the full name is tom toms but we usually just say toms"

"Right, got it."

We play this game every time me, my Mum and a drum kit are in the same room. As you can imagine, what with my love of all things drummy and the fact that my mother is of the Sri Lankan variety, which fundamentally means that she stalks her children and rarely listens to them, that also means we play the game a hell of a lot.

I wouldn't mind if we had the conversation once or twice but it gets taxing after a certain point, particularly when I know that if the specific drum kit had been dressed in a Liverpool football kit then she would have remembered every last detail about it. The worst thing a chap can do, faced with one of these situations, is to confront the Lankan mother. That's stupid, pointless and akin to taking on a herd of wild elephants protecting a baby when you're armed with only a flimsy bikini and a Dairylea triangle.

I confronted her.

"Mum who plays left back for Liverpo...?"

Before I could finish the sentence she'd answered and told me the name of the bloke before.

"So why is it that you can remember things like that, but not details about drum kits?"

I'd prehandled her usual response; that with getting older she has trouble remembering things and I shouldn't get angry with her for it. I was on the verge of a resounding victory, by using a tactic I'd never used before. Things were looking good. She was stumped but couldn't resist trying to win.

"If you asked me a question about ----------(insert medical term here) would you remember the answer?" she responded.

"Well yes, if I was interested enough to ask you I think I would actually." I returned with confidence.

I looked at her and saw the glint of a tear in her eye. Oh shit I thought, she's going to do the half crying emotional blackmail thing again. There is no way to beat that, it's like playing Civil Aircraft Top Trumps when I was a kid and having the 747. You just say "490 passengers and you've won". These days I guess the A380 would beat that but that's another story.

Everyone knows it, once a Sri Lankan mother turns on the tears you've lost. And it's a loss without honour.

Then, as victory was about to be declared, which usually involves my Dad wondering why my Mum is crying and what I've done to upset her, a bloke who looked like he was Freddie Mercury trying to act a bit camp dressed in cycling gear strolled flounced into the picture. It was apparent that the chap was not only a friend of Dorothy but also a friend of my Mum.

They chatted for a bit, then she introduced him to me.

"T, this is my son Rhythmic. Rhythmic this is T" said she. The tears had entirely disappeared.

T and I shook hands. I swear I caught him lick his lips, just for a split second. He glanced at my left hand and I clocked him as he clocked the lack of ring on it. We conversed for a while. T was as camp as a good few rows of tents. I know that campness doesn't necessarily equal gayness but I'd have bet large amounts of money on this one.

I suppose I was a little bit flirty with him, exchanging stories of where we live, when I was going on holiday, my favourite Scissor Sisters costume, the usual stuff. I deliberately didn't mention that I have a girlfriend or even my kids, just for a bit of a laugh. Then, some way into the conversation, I got cold feet. Then I quickly said something like

"I'mgoingwithmykidsandmygirlfriendwillbetheretooandIlikewomen" to make sure he got the message. Confidence and strength are all well and good but, when you break you break. A chap can hold out without peeing for so long but once he's passed the tipping point there's no turning back. And I'd tipped. Or turned. I hadn't peed though.

He ambled off into the distance as he lost interest in me quicker than my lead guitarist did the last time I tried to tell him about the wood that my snare drum is made of. He'd made some utterings about it being nice to meet me but I could sense his disappointment and felt a little bit bad for him.

My Mum turned to me and whispered. She whispered in that voice that people only use when they talk about other people having cancer, that strange very open mouthed whisper that that can be both lip read and heard from about half a mile.

"I think he's gay you know. I was trying to warn you, I was trying to send you ESP messages to let you know. I think he was trying to chat you up."

I looked at her, I felt a bit guilty about the drum thing and the tears.

Yes. I know Mum. I was just having some fun.

Secretly I tutted and rolled my eyes. The second set was fabulous.

uǝɯ ɹoɟ uoıʇsǝnb ɐ

In recent months I've noticed something.

It's about belts, the ones we wear on our trousers, or on a trouser, for the Sri Lankans among you. I'm right handed, one of the eighty five to ninety two per cent of people according the Wikipedia.

The way I prefer to wear a belt, actually the way I must wear one, is to have the long piece on the left side of my body, my left that is, and the buckle or fastener piece on my right side. Sadly I thought about this for some time before writing this post and figured out why this is.

It's because the easier skill involved in doing up a belt is to grasp hold of the long bit, while the more complicated part of the process is to hold the buckle, putting the pin through the hole and what have you, not that it's up there as a particularly complex set of skills of course.

But whenever I buy a belt, one with a logo or some writing on it, I find that it's made the "wrong" way round. The result of this is that I have to wear the thing with the writing upside down, which somewhat negates the point of a logo, or face a big struggle to do up the thing each time, making both my hands do things that each of them thinks the other one ought to be doing.

As an example right now I'm wearing a nice brown leather Ted Baker belt. On the straight bit it's got "Ted Baker" embossed in the leather. It's quite subtle and tasteful in my opinion, as branding should be.

However, it you were standing in front of me you'd actually see "ɹǝʞɐq pǝʇ" on my belt as I have to wear it upside down.

So I want to know if this is a problem that affects all of us men or if the rest of you are more dexterous with the left hand than myself. I want to know if it's only me that's noticed this, or if the beltmakers are conspiring against right handed people.

Why have I addressed the question to men?

Simple. Because only men will understand the importance of issues like this. Women just won't care.

More On Poo

Morning all. Sorry for yet another poo post but I felt I have to share this with you, particularly after my last one, on involuntary emissions here.

There I was, last week in casual conversation with a friend who's a Doctor, a medical one no less. The chit chat strolled over to the area of pooing, as many conversations people have with me tend to. I really don't understand why this occurs, there must be a common denominator in there somewhere.

I mentioned, all nonchalantly, how there's little better than a nice comfortable poo in one's own bathroom, with the reassurance of some warmth, a bit of good reading matter and a good chunk of time. A copy of Modern Drummer is often my choice but you might go for a newspaper or even a good bit of fiction if you're so inclined.

Most men would agree with me, it's one of the things we do. I draw the line at taking food or drink with me but, in my smoking days, I'd happily take a cigarette with me. Sometimes I'd even smoke it.

Women, we're told, are far more functional in toilets than us. This might be one of those great scams that the female sex often pulls on us, like this one on Facebook about the colours or that G spot fallacy, or should that be phallacy? But the fairer sex maintain the story that they barely even fart let alone sit on the throne and enjoy a good dump.

So anyway, I digress. I was involved in this mens' tete a tete with Dr M, the Doctor whose name begins with M. His response to my nonchalant comment about nice, long leisurely pooing was that we should all do quick poos, that ideally a dump should take about the same length of time as a decent pee.

I couldn't help myself. I winced and grimaced, making that face as if I was squeezing a slightly larger than the aperture one out. The same time as a decent pee? Seriously, that's what he said. Then he went on to explain that protracted sitting, straining, huffing and puffing can make the muscles get weak and loose.

The little men, those chaps in my mind who make it work at times, started to work a bit of overtime. Images of curtains flapping in a breeze compared with a good solid rollerblind sprung up as I thought about weak arse muscles, about what might happen if, hypothetically of course, a fellow had some of them. I put the question, hypothetical of course, to Dr M.

"So, if someone had weaker muscles around there, could that mean that they do a fair amount of involuntary farting, random ones when they're not expected?" I said. I could chuck in the "hypothetical of course" line one more time for effect. I won't, I don't want to overdo it, but I'm fairly sure that I did say it to him.

"Might that explain why, as we get older, we might drop a few unexpected ones when we cough or laugh or breathe?" I added.

Dr M pondered, in that way that academics do, he scratched a chin or two and looked upwards and to the right. I've noticed this in brainy people, they always look up and to the right and slightly squint when they're thinking. Normal chaps like me just look blank, wide eyed and startled. I think I might cultivate a looking up and to the right pose just to deal with brainboxes and to try to fit in with them.

"Hmmmm....yes that could happen" came the considered response.

"Damn" I thought, possibly out loud.

I'm now faced with a few dilemnas, or should that be a dilemni?

Is this involuntary emission business something I should be worried or proud about?

If I want to discourage the phenom then should I start to do quick poos, express ones? A sit down, perhaps one rapid push and then wipe and go.

If I go for the express option then how will I get through my back issues of Modern Drummer?

Your advice will be much appreciated.

Women Are From Mars, Men Are Normal

C's here for the Christmas period, which fills me with feelings comfort and joy, comfort and joy, feelings of comfort and joy.

Yet there are going to be some complications. The girls will be with their mother and her family on Christmas day itself and so, after a wild moment of mad uttering, I find myself in the situation of having my parents over for the Christmas dinner. All well and good, I'm sure it will be nice and cosy, but I haven't got the faintest clue how on earth to cook a roast dinner, let alone a full Turkey and all the trimmings Christmas one.

Give me the job of conjuring up some rice and c and I'm up for it, ask me to cook a spaghetti bolognese or microwave a ready meal and I'll stand up and be counted. The Christmas dinner is going to be a challenge, one that I'll no doubt keep you, the reader in this saga, informed about.

That wasn't the thing I wanted to tell you about though. Today's topic is about women, presents and the tests we men have to face. C told me some weeks ago that one of the things she'd quite like for Christmas is a watch, "not an expensive one", she added. You'll understand if, by the time you come to read this, these words have been deleted, as I don't want C to read it and realise that I've told you all about it.

The younger, perhaps less experienced men among you, will wonder what the fuss is about. You're probably thinking right now that it's all quite simple and straightforward, just do what she says, buy her a watch, one that isn't expensive, and the job will be done and everyone will be happy. Frankly I shake my head and roll my eyes, which is easy for us drummers, at people who think like that.

You see, women do these things, they throw out challenges like this and it's never as easy to respond in the correct way as it may seem. Often there is no correct way to respond, making it slightly harder to do the right thing, a bit like an election in which neither candidate would be your choice and you end up voting for the one you think will do the least damage, an unlikely scenario I know.

In the world of the female predator I'm like an innocent grazing deer; enjoying myself and munching on some foliage whilst remaining in a state of receptiveness and awareness.

Now the very first important issue to be tackled in this situation is whether I should buy a watch at all or go for something totally different. No way am I going to fall arse over wallet at the first hurdle, this has to be pondered and cogitated on. On the one hand, I go out and buy a watch and gain kudos for doing what was requested. An easy win? Nope, for doing what was requested may in itself be a bad thing. Some women, you'll find this hard to believe but I assure you it's true, want men to think for themselves.

Then, if I go down the alternate route and get something other than a watch, it's a potentially risky situation that even Barrack Obama would steer clear of. My instincts tell me that buying C a nice snare drum instead of a watch would be a lovely and thoughtful present, using my imagination and courage to their limit. But no, my head tells me that she wouldn't want a snare drum, women are weird like that. As men our job is to deal with it.

So the snare drum option, or any other drum related present for I'm open minded about these things, is out and the watch is the favourite. What direction do I go in next?

"Inexpensive" she said. Well, what the Bejeezus does that mean exactly? And, before you even think about it, asking her is the second worst idea in the world, the worst being to ask my Mum. The only thing that the word "inexpensive" indicates is that I probably shouldn't go online spend many hours browsing in jewellers' shop windows and buy the most expensive top of the range Breitling, Rolex or Raymond Weil I can find, nor should I get the cheapest thing money can buy.

This leaves me with a large range in which to operate, particularly worsened by the fact that I'm not really sure about the whole not buying a Bretling, Rolex or Raymond Weil thing. The word inexpensive, I've decided, should be banned and sent off to the word graveyard, to be replaced by more man friendly words, ones like £200, £150 and £50 and similar.

I forgot to tell you the other "useful" bit of guidance C gave me. And, when I say useful, I mean useful in the same way that the button to call a member of the air crew on a Sri Lankan Airlines plane is useful, or in the way that a roundabout lurking on a Colombo road at night time is useful.

"You know the sort of thing I like, you choose" was the thing she said, when I asked what sort of watch she wants. I managed to bluff my way through, nodding with an air of wisdom as if all women are predictable and men know exactly how to read them, as if I had won an award for my ability in this highly scientific field.

I remain as confused as a tourist in House of Fashions mens' T shirt section.

Vut too doo?

The Best Chat Up Line Ever?

I read the good Lady D's post here and was reminded of a chat up line, one that I reckon is the best one ever. Well, that's from a man's point of view, but it's well known how I'm able to virtually read the mind of almost any woman, except for the ones I've actually met of course.

It's a chat up line that I've never had the opportunity to use or try, but my feeling is that it could be the golden shower of all chat up lines, the holy grail, the one line to make all others look like the tri shaw occupying a corner in the Ferrari garage.

And frankly I don't know if I should tell you what it is. I don't know if you're up to the job, whether I can stand the thought of giving out this bit of stunningly lethal information and then sitting back with the knowledge that fellows will be out in public using it, bedding one beautiful woman after another.

It's a line that would take guts and courage for a man to use, not everyone would have the confidence to come out with it. It's the chat up line version of doing the most fantastic bungee jump; you'd just have to go for it, knowing that the rope would hold you and you'd have the best and most wonderful experience.

In fact, with some minor modification it could probably be used by men, women, gay or straight. It's so powerful that I reckon even some bloggers could use it to good effect.

What is it?

Not telling you. You can guess if you want though. Or bribe me.

Things Women Don't Know

There I stood, peeing into the urinal, doing what we men so often do. I was trying my best to use the intense force of my jet to get the detergent cubes to disappear through the grating thing, the metal guard bit. Any man reading this will know exactly what I mean.

Those cubes, they shrink and eventually get down to a size that forces every man in the world to attempt to pee them through the aperture. The feeling of satisfaction when we actually do this is immense, a bit like winning your fifteenth grand slam title or a Grand Prix.

And, as I did this, or failed to, I realised that most women just don't know about this sort of thing. Unless the woman is a toilet cleaner or has an incredibly weird hobby.

Such a simple act, an easy pleasure and no woman will ever get to attempt it. Even if there are females out there who are aware of the existence of these toilet cubes, they'll never be able to use their pee as a slightly disgusting light saber, the way we can.

They'll never know the joy that we used to have when we tried to pee up to the huge record height on the wall in front of the urinals at school. There was always a myth that some bloke, usually a heroic type who left the school a few years before, had managed to pee up to "that mark up there".

There are many things that the fairer sex will never know and never understand; how it feels to get kicked in the balls, the relaxed joy of parallel parking with ease, getting all the credit for standing in front of a barbecue and turning some meat occasionally while drinking beer and chatting to people.

Every single man can feel the pain involved in getting a football or a kick to the bollocks, it's part of our upbringing, yet women just don't have a clue on this one. As I mention it I bet that you, if you possess balls of your own, can feel that tingly and winded pain in the pit of your stomach, but women just screw up their face and think that we're laying it on.

Then they complain about periods, childbirth and the like!

So what else is there that women, or men, just don't know? Comments on a comment please.

The Incident With The Hostile Cheese

I found myself at home a bit early the other day and in a state of serious hunger, with a fridge half full of good things. I'm an optimist you know and my fridge is always half full. Except when it's half empty. Or totally empty, which is the norm.

One of those good things was a Pizza Express Sloppy Guiseppe pizza. They're good, in a European way. For the Lankan palate they need extras in the form of chillies, spices and all manor of those strange looking things that our parents use in cooking but we don't know what they are.

I tore into the task with the keenness of a bat out of Belgium.

I've been meaning to tell you, with pictures, of the new ceramic knife I bought in Singapore. The pictures are already taken, I think they're on my flickr account, probably saved on someone's hard drive by now and titled with the name of my brother. But I'll mention it now, I've got this ceramic knife and it's the second sharpest thing in the world, only beaten by a British MP trying to explain his expenses.

It's a piece of art to me. It's got the appearance of a white toy plastic knife, which can be deceptively dangerous when one holds and uses it. The temptation to handle it like plastic is large and the cuts are quick and deep. I was informed by a chap that these things are now being made and coated with a metallic looking surface so that people think of them as "proper" knives. It made perfect sense to me.

This ceramic knife makes me want to cut things, not in an emo way I mean, more in a 43 year old bloke wanting to test his new knife on an onion way. If you took a stroll around RD Towers on most days you'd find random bits of vegetable cut cleanly and waiting to be used. The problem for me is that, when the need comes to use them, I want to cut more. So I do.

I took the pizza out of the fridge and looked at it with my best Marco Pierre White eyes and frown.

First I chopped up a couple of green chillies and threw them on the pizza with all the nonchalance of a Sri Lankan road planner at an all you can eat tarmac buffet.

Next up was some lovely little cherry tomatoes. They were so lovely that they're called something like Pomodoro tomatoes or similar. I remember that it sounded similar to Portello, but can't recall the precise name. The ceramic knife went through them like you see on adverts for knives on teleshopping channels. Yes, it really is that good.

Then there was a large salami to be sliced, it sounds like a euphemism but it's not. The only thing around RD Towers that resembles a large salami is a large salami, disappointing I know. Slices of the most delicious fresh Italian salami were sprinkled with gay abandon on top of the base. More slicing, this time of the mushroom variety, followed, with more stacking on the pizza.

The final touch, for I was wary of overdoing things, was some more grated mozzarella and a tad of olive oil to moisten things up. I was tempted to really pile it on and use a dash of olive oil, but a tad was all that was needed. It's about discipline and subtlety of tastes, this cooking thing.

There was mozzarella to start with but with all the new toppings it looked likely that it would fade into obscurity quicker than Ranil Wickramasinghe in a guess who won the war competition. More was needed, just to create a sense of balance with the taste buds.

By now the oven was warm and the pizza base was heavy and unrecognisable. If the original Mr Guiseppe, in his very sloppy way, was hiding somewhere in my apartment watching me at work, I don't think he would have looked at my bastardised version of his original with any hint of recognition. He may have been impressed with my work, perhaps even envious, but he would not have realised that I was using his original as the starting point, it was buried so deeply under a pile of additionals.

I like to plan ahead. I can happily sit here and plan details for my next trip to Sri Lanka or Singapore or ponder on the dinner menu for next Friday evening. This time I'd messed up though. The taxing problem of how to transfer the Pizza, with all its weight, to the oven was something I hadn't addressed. If I had addressed it the only realistic thing I could have done would have been to have bought a spade earlier in the day.

I would have gone into a local shop and simply asked for a spade. I wouldn't have asked for a "big thing" or any other beating about the bush type of name, no, that's the kind of guy I am. I like to call a spade a spade.

There was no spade, there was no handy paddle shaped thing that I'd forgotten about hidden behind the curtains. It was a job for the hands.

I lifted up the RD pizza. The weight of the toppings made it sag in the middle, but I maintained my usual level of composure. I hurriedly moved to stick it on the top shelf of my warm oven.

About a foot from its destination it started to misbehave. The middle drooped and began to collapse through my small, delicate and frankly rather ladylike hands. I made a rushed move and tried to shove it onto the oven shelf.

The feast I'd almost created was having none of it. It collapsed on me, perhaps exhausted, maybe insulted by what I'd done to it. On my oven shelf lay something that looked half pizza, half roadkill.

I thought about things for a few seconds. I know now that I would have been better off investing more time in the thought process. I went to remove the specimen from the shelf.

And it died.

And it fell on the open oven door.

Oven doors, when said oven is at about 200 deg, are at about 199 deg. So you can picture my dismay. I knew the meal was a goner, I'd reluctantly accepted it and moved on. What I hadn't accepted was the fact that I'd stand there and stare helplessly as it melted on my glass oven door. I hadn't accepted that I wouldn't be able to pick it up as it was too hot, that I'd be faced with a melted cheesy mess that would get worse in front of me.

It was like an action movie, albeit a boring pizza based one. The hot oven door quickly melted the cheese and then it slowly dried into a vile looking mess. It resembled Hi ! magazine's double page spread of Colombo society women at the "come dressed as if someone's just been sick all over you after a cheese based meal" party at the Cinammon Grand.

I waited for the oven to cool down then took about forty five minutes to scrape the mess away. I used wet wipes, a sponge and a brillo pad thing. It was an emotional three quarters of an hour for me. I'd so looked forward to the pizza and the preparation, though fun, was all about the joy at the end of the task.

I ate my sausages with scorn. Not to be confused with corn.

Next time it'll be a deeper based pizza for me.