Making babies can be a messy business, but having babies is akin retrieving marshmallows from a chocolate fountain in a howling gale whilst Lee Van Cleef rides you like a pony digging his spurs into your pelvis. This perspective contradicts my children’s Mother who described it as, “The most beautiful moment of my life,“ which brings me back to making babies. Making babies is like dipping marshmallows in a chocolate fountain whilst listening to classic Madonna tracks and watching soccer on a 55inch 3D television. It’s the most beautiful moment of my life! Am I finally convincing anyone that men and women have a different view of the world?

I remember the birth of my first daughter like I remember the first nightmare I had as a child. I’m over it now but I don’t want it to happen again. There were forceps, needles, howling and wailing and copious amounts of hand gel. But that’s enough of my nightmares!

Seriously, they pulled so hard on the forceps that the bed moved and I had to do that chair jiggling thing to shuffle along after it. I should have been mopping my wife’s brow and whispering words of encouragement, but in reality I had one hand on my chair as I jiggled along shouting, “Don’t worry, I’m coming!” Later, my wife said she didn’t remember a thing. This was due to the epidural and three canisters of Entonox. However, she did say she thought she saw Lee Van Cleef riding a footstool beside her bed at one point.

So, there’s nothing beautiful about childbirth. The thought of childbirth, the pretty picture of a little bundle of joy wrapped in linen and sucking it’s thumb is beautiful, but nothing beautiful was ever accompanied by, “Uggh, eeeyouch.... i’m going to fooking, argh, kill you!” But this doesn’t matter to a woman. This painful reality, this memory of the moment she felt like someone just pulled her top lip up and over her head doesn’t last. Ask a woman in stirrups if she wants another child and the answer is, “I swear to God you ever come near me again and I’m going to hunt you down and, yeowwwww, ouch!” Ask a woman ten minutes after the stitches are in and she wants half a dozen of the little muff bombs.

You see, when it comes to pain, the difference between men and women is indoctrinated into our psyche at a very early age. My whole childhood was full of warnings about things being too hot, too sharp, too high or too loud. “Don’t ride your scooter by the cliff, Stevie.” “Don’t put the knife in the electric socket, stupid.” “I told you that would happen if you set fire to it in your bedroom!” But what woman was ever told, “Don’t ever put anything in there because if you do, one day a man with barbeque tools will pull something out the size of a Dachshund.”

I guess the lesson I’ve learned from my experiments into making babies and childbirth, is, make sure you have a 55inch 3D television if you have babies, because you won’t be making anymore for quite a while. But don’t take out a long subscription on the sports channel because by halftime in the big game, she’ll want a little girl to go with little Roger the puking machine!




 

If ever there were one task that epitomizes the difference between man and woman, it’s Christmas shopping. You see, it’s perfectly acceptable for a woman to buy a man something for his study, for Christmas. Perhaps a new paperweight or some newfangled executive gadget for his desk, or even a mouse mat adorned with his favorite football team. And man will show genuine pleasure and appreciation that he should be so lucky and privileged to receive such special, personal, hand-picked gifts from the one he loves. Man will feel grateful to the point of volunteering for extra washing up duties, leaf raking, or trash carrying. He will count his blessings and secure away his prized possessions so that he might share only with himself the moment he was presented with his trophies. Moreover, he will carefully remove and save the gift tags decorated with scribbled messages of love. He will add them to the mountain of gift tags he has from past Christmas’s and Birthday’s from not only his current partner, but every girlfriend from every relationship he has ever had. Man will be proud and honored to have received these gifts.

However, may Santa have mercy on the man who buys his woman something for the kitchen, for Christmas!

I once bought my ex-wife an egg timer for Christmas that perfectly matched the scales we got form her mother as an engagement present.

“But I thought……” I tried to explain.

“Oh, you thought did you? And how much thought did it take to come up with this little fecking piece of shit?”

“But I thought…...” I tried again.

“I’m going to my mother’s.”

“But I thought…..” I thought it was worth one more try.

“Goodbye!”

“But…..” I nearly fell into my own trap. “Your mother got the scales!”

“That’s because she cares!”

And the door was shut, and I was single again.

But I care.

I cared enough to walk around the fecking department store for eight hours pondering the gymnastic contortions required to get into some of the lingerie. I was nearly blinded by some halfwit with a bottle of, Recapture, eau de toilette, who sprayed it in my face twelve times as I walked up and down the cosmetic counters, and I asked how much the eau de perfume was. I picked up a Selena Linee handbag but I thought it looked tacky. I modelled a Jaeger scarf and tried on a pair of Jimmy Choo boots, which attracted the attention of big Dave the security guard, who it turns out is as gay as a chorus liner and wanted my number.

I opened the door. “Well you can take your fecking mouse mat with you!”

Fortunately the phone rang which prevented me from throwing my mini desk billiards at the car.

"Hello."

"Hi, Stevie."

"Dave, never call me again!"

Women, eh?

 

Having already covered the cuddle in an earlier scientifically monitored and measured case study, I was a little apprehensive about covering old ground. However, how wrong could I be? I have discovered that the hug is as different to the cuddle as Joan Rivers is to a human life form. In fact, my discoveries of the interpretations of the hug have made me not only a better man, but a better husband, lover, and father. What I am about to share with you, my male readers, will surely change your life, and I suspect, save relationships and marriages in all corners of the globe.

The hug is not a cuddle! DID YOU HEAR ME? THE HUG IS NOT A CUDDLE!!

Moreover, if you mistake the hug for a cuddle you have transgressed one of the most sacred and trusted faiths any woman can bestow upon a man.

First of all, a cuddle can come before, during, or after love making. A hug has nothing to do with the squelchy business, and if you accidently mistake a hug for a cuddle and go for a crafty feel, your bags will be packed before you can say, “That was wonderful,” “I’m sorry,” or “I love you.”

But here’s the problem……

A hug looks like, feels like, and is in all senses of the word exactly the same as a cuddle in every possible and decipherable way. Only a woman knows the difference!

So, a few pointers; a hug will never lead to intimacy. A cuddle can be considered fore play in many circumstance, but not a hug. Never! A stupid man will be caught out by this simple flaw in the whole cuddle/hug scenario straight away. Your woman will move in a one of those reassuring hugs that women go in for and suddenly your hands drop to her bottom.

“What are you doing?”

“I thought…..”

“No, you didn’t think. That’s the trouble with our relationship, you never think!”

And it’s over, and suddenly you’re returning the stainless steel electrical appliances you received from relieved relatives who thought you’d never find anyone because they always thought you were too stupid to know a hug from a cuddle and now they’re right. You’re a moron!

I wise man will be aware of the cuddle/hug scenario and be ready for it. At the first sign of an ambiguous cuddle he will stop and think. But this won’t save him because he’ll still be more hopeful of a crafty feel and some squelchy stuff than he will be of proving his understanding of the woman’s need for a reassuring hug.

Is this a hug or a cuddle? Give me a sign, GIVE ME A SIGN. It feels like a cuddle and yes, I can feel her nipples. Surely a hug wouldn’t have any nipples attached? I’m going to go for a crafty feel and if I’m wrong I’ll just apologise and say I was confused.

“I love you so much.”

She loves me. It must be a cuddle. Thank you. THANK YOU!

“I love our hugs.”

Bollocks. “Yes, me too.” Shit, I’ve got a fatty.

“Is that a fatty?”

“No, it’s my mobile phone.” I want a cuddle so much!

“I really wanted this hug so much.”

ID: 1729345   (Rated: 13+) Women, Explained.... Research Material.  A research study into male/female behavior. by Ĥans Ŝumman

The biggest obstacle to any woman ever being able to drive properly is spatial awareness. It’s a well-known fact that women only drive within the immediate sixteen metres of the front of the car, which is the average length of a fashion show catwalk, coincidentally. Therefore, all automobiles supplied to women should have an automatic cut-out on the engine so the car stops every fifteen and a half metres, thus allowing the woman driver to familiarise herself with the changing surroundings and reassess her next move. Alternatively, the top speed of a woman’s car should be restricted to nine miles an hour. This is the speed at which it is possible to stop within sixteen metres, which is the average length of the cosmetics counter at Debenhams, coincidentally.

None of this is going to surprise any male driver, boyfriend or husband. We know that all the evidence points towards substantiating the claim that a woman lacks appreciation and understanding of spatial awareness. After all, what woman even knows the size of her own bum?

“Does my bum look big in this,” is irrefutable proof that women lack spatial awareness, and supports the theory that women with fat arses are the worse drivers of all. You see, coincidentally, sixteen metres is the average distance a fat arsed woman would have to stand from a mirror in order to fool her inadequate spatial awareness into thinking she had an acceptable sized bum.

Of course, a contributing factor to the whole spatial awareness phenomenon is the fact that a car contains a rear view mirror. This unfortunately named device fools fat arsed women drivers into thinking they can get a better perspective of their bum if only they can catch a glimpse of their rear as they exceed local speed limits and stopping distances. This very same dangerous occurrence is why side mirrors contain the warning, ‘Things may appear nearer than they actually are.’ An alternative message might be, ‘Yes, your bum WILL look big in this.’

Finally, women can’t park cars. This is because their failed sense of spatial awareness includes the size of their bum into the ‘length of the car/length of the parking space’ calculation. On average, a woman needs a parking space of sixteen metres in order to manoeuvre her five metre car and nine metre arse into the space.

Coincidentally, sixteen metres is the average length of a London Bus. Do you get the message?

 

If anyone has a topic they'd like me to investigate, please comment on this post!!!!

Suggestions so far:

                    1. Driving
                    2. Child Birth
                    3. Drinking
                    4. Cooking

Come on, you can do better than this!!
 

As with most topics in this blog, those already written and those yet to come; to understand the infinite intricacies of the unfathomable mind of a woman, it is first necessary to understand man.

Men see shoes as a tool, a useful tool as functional as flint, a Stone Age axe, or a duel-speed self-reversing auto-locking quick-charging cordless hammer drill. Essentially, shoes are required for their convenience and ease of operation. They protect our feet as we walk to the pub. They keep our feet warm in a cold pub. They keep our feet dry in the pub toilet as the man next to us turns and says, “Functional shoes,” and urinates all over them in celebratory appreciation. They cover our feet to prevent us picking our toenails in the pub which even in today’s liberal society is still considered unacceptable. And finally, shoes are the measure of a man’s virility. Often, men will buy shoe’s two sizes too big to perpetuate the myth that big feet means a big, ego!

Men might, if they’re lucky, purchase the latest hi-tech gadgetry functional lace-up model before they’ve finished with their current shoes. This is the only scenario where any self-respecting man will end up with two pairs of shoes, apart from his wedding day.

Women, on the other hand, have a relationship with shoes that is deeper and more significant than that between any man and his duel-speed self-reversing auto-locking quick-charging cordless hammer drill. Women adore shores. Women hunger for shoes, or even the opportunity to lust after the shoes of a passing stranger. Women would never urinate on the shoes of another woman. Women would take off their shoes, risking serious injury to their unprotected feet, to show their shoes to another woman who wished she owned a pair of shoes just like them. Women will own a favourite pair of shoes that they will never wear because they’re unsuitable for any occasion. These favourite shoes will be kept in their box in a prominent place in the bedroom so they can be brought out, tried on, and put back again on a frequent basis.

Women will have bedroom slippers with heels that look like normal shoes but are never worn outside of the bedroom. Women will have lounge shoes that are in all aspects exactly the same as their bedroom slippers but are never worn in the bedroom. Women will have work shoes (several pairs) that look identical to their lounge shoes and bedroom slippers but are never worn when going out. Women will own thirty-seven pairs of going out shoes that will never be worn to work but will be paraded through the bedroom and lounge for hours before deciding which pair to wear when going out.

Women will go grocery shopping with no intention of buying any shoes and come back with three pairs. Women will window shop for shoes for eight hours with no money and no fathomable way of purchasing any shoes and come back with unforgettable memories of shoes they intent to buy next time they can afford to. Women will bring out their shoes like holiday photos and show them to jealous, resentful friends who say things like, “I’m not sure about those,” but are really dripping wet with lustful thoughts of window shopping for shoes they can’t afford.

Shoes are a currency amongst women. Shoes will buy them appreciation, respect, promotion, success and wealth. Sometimes, men lose their shoes at the pub!

 

When a woman asks, “Why haven’t you fixed the bathroom faucet?” men can answer, “You didn’t put it on the list!” And there you have it, The Liberating List Limitation Clause; Part One. How on earth can a man be expected to remember to do something he wasn’t reminded to do by a woman writing it on a list which is probably called, The To-Do List?

Women have much better and far more successful lists than the To-Do List. Whereas the To-Do List is a contentious list of unnecessary instructions meant for someone too stupid to make their own list and who can’t be trusted to do anything on their own initiative, the Grocery List is an inert list of items required from the grocery store. However, don’t be fooled into thinking that the Grocery List is the same as the Ingredients List. Women have both! They will make one list of everything they need from the grocery store and a special, secondary list, of items required to make that one special recipe they found in the magazine on their Magazine List. Often, men will find items from the Grocery List inserted into the To-Do List, but they will never be trusted and tasked with the responsibility of gathering items from the Ingredients List. This is because men find it perfectly acceptable to purchase replacement items for items not immediately available from the one and only store they will visit to fulfil their chore. This is The Liberating List Limitation Clause, Part Two. How on earth can a man be expected to do anything that isn’t precisely and accurately itemised on any list provided by a woman who has no confidence in the ability of a man to think ‘outside the list.’

Because of lists, the responsibility of any and all household tasks is the sole responsibility of women. It’s no good a thoroughly organised and addicted list compiler suddenly shouting, “Don’t forget to turn the gas stove off,” as she disappears out the front door and expect a catastrophic explosion to be averted. The answer will be immediate from any man experienced in The Liberating List Limitation Clause, Part Three. “Put it on the list!”

“Where did the house go?”

“What house?”

“You moron, I told you to turn the gas off!”

“I forgot.”

Completely separate from the Grocery List and the Ingredients List is the Shopping List. Men can’t comment on the Shopping List because it’s written in Woman Speak. This is a completely foreign language that no man will ever understand unless he is confronted with the Liberating List Limitation Clause, Appendix A. The Shopping List contains words such as, Manolo Blahnik, Salvatore Ferragamo, Luella and Prada.

The most frightening list of all and one no man ever wants to see is, The Settlement List. This list contains most of the words on the Shopping List and men very quickly learn what the hell they mean!

 

Too high, too low, too long, too short, too narrow or too thick. Too bushy, too bristly, too flat, too curved, too far apart or too close; and that’s just their eyebrows!

Well, I say eyebrows but it could just as easily be under their arms, under their nose, between their toes or in any other discretely unobtrusive cleft or valley created by bodily curvature. It’s not until you extensively research the art of body hair waxing that you realise just how much can be done to sculpt, scrape, slither or shave human fluffiness.

Top lip, bottom lip, chin, pits, half leg, full leg, forearm, hand or lower back. Brazilian, French, Hollywood, Mexican, bikini line, full bikini, thong, upper body, lower body or full body; you name it and some woman somewhere has waxed it.

A woman skilled in art of waxing will never be identified as a waxer because her timing is impeccable. She will have her waxing timetable as indelibly indexed on her mind as her daily calorie count or menstrual cycle. However, an inexperienced waxee will be given away by several tell-tale signs, the most common of which is Latte in her moustache.

Men should not be put off dating a frequent waxer, after all, not everyone is able to find a western European with naturally blond hair and a pale complexion. Men should, however, stop short of dating a bikini line platter. A horse-like mane coiffured down the inner thigh to the knee is not a good look.

International statistics compiled by the Waxing Regulatory Body show that 4 out of 5 women prefer waxing to shopping, and yes, these were sober women.

In my experience (following seven years so serial internet dating) I would only ever avoid the shoulder waxer. All other waxing can be excused on the grounds of hereditary, hormones, working at a nuclear power facility or being French.

 

It’s difficult for men to understand the many interpretations and intricacies of the simple cuddle, and that’s not surprising when you consider that men only know three variations of the human squeeze whilst women know several thousand, and can put infinite meaning into any one of them. The cuddle is in effect, a secret female language shared between women that men will never understand. After all, what man understands why women cuddle other women?

Example 1. The Post Coital Cuddle (PCC).

This is one of the uncomfortable ones for men. Mostly we just want to sleep, or go home, but we do our duty as we know we must and embark on the emotional trap that is the Post Coital Cuddle.
Basically we know there are three lines to accompany the PCC. 1, “I love you.” 2, “That was wonderful.” 3, “I have an early meeting.” Women, however, don’t actually need to hear any of these lines because they can interpret our every feeling from just the cuddle.
How many times have we pressed our flesh against our woman in an exhausted PCC to be confronted with, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, that was wonderful.”

“No, there’s something wrong. I can feel it.”

“I love you.”

“You’ve got an early meeting, haven’t you.” It isn’t a question.

“Urm, I love you.”

It would seem to me (following several months of PCC diary entries during my extensive research) that the PCC is an emotional necessity for women, from which they can stare into our soul and unfathom our every unintentional intention; men just find it sticky.

Example 2. The, ‘I Love You,’ Cuddle (ILYC).

This one confuses men because, well, surely the PCC is the ILY cuddle? It also confuses us because women engage in the ILYC when we least expect it. Whilst we’re shaving, whilst we’re trying to knot our tie, whilst we’re delivering what we thought was a perfectly acceptable PCC! The ILYC is a spontaneous embrace of the most profound implication, and that’s why men will never ‘get’ it. Women are ready for, and prepared to give the ILYC at any time, day of night, in any location. A spontaneous ILYC at the supermarket is not out of the question for a woman, and yes, I mean a sober woman. But men need preparation time for the ILYC, just as we do for the, “I’m sorry,” cuddle. In fact, men often get the two mixed up. It’s a familiar scenario. A woman moves in for the spontaneous ILYC whilst we’re watching football, “I love you,” she announces.

“I’m sorry.” Missed it by a fraction!

“What?”

“That was wonderful?”

Example 3. The ‘I’m Sorry,’ Cuddle (ISC).

Easily confused with the ILYC because it’s perfectly acceptable for a man to say sorry at the same time as saying I love you. In fact, I love you is male secret language for I’m sorry. However, women are always ready for this subtle misinterpretation of the third and final cuddle known to man, and are often found responding to the ILYC with, “What have you done?”

“I love you.”

“No, this is an ‘I’m sorry’ cuddle. Do you want to try again?”

“I’m, sorry?”

“Oh, you’re so sweet. I love you so much.”

And there you have it. Don’t mess with women and their cuddles!