Is it a man’s man’s man’s man’s day?

18 November, 2013 (15:03) | All articles | By: Stuart Fraser

It is apparently International Men’s Day tomorrow. What a load of nonsense. Any man who feels so sorry for himself that he needs an international day needs to, well, Man Up.

What’s it going to mean? Do men get everything of which they dream, for a day? Rampant sexual gratification followed by a visit to the pub? I doubt it, somehow.

(I see that the former snooker star Steve Davis is alleged to have had the rampants seven times in a row, fuelled only by Budweiser. What a load of Budweiser that is. If I’d been drinking weak fizzy beer continually, I’d have been too busy weeing to have sex seven times in a row. Anyway, you get bored after the fifth time).

So why do men need a day? We’ve been running the wretched world for several thousand years and made a right shambles of the whole sorry business – why would anybody grant us a special day? For the purposes of sympathy?

What? We have a day because the women do? Well, look at what the women have achieved with their day. They’re certainly changing the world for the better, aren’t they?

What’s that, sisters? You haven’t had a chance to change the world yet because of all the horrible men? Well 1, Woman Up: if you haven’t worked out by now what a stupid bunch men are you don’t deserve a day either; and 2, all the men are out having a special day tomorrow so take the world over then, please. Please. You can’t make a worse job of it.

Where’s my day, anyway? As Management has generously pointed out over the years, I’m not much of a man: I do what used to be regarded as women’s work in less enlightened times. That is to say, I househusband. I fetch, clean, cook and skivvy from dawn til dusk as my partner works full time (double full time actually, as she’s a teacher). It’s relentless, exhausting, largely thankless toil, as generations of my fellow workers who happen to be women would tell you. So when do I get a day? I don’t want the men’s day because I don’t want a day talking about soccer and cars and electric drills and page 3 girls and Jeremy Fucking Clarkson.

If there’s a day for me, are there drugs? Some men seem to like them. And a world where mayors and bank managers are (allegedly) lining up seedy drug deals and frequenting crack dens seems infinitely preferable to the world we have.

Do any of us any longer want the politicians who wear suits and ties and wouldn’t know what to do with a snootful of Bolivian marching powder and an armful of Swedish whores? They may be clean and faithful (I said ‘may’), but that just gives them more time to perfect their lying and cheating. With illegal substances coursing through their shattered veins and testosterone pumping up their trousers, they get caught out much more easily because they can’t concentrate with such care on their lies. In fact, maybe we should insist that all our leaders are sex fiend smackheads. How could that make Michael Gove any worse?

How could the world be worse than Cameron standing in front of a gold throne in silk suitings and telling us austerity’s for ever while insisting living standards are rising, while people check into hospitals so they can get some food and cases of rickets are on the rise (just read the papers today – even the Tory ones can’t avoid some of these truths). It would be better, really, if Cameron lit a Camberwell carrot, inhaled deeply and said “Look, I’m just in this to protect and enrich my pals and sod the lot of you…” That’s why I liked Bill Clinton: he may have had the sexual morals of a rutting stag, but at least he could run the economy and operate with a modicum of fairness to other people.

Here’s a good joke about MPs, from Brother JellyMan:

One day a florist went to a barber for a haircut. After the cut, he asked about his bill, and the barber replied: “I cannot accept money from you, I’m doing community service this week.’ The florist was pleased and left the shop. When the barber went to open his shop the next morning, there was a thank you card and a dozen roses waiting for him at his door. Later, a policeman comes in for a haircut, and when he tries to pay his bill, the barber again says: “I cannot accept money from you, I’m doing community service this week.” The policeman was happy and left the shop. The next morning when the barber went to open up, there was a thank you card and a dozen doughnuts waiting for him at his door. Then a Member of Parliament came in for a haircut, and when he went to pay his bill, the barber again replied: “I cannot accept money from you. I’m doing community service this week.” The Member of Parliament was very happy and left the shop. The next morning, when the barber went to open up, there were a dozen Members of Parliament lined up waiting for a free haircut.

My nine-year-old, riddled with chicken pox, summed up the world we’ve made with a beautifully world-weary remark: “Dad,” he asked me, “why is it that the itchiest spots are the ones that are hardest to reach?” I started to say it was sod’s law, but paused to think of a politer alternative to ‘sod’; while I paused, Jamie sighed and said “That’s called ‘life’, isn’t it?” Wise boy.

Anyway, my writing day is collapsing around my ears again. First, thanks to Brother Fiddle, I discovered some wretch had been sending out spam e-mail using one of my accounts; then the dog escaped from the garden again; now I’ve got to do the household chores and it’s lunchtime and bloody hell. Can’t wait for tomorrow.



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