I really enjoyed “Meet The Izzards” on BBC One, 2100hrs gmt, yesterday. Eddie Izzard was tracing his genetic ancestry. Eddie is a blue-eyed, white, caucasian, Englishman, yet he was able to track back to ancestors in Southern Africa. There is overwhelming evidence that ALL humans originated there, through one female line, two hundred thousand years ago. So we’re ALL related. It matters not whether you’re black, white, yellow, brown, pink, or polka-dotted. Somewhere in the past, you and I share an ancestor.
I went to Scunthorpe Wine Circle last night as they had a comedy act on. I can’t remember all of the material I laughed long and hard at, but his opening gambit stayed with me:
“My wife has decided we’ll sleep in separate beds from now on. My bed will be in Lincoln and hers will be in Liverpool.”
I’m assuming that there’s a first time for all of us. Well, very nearly all of us. Very few people, I suggest, marry the first person they date and remain with that person ‘til death them do part. So, it follow, nearly everyone has an “ex” somewhere.
Names are important; I realise that. But there are only so many things that anyone can think about at any particular moment and still fewer that you can actually concentrate upon. So my defence, your honour, is one of absent-mindedness; nothing more sinister than that.
I have previously called my wife by the dog’s name and my dog by my wife’s name. Neither of these transgressions prompted more than a passing comment (though the dog looked confused).
I realise that it was most impolitic to call my present wife by my ex-wife’s name. It wasn’t that I was thinking of my ex-wife. Had I been concentrating upon her, the misdemeanour would have been less and not more likely. It was only a “slip of the tongue”. Suffice to say that the ensuing debate has persuaded me to avoid any repeat.
Dating sites should have feedback, anonymous of course. Everyone you meet, you should give an appraisal of; marks out of ten for dress sense, sweetness of breath, conversation prowess, most tactile or snoggable, and the like. They could prepare league tables of best performers in the various categories; features on star turns; rookie of the month for the recently dumped or divorced. Just think how much easier this would make finding Mister or Missus Right.
This is the age of the “one stop shop”. Across the world, supermarkets are replacing the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker with convenience stores. I do most of my shopping in supermarkets because I crave their convenience and low prices. At the same time, I miss the quality and personal touch the little shops used to provide.
For other purchases, I’m a little more choosey. I don’t expect or want my dentist to syringe my ears, or cut my hair, whilst he’s checking my teeth. I want a specialist, not a “jack of all trades” or “all-rounder”. Similarly, I’m content to see my G.P. with my minor ailments but, if there’s something seriously wrong with me, I want a specialist. I don’t expect my G.P. to be expert in every field of medicine. I wouldn’t want a good all-rounder administering my oncology, or an ear, nose and throat wallah fiddling with my aorta!
Monogamous tradition dictates that your partner must be an all-rounder. We expect him/her to provide care, attention, love, support, social interaction, entertainment, sex, and we expect to provide the same in return. It is not reasonable to expect anyone to be expert in every aspect of partnership. The very best we can hope for is a good all-rounder, with expertise in the one aspect most dear to us. Even this compromise is difficult to find and nigh-on impossible to sustain over decades.
So, is there a case for single service providers in lieu of a one stop shop? Is the only perfect partner actually not one man or woman but a collection of people, chosen for their skill sets? Logically, I think yes. Emotionally, I’m less convinced. What do you think?
There has been a lot of discussion of feminist issues on various social media, following the brutal rape and murder of Nirbhaya. Most of the outcry is emotional, necessary and laudable. Predictably, there is a small minority seeking to blame the victims for the problem: skirts too short, drinking alcohol, not chaperoned, &c. Thankfully, the vermin spouting these lies are relatively rare (albeit not quite rare enough).
What I also detect is a worrying undercurrent that seems to suggest that feminist ideas and ideals are pro-woman but anti-man. I believe this is fundamentally flawed. I am proud to declare that I am a feminist. I absolutely believe that equality of opportunity is in the best interests of both sexes.
In my experience, women who are respected, supported and feel safe, are more likely to be happy. Women who are happy, keep men happy. I don’t know of any other way that works.
So, it follows, that feminism is in the best interests of even the most selfish man, and all the rest of us too.
Tom, Dick and Harry: three brothers, all farm workers, all built like brick sheds, all with enormous feet. Tom and Harry take a size 14, but Dick’s feet are a massive size 18!
They had a flutter on the national lottery and won a million pounds. So, having never left the county before, decided to book a holiday in Spain.
First night on the Costa Brava, they’re into the first night club they come to. Tom and Harry immediately set about chatting up two Spanish lasses, whilst Harry gets out his phrase book and tries to order some beer at the bar.
Although Tom and Harry are good looking lads of agricultural proportions, their dancing skills leave something to be desired. The Spanish girls are taking a bit of a kicking. One of them shouts over the blare of the disco at Harry “Your feet are so big!”
Harry shouts back “If you think they’re big, you should see the size of our Dick’s!”