Slouching on the sofa, he lifted a chinoed buttock. Brrrrthpffflurrrrup! “More juice, boss?” he asked, without even an innocent smirk.
I feigned distaste but, actually, I couldn’t repress a grin. Farts are just intrinsically funny to blokes. I know it’s pathetic, but it’s true. OK, maybe there are a few balanced, reconstructed men out there who would decline to flick through a discarded Sunday Sport, who wouldn’t dream of putting their foot down on a deserted A-road and who would never snigger at a well-timed parp. But such men are like QPR managers _ they don’t alter the fundamental realities.
It starts early. My nephew is 8 and giggles with inexpressible rapture at every cheek-wobbler he produces. “I blowed off!” he announces happily, though not forgetting to add the magic word, sorry. His cousin, 10, looks at him with an expression of disgust that will one day wither full-grown men. And yet, they’ve both been brought up by non-exist parents who go out of their way to avoid gender stereotyping. Sonali will be a building a Meccano suspension bridge as Rahul rustles up a Play-Doh omellete in his plastic kitchen _ and he’ll be backfiring delightedly, like a New Delhi moped.
All right, it’s possible Rahul and Sonali are receiving from their parents subtle signals that suggest boys let rip and girls don’t _ but where would such a notion originate? How far back do we have to go? Maybe some all-male Neolithic hunting party were sitting round a crackling fire one night when Grog shifted slightly on his rock and launched a snorter that rattled the bleached mammoth bones.
“More goat’s blood, shamen?” he asks. His fellow slapheads clutch their hairy tummies and roll around on the ground in primal glee. Back at the home cave, a chuckling Grog relates this moment of high comedy to his women _ but she merely tuts and carries on plucking the dodo. (Incidentally, the study of linguistics shows that in every single Indo-European language there are a dozen-odd shared words that can be traced back to common prehistoric roots. They represent the fundamental concepts without which human beings can’t run a society. “Bread” is one. “Tree” another. And _ yup, you guessed it _ from Leningrad to Lisbon, from Mysore to Midlothian, the expressible consciousness of every mortal soul has the word “fart” at its centre.)
I once went out with a woman who claimed never to have farted in her life. I was stunned. What _ never? It was like saying you’d never taken a piss outside. “Nope _ never done that either,” she admitted. I fell into the habit of treating her to countless grassy lagers and molten-lava curries. Nothing. Not even in her sleep. Not so much as a deflating-Lilo hissy one. In an attempt to lead the way, I provided her with constant, reassuring examples of the art, selflessly letting fly with frequent and unerring aplomb in every room of her house. I was so determined to be around when she finally broke that I damn nearly married her.
As admirable as any sane person would find it that you can turn the TV from across the room through the controlled application of subsonic vibration, this is not a talent I would recommend showing off on a first date. Indeed, a chap’s first untrammelled fart is a crucial event in any relationship. During the early days, you lie there in post-coital cosiness, clenching your buttocks and hoping to God she’ll go to the bathroom or offer to make tea or something, so that you can let rip in private. When she finally wanders downstairs to phone her therapist, you stretch back, brace your feet against the headboard and _ ohhh, yessss _ release one that balloons the duvet like a pub-lunch pastie. But this kind of private parping can’t go on. When she starts to come round every night, you’re going to wake up one morning bobbing against the ceiling with Goodyear stencilled on your bloated stomach. You decide to test the strength of this new liaison.
So, some quiet dusk, you must submit to the impulse. There’s no point in messing about here _ you’ve got to produce a Spielberg-standard ripper with stereo-effects and orchestral stabs. Clocks should stop ticking and mirrors should darken. And when it’s all over, you must put on a winsome grin, turn towards your partner and, with a boyish shrug, say, “Umm…Oops.”
She’ll grimace at you sidelong and shake her head. “God,” she’ll say. “You are so disgusting.” Pay no attention _ she’s nuts about you.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
WAY TO GO!
Busting up a relationship used to require nobility and sacrifice. If you had to share it with anybody, it was with a close friend like Jack Daniels. Breaking up was hard to do, so you did it nicely and thoughtfully. You used phrases like, “It’s not you, it’s me (when really the truth was, “it’s your best friend”), and then walked away with a clean conscience and the confidence that there were bigger and better cleavages to conquer.
The old school says: “Get over it.” However, the new school splits up like a demolition derby. The mantra is: “Put yourself first. They didn’t cut the mustard, so you cut your losses. Deal with it, fight back hard, do what you want to your ex, but spare yourself. Be bitter, be twisted, be stupid, be fickle, be cowardly, but win.”
These days, love means never having to say you’re sorry, even if you’re caught with a
hooker on your knob. Love is a verbal agreement; the paper is for the splitting up. Nobody breaks up in person anymore. Some years back, breaking up by phone was unforgivably cruel. Today, it’s the polite option.
Compare other popular alternatives: Sly Stallone told Jennifer Flavin via Federal Express, which is, at least, absolutely guaranteed to get there overnight. Daniel Day Lewis and Phil Collins used the fax, presumably spurred on by the knowledge that if the hurt doesn’t fade, at least the ink will. The truth is that men are complete cowards in two things _ chatting up and splitting up.
Now you can do it the Nineties way. Letting her see you with other women is very good. And modern. But it’ll rub it in just that little bit further if you’ve paid for them. Rent a whore. Hookers are always the convenient choice of the thrusting careerist too busy to find real people to chat with. But remember, girls, don’t be an Elizabeth Hurley-type. If he hires a mouth, take yours elsewhere.
It’s taken several years for men to understand that good deeds mean bad news. No one respects a man who’s pussy-whipped, certainly not the pussy that’s doing the whipping. Furthermore, getting her to dump you because you’re too nice is a great move. You come out looking good and nobody is the wiser. Doing the right thing at the right time, like stopping smoking, having children and opening a joint bank account, is an excellent way to make her your ex. You could always let her spend all your money. Or, better still, be like Mike Tyson ad let her mother spend all your money.
And don’t believe any hype about how getting clean and sober would save your relationship. While climbing on the wagon might not be a lot of fun, it’s unlikely you’ll take any excess baggage with you. Even publicly proclaiming that your relationship is doing well can fall into this category and translate as: “We’re in a relationship bleeding from all orifices.”
A diamond may be forever, yet these days “forever” doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Give her a diamond for no apparent reason and once upon a time you’d have been stuck with her for life. In new-school terms, she’ll be too suspicious and humiliated to stay. A word of warning though: some years back, she would bolt and throw the rock behind her _ today’s wronged party keeps the ring. It screws you financially, but she’ll save you money in the long run by being gone, gone, gone.
The new school says that if you spot your partner’s career floating in the loo, that’s a good enough reason to flush. None of this “staying together through thick and thin” crap: that’s so outré. Now, success brings an automatic spousal upgrade. You have to commit to yourself 100 per cent if you want to make it big while you’ve still got the time. Who cares about keeping some woman? You might have known her for years, but there is always another ride waiting at the corner. Beautiful women go moist at one whiff of a successful man. So don’t feel bad when you shed that unsuccessful thing lying next to you in bed. You’re on the cutting edge of career-relationship management.
Some years ago, the world was a gentler place _ for everyone but the man who wanted to be free. Now, it’s fools who spare the feelings of the one they used to love. You’ve sacked them from your company, baby, and it feels good. Don’t be a baby, be a man. Sell out. It’s a today thing.
The old school says: “Get over it.” However, the new school splits up like a demolition derby. The mantra is: “Put yourself first. They didn’t cut the mustard, so you cut your losses. Deal with it, fight back hard, do what you want to your ex, but spare yourself. Be bitter, be twisted, be stupid, be fickle, be cowardly, but win.”
These days, love means never having to say you’re sorry, even if you’re caught with a
hooker on your knob. Love is a verbal agreement; the paper is for the splitting up. Nobody breaks up in person anymore. Some years back, breaking up by phone was unforgivably cruel. Today, it’s the polite option.
Compare other popular alternatives: Sly Stallone told Jennifer Flavin via Federal Express, which is, at least, absolutely guaranteed to get there overnight. Daniel Day Lewis and Phil Collins used the fax, presumably spurred on by the knowledge that if the hurt doesn’t fade, at least the ink will. The truth is that men are complete cowards in two things _ chatting up and splitting up.
Now you can do it the Nineties way. Letting her see you with other women is very good. And modern. But it’ll rub it in just that little bit further if you’ve paid for them. Rent a whore. Hookers are always the convenient choice of the thrusting careerist too busy to find real people to chat with. But remember, girls, don’t be an Elizabeth Hurley-type. If he hires a mouth, take yours elsewhere.
It’s taken several years for men to understand that good deeds mean bad news. No one respects a man who’s pussy-whipped, certainly not the pussy that’s doing the whipping. Furthermore, getting her to dump you because you’re too nice is a great move. You come out looking good and nobody is the wiser. Doing the right thing at the right time, like stopping smoking, having children and opening a joint bank account, is an excellent way to make her your ex. You could always let her spend all your money. Or, better still, be like Mike Tyson ad let her mother spend all your money.
And don’t believe any hype about how getting clean and sober would save your relationship. While climbing on the wagon might not be a lot of fun, it’s unlikely you’ll take any excess baggage with you. Even publicly proclaiming that your relationship is doing well can fall into this category and translate as: “We’re in a relationship bleeding from all orifices.”
A diamond may be forever, yet these days “forever” doesn’t seem like such a good idea. Give her a diamond for no apparent reason and once upon a time you’d have been stuck with her for life. In new-school terms, she’ll be too suspicious and humiliated to stay. A word of warning though: some years back, she would bolt and throw the rock behind her _ today’s wronged party keeps the ring. It screws you financially, but she’ll save you money in the long run by being gone, gone, gone.
The new school says that if you spot your partner’s career floating in the loo, that’s a good enough reason to flush. None of this “staying together through thick and thin” crap: that’s so outré. Now, success brings an automatic spousal upgrade. You have to commit to yourself 100 per cent if you want to make it big while you’ve still got the time. Who cares about keeping some woman? You might have known her for years, but there is always another ride waiting at the corner. Beautiful women go moist at one whiff of a successful man. So don’t feel bad when you shed that unsuccessful thing lying next to you in bed. You’re on the cutting edge of career-relationship management.
Some years ago, the world was a gentler place _ for everyone but the man who wanted to be free. Now, it’s fools who spare the feelings of the one they used to love. You’ve sacked them from your company, baby, and it feels good. Don’t be a baby, be a man. Sell out. It’s a today thing.
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