I have been thinking about this for some time now but I’ve come to the conclusion that I have an inherent need for something.

I need a man.

Not in a gay way you understand, but in a rugged male companion kind of way.

I have been lacking in male company. Sure there are a few of the lads from Uni but they’re young, carefree and untarnished by the rigours of life. What I need is a male figure for bonding, beer, discussions of minor trite and the occasional trip away doing man things. Like frowning, looking gruff and sitting in the sun admiring Mayspheres.

These things are lacking.

Women have it so easy. All they need to do is take up some craft or join the local WI or something then find a local group. Us men…well yeah we could do a sport, but let me tell you something…..not all men like sport. And I fall into that demographic. Besides, groups run by men end up becoming too political or committee led organs that just end up being really annoying. Maybe I’m wrong but in my experience and observation (and I’m pretty good at observation) that is what happens.

Of course being an anathema and not being sporty or owt means that I also find it difficult to discuss things with other men. It’s like sport becomes this fail safe conversational thing and often conversation falls flat.

Him – So yeah did you see the game last night?
stegzy – yes I see it every night, it sits on top of my wardrobe, never played. People don’t seem to want to play Monopoly these days….
Him – Oh…right….is that the time? I must go….I’ve left the outside on……

Ok yeah, there are those that like music, but I find that the males I know who are musicians tend to be a bit too “boisterous” and so I compensate by having more female friends, which itself leads to complications.

Him – So yeah man, I was playing this gig and I ended up with these chicks and they were like all over me and so I shagged them and it was like ace
stegzy – But don’t you find that sort of behaviour is just degrading to women?
Him – Are you gay?
stegzy – No. Honest.

Then there are the nerdy computer geeks who constantly vie for some sort of superiority. Constantly arguing about which operating system is better or how many gigs of RAM they managed to cram into a desktop last week, they’re usually either gay, obsessive or have that strange musty “just wanked” fragrance pervading their CAT5 cable crammed home. Which they share. With their mum. Still. At 40.

Him – So yes I think that Windows 3.1 is far superior to Ubuntu but I managed to put 5 gig back onto my dual partitioned Linux box by removing the kernal and replacing it with one of my own coding.
stegzy – Really? Well….is that the time? I must have left the outside on…….

It really doesn’t get any better. It doesn’t get any easier. As age develops it becomes harder and harder to break into social circles and so there must be bedsits, apartments and houses full of men like me out there. Men like me that have a low idiocy tolerance threshold, a high distrust of sport and it’s homosexual connotations and an urge to just sit in some pub somewhere, talk shite for a couple of hours each week and maybe share some sort of non-sexual male bonding experiences that don’t involve running up and down a field in underpants chasing after a ball.

Men like me, scared of speaking to other men in case they are seen as some sort of weirdo, uncool person or sexual predator. Or worse, some sort of fascist meat head who once involved would do unspeakable things to sisters and other female relatives.

Think I’ll just stay at home.


Bras eh? Mrs Gnomepants tells me she has her eyes on a sports bra to assist in her current “keep fit by doing Billy Blanks Tai Bo DVD’s” regime. Indeed, not being a completely ignorant male, I am aware that these garments cost a fair whack. What I don’t understand is why.

Undies right, I can buy a box of 5 undies for about a fiver (That’s approximately $10 in plastic money). I can make them last a good year if not longer, even by wearing a clean pair every day. Hell the pair I had on yesterday cost me about £3 in 2003. They’re still going strong and are not even threadbare. Bras, on the other hand, seem to cost an extortionate price of at least £30. Now I might be wrong, I don’t buy bras, not for myself anyway, so I’m not familiar with the pricing structure other than what has been related to me via the wife. But £30!?

So one would hope that a thirty quid tit hammock would last a goodly while, it must be made of something like Dodo fur or dragon heart string or something. Pah! How wrong! It seems that Mrs G must have bra decomposing boobies or something because I can guarantee that within a couple of months the cry of “O woe! My bra! It’s fux0r3d” fills my ears. So how come boob baskets seem to cost so bloody much? Surely this is the biggest con since razors for girls (no fucking difference to standard skin scrapers which cost us men a quid for 20). Is this some great mammary conspiracy?

Like toothpaste actually making your teeth worse to keep dentists employed; computer viruses being written by Symantec so that they can sell Anti-virus; Are bras designed to break to perpetuate the bosom support industry? Or am I just seeing patterns where there are none in order to sneak a post about tits into the blogosphere melting pot?

One for Mr Holmes, formerly of 221b Baker Street, me thinks.

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