blokes because they’re the ones at hand. Try
doing something to a bird that they don’t like and see how much they like it,”
Tom winked.
I met Tom at University. In fact, that’s where I’d met Sally
too. She’d been in the year below us both, but we’d all worked on, or at least
contributed to, the University paper, so we’d ended up getting to know each
other. This was also how me and Tom had started in journalism and how I’d ended
up on Caravan Enthusiast and Tom had
ended up on Camper Van Magazine (Sally saw mine and Tom’s dreadful career fates and immediately took the
decision to do something useful with her life, sparing herself forty-odd years
of media tedium).
Oddly, if a little unsettlingly, Sally had dated Tom before
me for about a week or so before realising [Sally’s words] “what a dreadful
mistake I was making” and [Tom’s words] “dropping me like a hot turd.” I’ve
never understood how a woman can like a bloke enough to go out with them, see
them two or three times and even sleep with them (as happened on this
occasion), only to then realise what an utter dork they are and chuck them?
I’ve never understood this.
“Come on, you have to admit, he is a bit of a knob,” she
once said.
“Well you fucked him darling,” I unwisely retorted.
I’ve often wondered what went on the night Sally realised
her “dreadful mistake” because it was one specific particular night, but
neither of them have ever talked about it so I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.
I’m certainly never going to ask. The curiosity did occasionally grip me, but
what if I found out they’d worn each other’s pants or spanked each other with
hair brushes?
Then again perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was nothing at
all. After all they were both young, naïve and inexperienced at the time, so
how deranged could’ve things got? Perhaps Sally just woke up the next morning,
rolled over and thought, “So this is what hitting rock bottom feels like is
it?” or perhaps she just figured she could do better. I like to believe the
latter as it flatters me at the same time, though I reckon the real reason’s
probably something a bit more embarrassing because Tom’s never talked about it
either.
“So, is she in a big sulk with you then is she?” Tom asked,
taking three attempts to flick a fag into his mouth before finally succeeding.
“No, it’s nothing. I’ll just keep my head down and it’ll be
fine in a day or so. It’s just annoying that everything’s always my fault. I
just wish one day she’d support me, I mean, I thought that was what marriage
was all about – two people supporting each other.”
“Really? Who gave you that idea, Ghandi?” he winked.
“Stop doing that.”
“Despite everything everyone says these days, women actually
just want to be looked after. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the
way it’ll always be. The blokes do the giving, the women do the needing,” Tom
sermonised.
“You don’t half talk a load of rubbish sometimes.”
“Believe what you like, but you tell me this; you’re always
going on about this argument with Sally or that argument with Sally but when
was the last time she admitted she was wrong about something and said sorry?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, doing a quick Ctrl + F on my
memory but coming up short.
“So when was the last time you did it?” he then asked.
“Well, tonight obviously,” I admitted.
“And the time before that?”
“I don’t know, just before Christmas, I guess.”
“And the time before that?”
“A few weeks earlier probably.”
“And the time before that?”
“Is your record stuck?”
“I’m just making a point here,” Tom said.
“Which is?”
“Which is, we’re the ones who have to do all the supporting,
not women. We support them, we look after them, and we’re the ones who have to
shoulder all the blame whenever anything goes wrong. That’s what being a man is
all about.
doing something to a bird that they don’t like and see how much they like it,”
Tom winked.
I met Tom at University. In fact, that’s where I’d met Sally
too. She’d been in the year below us both, but we’d all worked on, or at least
contributed to, the University paper, so we’d ended up getting to know each
other. This was also how me and Tom had started in journalism and how I’d ended
up on Caravan Enthusiast and Tom had
ended up on Camper Van Magazine (Sally saw mine and Tom’s dreadful career fates and immediately took the
decision to do something useful with her life, sparing herself forty-odd years
of media tedium).
Oddly, if a little unsettlingly, Sally had dated Tom before
me for about a week or so before realising [Sally’s words] “what a dreadful
mistake I was making” and [Tom’s words] “dropping me like a hot turd.” I’ve
never understood how a woman can like a bloke enough to go out with them, see
them two or three times and even sleep with them (as happened on this
occasion), only to then realise what an utter dork they are and chuck them?
I’ve never understood this.
“Come on, you have to admit, he is a bit of a knob,” she
once said.
“Well you fucked him darling,” I unwisely retorted.
I’ve often wondered what went on the night Sally realised
her “dreadful mistake” because it was one specific particular night, but
neither of them have ever talked about it so I don’t suppose I’ll ever know.
I’m certainly never going to ask. The curiosity did occasionally grip me, but
what if I found out they’d worn each other’s pants or spanked each other with
hair brushes?
Then again perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was nothing at
all. After all they were both young, naïve and inexperienced at the time, so
how deranged could’ve things got? Perhaps Sally just woke up the next morning,
rolled over and thought, “So this is what hitting rock bottom feels like is
it?” or perhaps she just figured she could do better. I like to believe the
latter as it flatters me at the same time, though I reckon the real reason’s
probably something a bit more embarrassing because Tom’s never talked about it
either.
“So, is she in a big sulk with you then is she?” Tom asked,
taking three attempts to flick a fag into his mouth before finally succeeding.
“No, it’s nothing. I’ll just keep my head down and it’ll be
fine in a day or so. It’s just annoying that everything’s always my fault. I
just wish one day she’d support me, I mean, I thought that was what marriage
was all about – two people supporting each other.”
“Really? Who gave you that idea, Ghandi?” he winked.
“Stop doing that.”
“Despite everything everyone says these days, women actually
just want to be looked after. That’s the way it’s always been and that’s the
way it’ll always be. The blokes do the giving, the women do the needing,” Tom
sermonised.
“You don’t half talk a load of rubbish sometimes.”
“Believe what you like, but you tell me this; you’re always
going on about this argument with Sally or that argument with Sally but when
was the last time she admitted she was wrong about something and said sorry?”
“I don’t know,” I shrugged, doing a quick Ctrl + F on my
memory but coming up short.
“So when was the last time you did it?” he then asked.
“Well, tonight obviously,” I admitted.
“And the time before that?”
“I don’t know, just before Christmas, I guess.”
“And the time before that?”
“A few weeks earlier probably.”
“And the time before that?”
“Is your record stuck?”
“I’m just making a point here,” Tom said.
“Which is?”
“Which is, we’re the ones who have to do all the supporting,
not women. We support them, we look after them, and we’re the ones who have to
shoulder all the blame whenever anything goes wrong. That’s what being a man is
all about.
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