A friend in need.

I get on rather well with women, and have done since I was a kid. When other kids were screaming to get out of their wheels and go play in the sand, I would opt to stay with the ladies and study the strange and fascinating world of the kind people. That’s how I saw them. My Father once told me that “A woman was the most valuable thing a man could possess, and that that’s how most men thought of women, as possessions. But you can’t own people; you can only keep them close by showing love and respect, and allowing them to be who they are, another person”.

My education and philosophy on life began from the moment I could talk, I didn’t always understand what my Father was teaching me, but it went in and as I grew older I understood more. He imparted knowledge either as fact or opinion, there was always a distinct demarcation of the two and I trusted him on both. He was an enlightened and forward thinking man who had a unique sense of humour, people loved his company and they could be seen to visibly relax when he was around.

My Father and I were in the park one day kicking a football around, when a chap he knew came along and they sat on a bench chatting for a while, the man asked my father for advice about how to deal with his wayward wife. I got the gist of what was being said as I pretended to inspect the laces on my football. For a long time after I was under the impression that this man only had half a wife. I reminded my Father about this event as a young adult and he clarified things for me. He had told the man this “Fifty percent of a mans life is a woman, but if he doesn’t understand her then he can only be half of what he is”. I understood then, but I don’t think the man with the wayward wife did because she had it away on her toes with a German merchant seaman from Lubeck whose ship had docked in Trafford.

Over the years I tried hard to understand what made women tick, an impossible task really as each is an individual and subject to their own personal philosophy. However I have had great fun trying and will continue to do so for as long as I am compos mentis. The other night I found myself round at a friend’s house for a drink and a heart to heart. She had eventually broken with her boyfriend after several years of him quitting jobs for various ailments like whiplash driving a forklift truck, bad back due to turning around, strained wrists as a result of writing too much. The list is endless but I won’t go on and as daft as some of this sounds I kid you not.

It wasn’t just the job thing either; she works as well as looking after a young child but he didn’t do his share around the house which might have helped his case. So when he came home early from work and told her he had had enough of his new job, she gave him the ultimatum, get right back or get right out. He chose the latter without argument and within an hour was on a train destined for Scotland. It wasn’t really a shock to her, she told me she had expected it for a while, I think she just needed someone to let of steam to and get pissed with. So let of steam she did and of course we got well and truly pissed.

Around two in the morning she decided to cook a meal for us, I asked her if it was going to be one of the elaborate concoctions she bangs together when she has had a drink, and if so to leave me out. I was told not to worry and that it would be normal grub. I should have known better, the meal consisted of chips, sausage, and hamburger cooked in the chip pan with a beef bourguignon ready meal thrown on top and covered in chicken and mushroom sauce with a sprinkling of grated cheese. Even she couldn’t eat this mess so it finished up inside the dog.

I attended an Anne Summers type party once after she dared me to come and do a strip. All the girls new each other and I knew most of them, the only person upset with this arrangement was the lady holding the party, but she relented when told that I was appearing as the guest stripper. I knew I was going to have the piss ripped out of me royal but I went anyway. I had a lot of fun, drank a lot of cheap wine, was given a unique insight into girl’s sexual banter, and when pressed to do my strip was allowed to stop at my shorts, much to my relief. Afterwards I called at the local for an aperitif still sporting a large badge that declared me to be a dick head. I think I must be.

I have called round a couple of times just to check that she is ok, and noticed that since her boyfriend has disappeared from the house, so has the subtle aroma of grilled kippers, I prefer Paco Rabanne myself.