Are we always so glad to see the end of one year? Yes, there have occasionally been a pretty putrid last 12 months, but on balance the good times have always outweighed the hideous. Often it feels like waving a tearful farewell to a good year; rather like a well-worn pair of cowboy boots that took time to wear in but now are very comfortable. Instead, we are being asked to swap them for a new pair that might not be as good.
Are our drawers filled so randomly?
When I need a suitable coffee cup for a cappuccino itâs right top shelf above the fridge. A small cup for an espresso is top left above sink. I mean, isnât everyone the same?
Random draw pulling in other peopleâs homes searching for something is an occupational hazard when cooking for friends.
I used to think the way we fill our cupboards and drawers is 100% random. When you move house your ultimate goal apart from not strangling builders or recommending the electrician to a good vivisectionist is unpack, unpack, unpack.
Who cares which drawers contain toothpaste, soup bowls or neckwear? You just stuff it in relieved that another cardboard box has bitten the dust. However, having recently gone through the experience (more like trauma) of moving, my wife and I have found our subconscious has been in overdrive.
Because I unloaded kitchen apparatus and my back creaks bending down or stretching up, weight was the driving factor where things got stored. No more mixing bowls on bottom shelf or air fryer on a top one. Now heavy things are all on middle drawers⊠but being chief unpacker also had other advantages. Things my wife enjoys but I dislike, such as pulses, peanut butter and gherkinâs miraculously now appear at the end of cupboards whereas things I enjoy are right at eye level dead centre; Marmite, Branflakes dark chocolate and cheese biscuits.
Do the media nearly always portray the old rich guy who gets the trophy wife, rather than the Merry Widow snagging a twenty year old toy boy? Letâs face it, when it comes to old age women have us men beat. Todayâs female grey wolves were lucky enough to have bought property fifty years ago for the current price of a Plasma TV screen. When their other half sadly shuffles off the mortal coil some widows will have amassed considerable fortunes. Male goldmines are still hotwired by nature to their groin, so most gold diggers come in one size fits all sugar daddy model; a trout mouth pneumatic busted blond, often with an IQ rating matching their shoe size. There is nothing wrong with that. I always remember the ecstatic grin on the wheelchair bound J.Howard Marshall who married playmate of the year Anna Nicole Smith. But women have a far more eclectic selection process. Obviously fit and toned but this new age toy boy is going to have work hard for the money.
Is Nanny so under appreciated? When I was a nipper, I was lucky enough to have had several people look after me in my early years. My first, Nanny Roberts, was a cross between Margaret Rutherford and a rugby prop forward from Pontypridd in Wales. She was absolutely terrifying complete with white apron and hat like a server from Mickey D. I was always free to question her decisions, but rarely had the temerity to do so. She could probably have made me pee in my pants.But then again I adored her! She foisted upon me manners and life lessons along with traits and hang-ups that still haunt me now. I can still hear her hiss at me âDonât eat with your mouth open or the tooth fairy might come along one night and pull all your teeth out!â It takes every effort for me not to blurt that out if I see someone munching open mouthed at another table in a restaurant, some sixty years after I last heard her say it. The fact that some expert told Cosmopolitan Magazine âthat chewing open mouthed may actually help to release more of the volatile organic compounds, contributing to our sense of smell and the overall perceptionâ would have only confirmed her very dim view of the magazine. But when I was ill or hurt she was the ultimate comforter. And if someone biffed me at school she would make her displeasure known to the offending childâs parents, usually suggesting they get a decent Nanny to pump some manners into their offspring. Having been grilled over my appearance, told to always comb my hair, and forced to wear sensible lace up shoes when going on walks, she at least left me with the ability to tie a bow⊠let alone a sense of complete shame if my fingernails are dirty. Later on we switched to Au Pair girls, some of whom were breathtakingly beautiful. I remember a blond Danish girl called Bambi who was the spitting image of Julie Christie. I got to spend every evening looking at her with my eyes as wide as an owlâs. She taught me a Danish nursery rhyme that I can still perform at the drop of a Danish bacon sarnie. I cannot repeat with such clarity anything else from that period.
Do I still prefer pulling a cork rather than unscrewing a cap? Logic has gone out the window here. No other business in the world would tolerate a (conservative) 5% failure rate, which is the figure given for 'corked' wines. That's one in twenty. We have hissy fits when one in in ten thousand IPads just blink. Can you imagine if one in twenty cars were faulty? And yet.... That seductive pop bursts so many pent up emotions. The sound rivals the soothing tones of a $500 an hour shrink. That pop can just as easily equate to the escape of bottled up sexual tension on a first date, to the release of frustration after the week from hell (I suspect David and Sam Cameron may well have yanked a few corks after Brexit). Then there is the whole wonderful bullshit theatre of the sommelier. Firstly he thrusts the bottle under my nose, ignoring if I was in mid-sentence or even mid- joke, demanding my undivided attention in his far more important world. I can barely remember the name of what I have picked out, let alone the year but I gamely play along with the charade, putting on my specs to carefully inspect the bottle. Then, deftly using one of those tiny contraptions I can never get to work, the wine waiter swiftly extracts the cork. If he is a sommelier par excellence he might even sniff what he has removed, and with a look of supreme indifference, pocket it as he pours me a thimble full of wine to taste. Of course if he really knew what he was doing he should know instantly if a bottle is bad and simply apologize and produce another. But he has his reasons and waits as I take a sip. The moment of truth. Occasionally when the bottle is so badly corked that my tongue dials the fire brigade, I am brave enough to challenge the wine waiter and suggest the bottle of botulism he has presented me with ain't quite up to standard. However I am ashamed to admit most times I am too intimidated if I think the wine is punching me in the throat rather than caressing my taste buds. Usually my party have drunk half the bottle before someone has the courage to say that "rather than suggesting a bouquet of raspberry with a hint of chocolate and whisper of tannins, this tastes like a bus driver's sock.â We then haul over the wine waiter. Depending on if we look like we might know what we are talking about he will inspect the glass and mutter an apology, or simply whisk the offending bottle away. I have never seen a sommelier actually taste a corked bottle. A good one that is not corked, yes. But a bottle of rancid wine juice? Never. As I said, they know from the get go, but hope your too sloshed to notice. The reason they say nothing is the staff will of course chalk up the bottle as rancid, add it to the claim of dud bottles they present each month to the supplier and open (hopefully) a decent bottle of the same vintage to enjoy once the bloody patrons have left.
Can my wonderful wife not close the front door? In nearly everything she achieves levels of saintly patience with me that would justify beatification. However, she likes to play the hokey-cokey with the front door. She closes it. Thinks. Opens it. Goes into the house to drop something off, retrieve something or check if something is switched off, then closes it⊠and repeats. I have asked a few of my married friends and they all admit this particular square dance with the front door is more common than I thought. I assume most airline stewards/stewardesses are not married or they would never close the aircraft door.
When you read the above did you think of sex? Well in fact that may indeed be the subject of andanotherthingXrated.com but I was referring to something else. My wife likes nothing better than to squeeze blackheads on my back, pull hairs out of my nose and rebuke me about the length of my toenails! I am thankful that I donât have a hairy back as I suspect the hot wax would be out in an instant. There are times when I feel like one of those monkeys who sit quietly as their partner grooms them. Itâs a contradiction to me that I remind myself to compliment my beautiful wife when she has her hair done or buys a new piece of clothing, yet I must remain quiet during these imposed moments of my improvement. The idea I might apply her make-up or pluck her eyebrows would be to invite thermonuclear retaliation! I found it very revealing that during a recent dinner party someone else mentioned how much she enjoyed this semi painful preening process of (in her phrase) âdoing the pointworkâ on her husband. It was like he was a Grade 2 listed building. Soon others at the table agreed. It seems there is some inbuilt instinct for the female gender to balance out our Alfa male persona by having us submit to this routine ceremony of buffing and fluffing
Is there no kind of border, post code or demarcation point for where dogs can crap without the owner having to pick it up? At what point do you say to yourself when bending down wearing a cheap smelling pooh bag as a glove âWhat am I doing this for? Iâm nearly a time zone away from the nearest village.â I always clear up in town after my dogs have answered the call of nature (cats seem to get away scot free though). If I see people let their dogs foul a footpath or park, I march up to them and hand them my own dogs pooh in a bag saying, âI think you forgot this.â They usually are quite shocked, then embarrassed, yet accept the bag. A small victory but quite satisfying. The other day I took my two pugs out to the country. They are essentially town dogs, as metrosexual as David Beckham or P.Diddy. They think mud is what you put on your face whilst having a âmanny/peddyâ, the TV remote is for chewing not sharing and strenuous exercise is running in from the garden to eat their lunch in the kitchen. However I convinced them to go for a walk with my brother-in-lawâs labrador way out in the wilds last year. As soon as the big dog got into the forest, it answered the age-old question about what a bear does in the woods. The labrador had a sh*t. After a moment he casually carried on with his walk. My two pugs started barking and ran after the labrador, twitching their noses at him. They then shot me a look. âHey, buddy. Watch this. Each time we have a crap that idiot comes up with a bag and scoops it up.â The lab stopped, a foreleg lifted in mid-air. âYou gottaâ be kidding, â he said, raising his ears and giving me a furtive glance. My two pugs immediately squatted down and in perfect unison like a pair of synchronised swimmers did their business. I calmly walked by leaving their gift to nature in the grass, relieved at one advantage of being way out in the country. The look of shock on my dogs was palpable. âWhat the fâŠ? He always picks it up, â they pleaded looking at the lab who had been watching the non-show. âLying Townies, â replied the labrador and with a snort ran off. We may not talk to the animals but they sure talk to each other. And they try and talk to us.
I understand no parent is going to say to their friends that âMy child is as thick as a whale omeletteââŠâŠâŠâŠ But when pointing to their offspring gurgling âcarâ while pointing at the family pet, why do parents always say âIsnât he lovely? But did you know little Tommy is very advanced for his ageâŠâŠ.â Just because your nipper can insert a spoon of apple puree into his mouth instead of an ear, does not necessarily mark him out as a future brain surgeon. There is a long way to go from sitting in your own pooh to sitting in your own Porsche.
Do people believe anything indiscreet they commit to an electronic device will not come back to haunt them? The only way you can be sure some witticism, rant or personal video you have sent into the electronic ether will never be disseminated is: kill the recipient blow up every server in existence. As this might prove a bit tricky, youâd think the alternative of only whispering things in confidence into someoneâs ear (so long as they donât have a hearing aid that records) is as obvious as a Donna Versace face lift. And yet........ Privacy started to leave planet earth with President Nixon. He was brought down by recordings in the White House that played back some remarks that ultimately cost him his job. The irony is it was Tricky Dicky himself that started recording in the Oval Office so that Presidents remarks could be recorded for posterity. Doh! Hilary Clintonâs biggest mistake (apart from believing Bill when he promised her for the umpteenth time that was his last peccadillo) was not what she wrote in her emails... itâs that she was dumb enough to write them at all. Sarah Palin was furious when a stash of her emails were leaked with details of a possible âmixâ between business and politics⊠yet her password on such sensitive material was her birthday! If half the rumors about Jack Kennedy are true, there is no way he could have kept a lid on things in todayâs world of email message trails and camera phones. Indeed a recent survey showed that a smartphone is the number one hand held device... relegating what men keep in their underpants to second place.
Do people believe a computer will find Mr. Right, or Mrs. Always Right?  I believe it was Bill Clinton who said he came from a town called Hope. Perhaps he forgot the prefix No.... Of course everyone should experience love. However if you have hit every branch of the ugly tree, are pushing 70 and can count the number of teeth you have left on one hand, let me be blunt. No dating site is going to send you a Brad Pitt clone with a ribbon tied to his gentlemanâs sausage or an Angelina Jolie facsimile wearing a T shirt saying âTreat me like a postage stamp. Lick me, stick me and send me on my wayâ... well not without presenting you with a large bill. Wake up! Internet dating is fine, so long, as Clint Eastwood said, âA man must know his limitationsâ. It is fine and laudable for a dating site to attempt to provide a soul mate. A sex crazed bed mate will almost certainly require a cheque, mate.
Is my life a squish? If ever there was a synonym for useless itâs the phrase 2+2 to describe the seating in a car. 2+2 does not equal four or even three in human terms. 2+2 usually entails a back seat that requires the passengers to be munchkins. In any other business this description would be challenged in court as patently untrue! And yet all that is needed to turn these torture chambers into seats you can actually sit in is a couple more inches of legroom. Most fancy 2+2 cars like Porsche 911 or Aston Martin DB9 seem to have less room than a Fiat 500! Yet these sleek machines are anything up to 185 inches long, so how can you not add 2 inches of leg room? Either just have a useful parcel-shelf that you can sling a handbag, briefcase or dog onto and make the car more compact, or have seats people can use. Right now these cubby holes masquerading as somewhere to sit just make what could be a small and nimble sports car longer for no reason.
Does the definition of fun change from one generation to another? In the dying days of hedonism that was Rome, if you got an invite to a decent party you brought a couple of slave toy boys or girls for amusement and a feather. The feather tickling the back of your throat in the Vomitorium chamber quickly emptied your stomach after you had had your fill of poached larks tongues or sautéed bats' ears. It was a form of bulimia in a toga, as chucking up allowed you to go right back to fornicating, eating and drinking without being anti-social and taking time out to digest! Your party/orgy could go on for days! I am certain my grandmother's generation of the 1920's can lay claim to the first truly hedonistic society since Roman times. Cocaine and morphine were easily obtainable and even legal in many countries. Sex had reared its head as a result of the insanity of the First World War where chance or survival was slim and you seized the moment. People had got back into the habit of sex for sex' sake. Society was beginning to enjoy some degree of meritocracy as the generation of privilege and patronage lay decimated on Flanders field. There was public transport in the form of taxis, buses and trains so people at last could unhook the tether that kept them home. Speakeasies were the template for every nightclub and disco that has come since. Booze flowed freely (even in prohibition United States), the gramophone or radio provided music on tap and along with the telephone ushered in the era of spontaneous parties. Even elementary forms of contraceptives were available. (You could hear the bleat of relief from the sheep in Wales). To top it all off you'd go to the movies for a grope and fumble along with a popcorn and soda. Shamefully the massive contribution from the black American community in the form of Jazz (the first Rock'n'Rolll) was not enough to break down all racial barriers but Satchmo, Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway, and Ella Fitzgerald certainly dented them. There were drawbacks. Cigarette smoking became de rigour and the clap could still kill you. It's interesting to note that Al Capone went to jail in 1931 at only age 32. He was actually released from Alcatraz in 1939 due to mounting insanity from syphilis. He didn't actually die until 1947 and spent 8 years as a free man in Palm Beach. Nevertheless the roaring twenties whooped the inhibitions of 1500 years into the dustbin of history. They had fun.
Is there conformity in some things and not in others? It's present in the probable heart attack in-a-sac in mass produced food outlets but not for example in fuel. In a world where a Big Mac tastes the same in Pittsburgh as in Phuket or McNuggets (to my mind) seem always to taste like batter-covered erasers no matter how stoned or drunk I used to be when eating them, gas pump hose size and colours change over a number of countries faster than a floating voter's mind. I recently rented a car in California. I stopped to refill. Because the rental agency decided to remove the manual it took half an hour to find the fuel cap release button (utterly pointless thing). I then noted neither the fuel cap nor flap said what octane of gas was required or whether the car was even diesel. In the UK and Europe (just in case by the time you read this the UK has voted to leave) gas pump hoses are always green and diesel black. Yup, you guessed it⊠in the US it's the other way round. However I did not know this, so the green pump (which I thought gas) would not fit the fuel hole, whereas the black pump that I thought was diesel would. The car had no sign or indication if it was a diesel model. I would rather put out my hair if on fire with a hammer, than ring a car rental 1-800 line...... but I had no choice. Eventually (now 90 minutes since arriving on the forecourt) a voice down the cell phone said,  "We don't never rent diesel. You just put in the hose with gas. That will fit." Then he hung up. I pondered which hose to use. Eventually a fellow tank filler took pity on me. "You Eng-erlish?" A nod. "Black here is gas. Green is diesel." Eureka!
Are we so naĂŻve when it comes to love in the modern world? The other day I was standing at a tube station as a young couple waited for a train. The two were locked in a passionate embrace with much hoovering of tonsils and wandering hand syndrome. As the tube pulled in the girl broke away with a sob and boarded. Her paramour stood on the platform tearfully waving the train goodbye. It was quite touching. A minute after the love of his life left, another girl popped out of the waiting room. âHas the bitch gone?â she asked as she grabbed the young manâs hand and they ran to the exit and no doubt a waiting bed! Not a tearful farewell then from our lothario but just checking for certain one girl had left and was not coming back for a while. But Iâm convinced the pretty girl on the tube will definitely find out. We all leave far too many electronic echoes of what we get up to. The digital age may indeed open up the possibility of flirtations on the side with everything from Grinder to Ashley Madison but I assume those very things also make it nearly impossible to cover those infidelities up. Your Satnav will have an entry to some love bolt hole and your credit card bill will show charges for a restaurant. Have you even tried to pay in cash recently for a meal? They look at you with more suspicion than a customs officer greeting a plane load of students from Colombia. Your partner can easily see phone bills and notice those tell-tale unknown recurring numbers, read your email and see friendsâ updates on Facebook (my wife while proofreading this added that last one- enough said). Your partner will flick through your text messages and photos if you leave your phone lying around. Top prize for being a dummy goes to Congressman Weiner for taking pictures on your phone. Now your wife needs to check up on that as well!. Though why any young lady would want a photo of a gentlemanâs sausage if he was actually called wiener only demonstrates the clarity of modern phones photography or the sad lure of being a politician in todayâs America! Everything you do is traceable and if you lock a partner out of that data alarm bells ring so loud your hearing gets affected.
Are we persuaded to buy massively over engineered - âover speccedâ stuff that makes no logical sense for the excessive cost? Easy answer. Because they appeal to us all on the basest of levels. âThis cool sh*t makes me look good and hey gives me a feeling of superiority over other people who may be damned better at the sport than me but their kit wonât work in space, or under water or after a nuclear blastâŠ. etc etcâ! A lot of sports and hobbies are just an excuse to buy accessories or âkitâ; exercise machines, game shooting, snowboarding and ski-ing, scuba diving and cycling. These all thrive on our belief that if we buy the right stuff it can turn us into Tomba La Bomba the Olympic skier, mega-peddler Tour de France winner Bradley Wiggins or, macho keep fit and fighting legend Chuck Norris (though I hope Iâm taller). What they actually make us do is stuff logic in the kit bag. The list of âover speccedâ stuff is endless. How about titanium bike pedals, hi-tech weight loss machines that can be programmed for eight hours straight, or made to measure ski-boots guaranteed to keep your tootsies warm at minus 30 degrees. But whatâs the point? Ski at that temperature and itâs so cold your pubic hair will crackle and your partnerâs Botox will freeze. My diverâs watch can go 2, 000 feet under-waterâŠ. but if I was wearing it at that depth, I would be squashed flat enough to slide under a door. Its technology for one-upmanship sake and utterly pointless.
Are certain driver types clearly a danger to themselves and others? As I drive along our crowded streets I find I have some consistency at whom I am invariably shouting at. Women or men in wide brimmed hats should be given a very wide berth indeed. They are constantly checking themselves in the rear view mirror without paying any attention to the cars snaking behind them for five miles as they trundle along. Their sole priority is to maintain their well turned out appearance. Any Uber Driver seems oblivious for the need to move at the maximum permitted speed limit but rather they glower and prod at their Satnavs, talk on their mobile to clients they cannot find whilst opening yet another air freshener. Nissan Micra drivers always seem to have a passenger with whom the driver is constantly arguing; hence the car swerves like doing the rhumba. However as the combined ages of the two passengers invariably exceeds a century and a half, the swerving is conducted at speeds a stray tortoise would have no trouble avoiding.
Is it if Iâm on a call, my beloved wife can occasionally mouth to me âWho is it? What do they wantâ? If I manage to answer those questions while at the same time still talking to the caller, she inevitably continues with, âTell them this⊠that⊠or the otherâŠâ I end like a United Nations interpreter relaying messages between the two of them. however if I attempt to do the same thing to her, a raised finger of admonition accompanied by a glare that actually lowers the room temperature reminds me it's not a good idea.
Do we all leave ourselves so wide open to that most deadly of conversation assaults; the pre-nag? The pre-nag is a seemingly innocent question that no matter how you answer, the follow-up will get you. Let me demonstrate. When my wife asks innocently, âBrr, itâs a little chilly. Are you cold?â Whatever I reply, âyesâ, ânoâ, or âa little bitâ, I am screwed as the next line is âDid you leave the garden door open again after taking the dogs out?â This sin of course is something she has clearly already noted. Checkmate. Of course we both know I left the door open. But to prolong the ticking off, it is much more satisfying for my beloved to make me squirm a little first, knowing the initial question is a set up for the killer blow. My life is littered with pre-nags. âHave you heard from Bette-Anne?â When I have forgotten to give her the message that her friend has rung and has clearly rung again, spoken to my wife and told her I had failed to pass on the message. âHave you got your glasses?â when we are in the taxi, she having already picked them up from the table at the restaurant we were eating at: âHave you been recently been on Facebook?â when an old flame has contacted me.
Do we make such a fuss about pictures of models being altered to look better? Itâs been like that since man could fingerpaint! Henry VIII nearly had the painter executed who presented him a touched up painting of Anne of Cleves. She looked sexy enough to be the equivalent of a Tudor Playboy centre-page spread (but without the staples). The King told the entourage who accompanied the painting that he would offer her his hand in marriage, and retired to his chambers in anticipation of the wedding night, with a royal hard-on that a cat couldn't scratch.
When Anne bowled up at court and became wife number four, she had a face that apparently could curdle milk. So history records even the King of England being fooled by the packaging not matching the product.
However the ones that get me are the lush photos of fast food that are as close to reality as a beauty contestants boobs. We see a burger dripping in some delicious hickory sauce, nestling on a puffy bun sandwiched between an explosion of crisp lettuce, as springy as a bouncy castle, as well as fries standing to attention like golden soldiers. But the real thing looks more like a hockey puck that's been sat on by Kim Kardashian and the lettuce as limp as La Cage aux Folles dancers' handshake. As for the fries, they have all the appeal of a bus driver's sock.
Just as there are legions of professional make-up artists at models photo shoots, there is a similar phalanx of stylists helping to create a fast food ad. These âartistsâ come complete with tweezers, oils and brushes along with more unusual beauty aids such as blowtorches and knives.
I can so easily imagine our L.K. Bennett wearing stylists with their black roots sprouting under their blond bottle perms, clacking with hushed tones during the shoot.
"Do people really think that quarter-pounder wakes up looking that good?"
"My chicken nugget lettuce just came here to curl up and dye."
"If truth is beauty, that tortilla roll is a goddamned liar."
If anyone can send me a promo-photo of fast food that matches the heart-attack-in-a-sack they just bought for a few dollars, I will post it up!