|
Crying for Freedom
There is an old saying. “You can go into an army as a tough man and come out a big MaryAnn. Or go in a big LaLa and come out a big Shitkicker.” Or, substance of that will do.
I believe it was Marc Bolan from T.Rex, who also said, “Crying doesn’t effect the size of your balls.”
Why do all men think that crying will dissolve their manhood?
Crying produces not only tears but it’s just one of the many response we are equipped with. If our body was a Sports Centre with life long membership then we ought to use all the facilities available. I mean, how would you like it if you went there for a game of squash and then were told at reception, you couldn’t take a shower. How would you feel?
The more deadly of the species.
Likewise. Our tears are exactly the same as the female of the species. So why are men frightened to cry like corroding Tinmen?
The answer is this. Crying has been projected as a flaw where men are concerned. Effeminate or . The ‘Lumberjack Song’ courtesy of Monty Python marked a era where it was Ok to be a sissy or soft shite.
The shortest, but nonetheless most poignant verse in the Bible is ‘Jesus wept’. I fits good enough for JC its good enough for me, and he didn’t exactly cry over spilt milk. His tears saves the world from sin. So, come blokes start roaring!
If a few more men cried then fewer would perish in war and atrocity. Now you don’t have to be called Da Vinci to work that bastard out. Men would feel sorry for people they were about to slaughter and just have a nice cup of tea with a slice of cake.
I cried at my Fathers funeral but not my Mothers. I know why. She didn’t cry at her own husband’s. She sat through the whole ceremony, distracted and attention seeking. That could harbour resentment on my part. The fact is I knew that is how she would behave. I wanted her to grieve. This little history lesson for you is to highlight that your Mother is the most powerful influence on you. She produced you as flesh of her flesh. Our relationship with others depends a lot on our own maternal one. It’s a fact that the older we get the more we start to look like our Mothers. I have reached forty eight years and already long to wear support stockings and eat pistachio icecream.
So, admittedly I have some baggage. My Mum was a startlingly attractive woman. An athlete and she won many beauty contests. She was witty and intelligent. But, so mentally fragile. She had a eating disorder. Died weighing just four and a half stone. She looked like a Belsun horror. But still was outspoken and foisty. She mad ethe best shortcake and chicken pie. In many ways I wanted to be like her but found her evening dresses cut me under the arms.
She made me feel like one in a million. Extraordinarily enough, my Father was a dressmaking hobbyist. He invented the word Unisex clothes. I was a twin and my sister and I although of the opposite sex used to look very alike in our matching and coordinated clothes. The other boys at school teased me when I was seen out of school in frocks but I used to hide amongst other flowers in my size and colour. I once hid amongst a few floral tributes in a cemetery, and some nare do well youths failed to spot me disguised as wreath. I looked just like a well kept grave. Yes, they urinated but it was better than getting a good kicking for being a hairy arsed Nancy boy.
At thirteen I loved and admired the feel of my sisters bri nylon baby doll nightie. I wore nylon stockings and billed and cooed in front of the mirror and rubbing myself up against the dressing table, I playfully swished the girlish and flimsy smocktop in a titillating fashion. Overcome with arousal I jumped into bed and writhed with excitement. Unfortunately, the bedsheets and cover were made of manmade fibres too, and I welded my genitals to the iron frame bunkbed, creating so much static I fused the whole street and started a fire in the airing cupboard. It’s just a shame men on death row cannot be electrocuted that way. I’m still alive to tell the tale and but a word of warning to readers who might want to satisfy the urge to wear nylon as a fetish. Don’t shuffle your feet on office carpet while in scanty and transparent underwear and offer to shake hands with your boss he will be thrown across the room and never be able to operate the laser copier for the rest of the day. God knows, what it would do to his cellphone.
Some Mothers do ‘ave ‘em.
She also was quite vain and melodramatic. She was sensitive and affectionate but insecure. She had immeasurable strengths but moodswings all over the place. Her health was fragile. She was absentminded and loved her home. She hoarded. She entertained in a jazz band. She sung exquisitely. I remember her tugging at my hand on the way school well into her forties and still being wolfwhistled by workmen as she scurried flushcheeked and with a wry smile en route. But could tear your throat out with one look.
I dreaded holidays as my Mother was never on time for anything. We went to church and always scrambled across bodies to find a pew missing into the first ten minutes of the sermon. She made me late for my own driving test by half an hour. I was so pissed off with her. Of course I failed my test. Holidays were a very constipated affair. Her agenda was scatty, and overwhelmingly disorganised. Overpacking was not the word. I recall my Father burning the clutch out on his giant Zodiac Executive as it struggled up the Welsh hills due to eight large cases jammed onto the roof. She even packed deckchairs rather than waste money to hire. The kitchen sink even. Well, a washing up bowl. It took days to prepare for a holiday. A ritual that helped you lose the will to live. Once, we packed and she got sick and we had to cancel.
I loved and hated my Mother. She was the most exasperating individual I have ever known. She was self obsessed and extremely arrogant. But her hugs and endearments made me walk tall.
We laughed and cried together. We had some of that Mediterranean raw emotion mixed in our veins and which on some occasions would leave us wondering what the fuck we were crying about in the first place.
If you never cry in. Then you can never cry out.
Men have a tough time anyway. They have to put up with ‘the new nuclear man phenomenon.’ You can bet your arse that as sure as God made little Green apples that this is due to the fact that men will weep an ocean of tears from now on.
Lets me explain some stuff about men. The crying thing is a myth. Most of the emotive songs and literature of men are to a greater degree more moving or tender than any women can write. But, also to the contrary, women are stronger emotionally. They are veritable, Trojan horses, compared to men. Just from a mechanical point of view they are physically and mentally stronger. Look what their bodies go through. Menstruation. Childbirth. January sales.
What has happened over the years is that we as a society have been conditioned to respond to what our environment demands. In a visually bombastic era, and a very early age, we are programmed to expect to perform to an image. A prissy persona that has been handed down to us by women. It has got a little easier for men. The 90’s political corrective institution is being beaten back with the big stick of acceptance that whether we like it or not we are to some degree we have to watch meek men do domestic chores while others have to drink there share in the pub. I thank God our media has not weaned the ‘new nuclear man’ on too much squeaky clean, ‘goody two shoes clap trap’. It’s a hard fact that some men should be expected to wear pinnies and adopt the missionary position while flicking cobwebs from the bedroom coving. And all this while thinking about cricket scores as if they were just a distant memory.
We are ‘hunters gatherers’. Before some mad bint thinks I’m being misogynistic, let me remind the woolly hats that being stereotyped is the font women baptised the male in.
Women would prefer football stadiums to be changed into garden centres.
According to the classic Biblical tale of Genesis. Eve tempted Adam. Not the other way around. We have been giving in to women all our lives because they tricked into accepting that they are the ‘gentler’ sex. Yet a quick skim and scam of history the real heroes determine that women have always been the driving force behind , during, after men. “Behind every powerful man is an even more powerful women.” To coin a phrase.I blame ‘Strapperdicktomy’ for this kind of male abuse. No women is going near me their penis, thanks very much, nad if men who do this can do this and go straight to a darts match without the least hint of shame, then they may as well start washing up and taking the rubbish out if you ask me. It’s the thin end of the wedge. Unless of course, you put one on the wrong way round. ‘Balls first’ could make you blink, I expect.
Look at First ladies and leading ones.
Tina ditched Ike after a very, very destructive relationship. Ike was a women beater. His excuse? “I won’t compromise where my music is concerned.” Why does that justify giving your wife a knuckle sandwich? In that case, John Lennon should have kicked the shit out of his Missus.
Hilary swallowed harder than Monica and bit her lip.What dignity that woman had! She, unafraid, kept the blue skirt even if it was a little stained. Most girls would have flushed it with their knickers down the lav or dumped it in the nearest skip.
Margaret outlived Dennis. He had about as much
influence on her as root beer to a Rhinoceros.
Joan was burned at the stake but punched a hole in history bigger than the ozone. Apart from that how does a girl pee between her spurs in a suit of armour?
Boadicia. Ethelreda. The Queen of Sheba and Norah Batty have been icons in their own right. My first wife was a bit of spitfire. She dislocated my jaw with three pounds of frozen mince once. On our first wedding anniversary. That took a lot of nerve as she was only four feet eleven inches. Right in the middle of a match. Throwing my pint all over a former girlfriend, and putting my dinner over my head. Have you ever got horseradish sauce in your eyes? This happened down the Half Moon pub in Mildenhall. I never spoke to her for a month after that. Well, you can’t with your bloody jaws wired together.
Liz Taylor, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Brit Ekland. Twiggy. Julie Andrews. Greta and Marlene.
Do you know what all these women had in common apart from an eating disorder, that is? They changed men like socks to get to the top. Apart from Twiggy and Julie who are the same person in between diets. If you listen with your eyes shut in a launderette they could be mistaken for each other. Like that bloke from Stereophonics and Rod Stewart..
Norma Jean may have been painted a vulnerable addict but soared to fame and notoriety dying under suspicious circumstances with the Kennedy brothers and half the White house and Hollywood moguls queuing for her attentions. Princess Diana flouted the power of the Monarchy, once again rocking the world at her dubious and untimely death.
Only a woman could still sell vegetarian sausages after she gets sick and dies.
Mother Theresa made more of a difference than Hyacinth Bucket simply because she knew when to shut her mouth and never used Oil of Ulay.
Germaine Greer. Writer, columnist. Is it any wonder that this was one ‘Sheila’ who had to leave Oz because of her attitude towards men.
Eva Peron. Look, how long she kept ‘Don’t cry for me Argentina’ in the charts?
The Lone yachts women. How many of us heard about her PMT when she was almost capsized and limped home in her crippled craft.
Judi Dench played Queen Victoria in ‘Mrs Brown’. Who was reduced to tears more? That’s right…. Billy Connolly! How often do you see him cry?
Christine Keeler of the sixties shocker knew what she was doing. This was one very coy girl who swayed the government by being the first ‘kiss and tell’ story that spawned a million more. ‘The Profumo Affair’ exposed our weakness as men and how very easy sex like the Genesis account with Eve and her enticement of Adam became the clay feet we all have. Clay feet with an Achilles heel is what disables all of us.
Sex is a women’s greatest weapon or her rationing of it will send a man’s brains to mush.
Edith Piaf caused a sexual revolution. The Bratpack, Sinatra and company. Chris Rea and Barry White like Perry Como or Bing Crosby were supposed to be crooners to literally charm birds out of the trees. But they were not very sexy, were they?
Barry White was obese and sweaty.
Old blue eyes had a wonky ear through a forceps delivery.
Dean martin was a hopeless pisshead.
Bing Crosby became Bob Hope’s butt of jokes.
Perry Como was a Italian barber so obviously didn’t do well at school.
And Chris Rea is a Geordie with a face like a bag of spanners.
Jo Brand
Now she plays a good satirical fish. She is self-deprecating and harps on about womanly body functions. Look how well she deals with taboo girlie issues. I quite fancy her actually.
Men don’t cry enough
‘Ab Fab’ is a treasure of Bird’s Brit Wit. That prog with its depiction all women being neurotic self-obsessed muck idiots is a testament their own sex and dry they can be Vaginissus can be a nuisance.
The ‘Vicar of Dibley’ is up their with my favourite sitcoms. I love Dawn French. I have also met Lenny Henry and I suppose marriages break up and are miserable affairs. But imagine the laugh they had about their own split? I bet they chuckled..
Looby Loo was the rag doll in the adorable children show of the early sixties called Andy Pandy. Now everybody knows that Andy Pandy and her were ‘at it like knives’ because Andy was always in his pyjamas. All this with Little Ted looked on.
The weed in Bill and Ben was a female. Probably from Dagenham. She had big hair and a silly smile permanently on her face. Stood around like a wallflower and with a very weak bladder. Hence the expression, ‘Weed, weed’ after each show. She is also a telltale and a ‘gossip’. When the human narrator, asks ‘Was it Bill or was it Ben?’ Weed stitches one or the other up at the end of each show. I would have waited until the old gardener left the potting shed and nicked the ‘Round up’ and stalked her. Waited for my chance and squirted her in the face with both barrels when she had her petals with their back to me.
Cruel? Not really. Bill and Ben tolerated her as a traitor for about 10 years. They were unable to reason with the ruthless flower as they both had a very bad speech impediment.
Mothers Special bond with children
No man can ever hope to share the same kinship and intensity than that of a Mother and her child. For example. I am a twin and entered the world with my sister hanging onto my leg. Not much change there then. I paved the way and we both breastfed together but I was the thirsty boy. My mother spent the first year walking around like she had an imaginary heavy bag of shopping as her gait became lopsided. As my counterpart, Dawn was quite tiny, compared to me and non-identical. The fatc we were a boy and girl gave most people a clue. Today people can see right away we are very different. The ‘goatie’ and galoshes for instance. She has discovered electrolysis and quit working on a trawler now.
She blond and I dark. I was always ravenous and did cry for both of us. Boy babies do cry harder. So what happens to males as they get older? It’s suddenly unmanly or ‘sissy’ to cry. Men are fooled into believing that they should be tough and macho and that to weep is a weakness. That sobbing is for wimps and gay blokes. We have been conditioned to behave without sentimentality or devoid of compassion. Gentle giants must not bubble either. Desperate Dan is about eighty years old and never ‘blubbed’. As desperate as his name and nature he still showed a little emotion in his lovable comic strip. But have you noticed that he no longer wears a gun anymore? So, perhaps he has become a poof and wants to start to shave? He does look a bit like the construction worker in ‘The Village People’. Maybe he could still not shave and wear leather trousers?
Although he wouldn’t get on that well with the North American Indian Fairy, being a cowboy and all.
Women’s choice
Men have duty and obligation. Women have choice. These days they don’t need men for anything. We are becoming extinct and sure to be obsolete soon. Like the seventies highlighted this wholly male social dilemma with the “The Two Ronnies” show, a segment that run for some time was called “The worm that Turned” which was a some brave and unabashed humour about the comic duo living in world dominated by women. They had to disguise themselves as women to escape persecution by the fairer, but more fearsome sex. There were many poignant scenarios. It had a plausible and uncomfortable feel. That is, about the concept that a female controlled society would run much like the Third Reich. Armies of the late War. (Why do they call it the ‘late’ War? Should it have come seooner, perhaps?)
Leatherclad of goosetepping women would patrol towns and men would hide in the shadows quivering with terror.
Are women closeted Nazis?
Expressions like ‘Battleaxe’, ‘Fishwife’, ‘Henpecked’ define for us an image of a very much maligned stereotype.
The rolling pin wielding dragon with an expression of a bulldog licking piss of a and nettle framing the door like it was the gates of hell. And “Hell hath no fury”….You know the rest.
What would it be like if women ruled the world? Sorry. Let me rephrase that last question. What will it be like when women rule the world?
Well here is my thought provoking list. And before I continue, let me say without any shadow of doubt., I am in awe of women and of course I feel threatened as a male and with good reason. But I would never change any women. They are all my Amazons and I’ll slap any silly cow that says different.
The list
:
The Sports channel would be replaced by Delia Smith.
Cars will be driven until every colour on the dashboard successfully lit
Homebase power tool section would be turned into a potpourri shop
Page 3 girls would be hunted down like they were dogs before the picture was taken.
Tesco will stock every living need, that will be put in the ‘never know when you might need it cupboard.
’
Vibrators and dildos will replace toothbrushes. Real penises will never be edible again.
Lawnmowers will start without ‘strings’ as they break nails and snap bra-straps to easily.
Pregnancy testers will double as screwdrivers to open milk cartons with.
The armed forces will not have military hardware. Women will fight the war on terror by using cutting remarks and putting a hot teaspoon on the back of the hands of suicide bombers. Accompnaied bya a month of black looks and sideglances and whispers to matron.
Pledge and Mr Muscle will be used as a deterrent in cases of a war threat.
Empty cardboard Tampon tubes will be used as effective peashooters.
Clear Nail varnish will mend car windscreens.
Car tyres will be filled with very thick ‘Bisto’ to avoid any puncture or having to change the wheel.
Hairdressers will automatically assume you have NOT had a nice holiday and that you live locally. As getting a haircut in Nairobi would be inconvenient and very time consuming.
Poorly coordinated sofas/curtains/wallpaper will stop you getting a job as a Doctor.
Naked flames will be asked to use a changing room nearby.
Mountaineers will break perfectly good heels.
All money to deal with Third world debt will go to a nice man who was selling teatowels at the door.
Labels on dead peoples belongings will become far more popular.
The VCR will tape everything you didn’t want to watch at completely the wrong time wiping off your Beatles Trilogy archive that you lovingly recorded over three months.
Jumble sales will replace police stations.
A warehouse the size of Telford will be set up in each street as a collection point for lost for lost earrings.
Ice-cream and chocolate will be on prescription
Hundreds and thousands and icing mixed together will fill dents in cars that females collect like porcelain thimbles.
Hair lacquer will get things to lean up against the wall by themselves.
When the computer tells you to ‘close window’ another window will pop up to remind the lady, it’s not anything to do with a draught.
Tom boys will be hired to come around and change the batteries in your toothbrush. Replace a light bulb, fuse, or wire an electric plug. Take lids of pickle jars. Turn the hazard indicators off after 180 miles. Not overfill the bath. Comb your hair before you answer the answering the landline. Explain that when the head-gasket blows because of a lack of water has nothing to do with the fact “the window washers still work.”
That a low bridge is not higher than you think.
That a ‘special grass cutter’ does not mow the lawn in two different colours.
That a hairdryer works quicker downstairs ‘because the electricity doesn’t have as far to travel.’
All phones will be automatically programmed to ring when you are in the shower.
That divorce decree absolutes could be arranged through Next.
That weekly discounts in bargain stores means everything will be free one day.
Squeezing fruit in supermarkets will become compulsory.
Toilet lids will have to be torqued down by a qualified bisexual mechanic.
The male gay community will have their drinks bought for them in pubs and only allowed to flirt with middle-aged single divorcees with Acute Angina and a nice pair of tits.
Internal examinations will be carried out by hermaphrodites.
Viagra will be used for flower arrangements over a week old.
Men will only used to help their wives get into clothes two sizes smaller than the actual dimensions. Or forced to hold jeans open on the front lawn while their over sized spouse jumps from a second storey window to get in them.
Soap operas will be shown at a cinema near you.
Starting hearth fires successfully will be taught by scantily clad Canadian lumberjacks.
The Olympics, football and Hogmanay will be replaced by “Postcard Carousel Wars.”
Ugly brides will make sure the bridesmaids dress in ghastly costumes, while they try to make a dog’s dinner look appetising.
Lesbians will be made to do jobs that nobody else wants. Like, hod-carrying, drive lorries, and work in warehouses. “They could do the jobs that seem to attract that sort.” Become a Policeman or chiropodist. “You never see a pretty one do you? th” “I suppose if they are going to cut their hair like that, and those silly boots, they could always get a job at Tesco’s or become a social worker.”
Concentration camps would be set up for small rodents like mice and gerbils. In fact all these tiny mammals would be rounded up and forced to run Sellafield by using a giant treadmill attached to a reactor the size of Claire Rayner.
Conventional warfare would be conducted by people who already have a broken nail or don’t have to stay in to do their hair.
People who rob and steal will subjected to more cutting remarks and sideway glances.
I tell you one thing. Through this teasing of our darling women we can see the male envy seep through. Why do you think so many men have become left-footers? I’m also proud to say that I feel like a real man. But where am I gonna get one this time of night?
Thought for the day:
I bet if women ruled the world School sieges in Chechnya would never happen.
Men should cry. To be ashamed. To regret. To vow for change. To do three good things for every bad.
|
