A German Football Challenge or Deutsche Ein Fuss Herausforderung

Now before I get started on this post properly, I need to say that I know the two "ss" of "Fuss" in my title should be one of squiggly things that looks Kim Kardashian's boobs from the side view. However, I've no idea how to get a squiggly boob thing and life is too short to worry about it. So before any of you language teachers (that's you Susann Fruendt) make any formal complaint I'm lodging my excuses now. Okay?

Right, so the background to this post is that I stupidly said to my writer's group that if anyone spotted a typo in my last post I would write a blog post of their choice. Now, I had already self-flagellated as a result of spotting two typos in the first line so I didn't think it could get any worse. I was wrong. Because language teacher and writer Susann Fruendt spotted a typo in the TITLE. Then, to top it all, the proof reader for my short story collection, the lovely Eve, came on line and spotted another THREE typos in the text.

Now, if I was dyslexic, my mistakes would be acceptable and I know all you wonderful readers out there wouldn't mind the occasional Mrs T balls-up. After all, you don't come here for grammar lessons just mindless drivel from a slightly disturbed woman. Am I right? However, too many typos is just unacceptable and makes look me look like an complete dimwit and, anyway, I'm not dyslexic - I'm normal. Well, apart from the small amount of my brain I found seeping out of my ear the other day.

So anyway, as a result of this challenge I now have to write a post about the German football team without mentioning The War. (That's the Second World War. Obviously.) But, being the clever sticks I am, I thought maybe I could write about German football and the First World War.

 Hurrah!

Then I thought maybe that would be cheating and Susann would be over here like a shot kicking me up the arse. So, just for Susann I am not going mention The War at all in this post about The War  the German football team.

Boo.

So the German football team. Great. Lots of stuff instantly springs to mind.

Dah, de da, da, da, da, da, da, da hums da da  *hangs out washing* da da da da da da *on the Siegfried line* da de dee da

Did you know that, apparently, the German football team lost the 1966 World Cup? That was a real fight battle contest. Of course, I didn't actually watch it, as I was still in my nappies, but I do remember hearing my father cry out, "By God, we've won!" My mother didn't watch it though as she was in the kitchen with my siblings and I attempting to make frankfurters to mark the special occasion. We Brits like to do those things - celebrate other cultures by sampling their food and drink.

I believe London Mayor, Boris Johnson, has spent a lot of time sampling German food and drink.

A German football supporter. At the 1966 World Cup.

So German football. It's great. And I love all those German footballers' names. Like Van der Fock. Or is that the Dutch? I don't know. They all sound and look the same to me: they all have two legs and wear shorts that are unacceptably long. Except for in the 1970s when the shorts were unacceptably short. I mean - they were so short when the footballers fell to the ground clutching their groins you knew it was because their shorts were too tight and not because they'd been kneed in the nuts.

A German footballer at the 1966 World Cup discovers a frankfurter on his seat.

So anyway, I gather the German football team are pretty good. They might even have won a couple of things. Well so I hear on the football grapevine. Yeah, that's right - me and Becks (that's David Beckham - him and me are pretty close) went out on the town and Becks confided in me about the Germans being pretty hot with their balls and that he was thinking about taking up an offer to manage the German football team. Apparently, they've offered him a whole year's supply of frankfurters and the opportunity to cut the ribbon on the new Aldi Store in Berlin.

"You British you think you are so funny. But you are just crazy!"

Anyway, Becks was thinking it over. He was keen but unfortunately Vicky wasn't. She was concerned about German fashion and it being a little too...formal. But it's a great opportunity for Becks so he asked me to try and persuade Vicky. So I texted her with this message:

Hi Vicky, Don't worry about German fashion. Berlin is really close to Paris. You could be there in a few hours. No one will stop you. It'll be easy.

Vicky texted back with this message:

You're right Mrs T. As ever! I could go by train. I've heard German trains are really efficient and always run on time.

So I texted back:

Great news, Vicky! Becks will be pleased. And you're right - the trains are fast in Germany. I ordered a whole crate of frankfurters and they arrived in no time at all. The only delay was at the Channel.

So there you go, breaking news from Mrs T - Becks is on his way to Berlin and Vicky is on her way to Paris and all because of German football. Who says we British don't love other cultures?

In fact, we Brits love almost of all of Europe. There's actually a sign on the Dover Cliffs which reads "Free Welfare, Tea and Scones."

Of course, it could all change if UKIP (that's the UK Independence Party) get elected at the next General Election. They'll be no more frankfurters and Stollen imported from Germany and no more crotchless knickers from France. We Brits will be on our own again.

How sad is that?

A German footballer supporter at his day job.
"I  'ave a secret weapon and I am not afraid to use it on you, Mrs T."

Politicians, Education and a little bit of Madness

Well friends and fellow Bloggers I’m feeling in a frivolous mood lately; I don’t know why but those new size 18 knickers have certainly released some tension.

Before I start, please don’t forget to read my previous post and enter my stupendous competition. Now both Eve’s Lungs and Onedia have raised concerns about the cost of posting the prizes. Let me assure you ladies and gents that I shall be able to afford it; I have worked out that if postage is approx £10 to distant shores if I save 50p out of my very generous allowance that Mr T gives me of £2.50p a week it will only take 20 weeks to accumulate enough pennies for the postage. With any luck the star prize winner will receive his/ her gift in time for Christmas! (The downside to this is that I will have to drop from 4 bars of Galaxy down to 3 a week but you know – where needs must.)

Now I must just recount a little story from Friday morning. I was bending over (yes, I know; a very worrying situation if you’re top heavy but unfortunately I’m not and with my general sturdiness I was rooted to the floor like a concrete post) looking in Master Jacob’s rucksack for his lunch box when naughty Master Benedict started pummelling my buttocks;

“I’m going to box your bottom mummy; your bottom is SO flexible!”

FLEXIBLE???? FLEXIBLE????

What kind of description is that?

Humph, being insulted by 7 year old is NOT a promising start to the morning. I think what he actually meant was “flabby” but (and I say this with some degree of pride) I’ve bought me boys up to talk proper like. None of this colloquial gibberish. Just the good old Queen’s English with perhaps (cough, cough) a little bit of colourful expression thrown in for good measure. (Yeah, you’re right – usually on The School Run.)

Now I had a little bit of a rant on Friday too … yes, it doesn’t happen often but I rang the School Transport Services and complained furiously and pronounced I was going to write to my MP. Why? Because I received a demand for £300 pounds. Yep that’s right; 300 smackers… and all because Master Samuel is 16 and is going onto higher education so he will no longer be entitled to free transport to school even though we live in a village.

This policy makes me laugh (in a sort of maniacal way) because the government has been discussing introducing compulsory education until the age of 18 - So I think I can safely say that this isn’t going to be a popular policy with those who aren’t the least interested in education anyway. Oh, here’s another thought; if you haven’t learnt to read and write by the time your sixteen another 2 years isn’t going to make much difference; unless of course the whole education system is rethought and delivers what it should do. So fat chance then. Although with all those lovely certificates that are issued is still looks like we’re all doing really well. Hooray!

Anyhow…back to that phone call; my blood was boiling, steam was coming out of my ears, the zip was bursting on my jeans (Well, it does that anyway but even more so.) and I was ready to KILL. (Oh yes, and the horns on my head weren’t that comfortable either.)

But you know what? I didn’t get a decent answer…. Nothing but complete indifference… nobody could care less if I have £300 pounds or not and whether I could actually get my son to school because everyone is so INDIFFERENT. Oh, yes and I’m “middle class”. Why, that means I must be rolling in cash; so much so that I can afford not only to support my family in the lap of luxury but also the rest of the entire country.

Needless to say without even a good argument to console me my Uzi fell limply to my side… doesn’t anyone care anymore, about anything??

Yep, Mrs T has finally had enough of this attitude particularly towards the middle classes and she is mad, mad, mad. I’m gonna get a saucepan, stick it on my head, hold a broom stick in one hand and my rolling pin in the other and march on London. To the Houses of Commons I will go and force feed my Spaghetti Bolognese to Mr Brown (Huh, I’d like to see him get out of that without messing his kilt up) AND I’m gonna stick my toilet brush up the Education Secretary’s backside just so he gets a good idea what else I have in store for him.

Yep, Mrs T who has been supplementing her children’s education to the tune of £190 a month is well and truly fed up. Hey, I’d like a holiday MR BROWN but guess what I’m buying my kids extra lessons because the education system is fundamentally FLAWED.

It’s time to for the middle classes to rise up and protest! In fact I think I’m going to launch my own electoral campaign and stand at the next General Election.

I call it “Let’s Put England back on the Map and some Money Back in Mrs T’s Wallet Society.” (But if you’ve got any other more workable suggestions please leave a comment and if they insinuate general incompetence of the present government it would certainly guarantee my deliberation.)

Here are some of my proposals;

1. Send all politicians back to school to experience the current state school system. (By the way they will have to walk there cos the bus service will be cancelled.) Yep, since most of our MPs have come from privileged backgrounds that should be a real eye opener. Whilst they sit arguing over whose turn it is to use the textbooks they can look forward to their school meal produced at a cost of about 35p per child. Yum, yum that lumpy mash potato is really rather delicious.


2. Force the Prime minister to stand in the corner of the House of Commons wearing a huge hat which has emblazoned on it;

“I’ve been a really, really silly boy and now Mrs T is going to make me suffer a vastly protracted and horrifyingly gruesome death.”

(Hmm... I think that one could be a real vote winner.)

3. Just for old times sake I’m gonna wipe that smile of Cherie Blair’s face by producing a law that says no MP, or their spouse may produce a book, diary, television show or lecture until at least 20 years after finishing their term of office. The punishment for breaking this code will be imprisonment in The London Dungeons with a tape of Alan Sugar and Gordon Ramsey repeatedly telling them they are a) fired and b) to you know what. (They may however perform…cookery recipes… for the amusement of the general population.)

Oh cripes, Mrs T was thinking something else there; oh she is being vitriolic today! (That’s what happens when you overdose on 90% proof dark chocolate.) And now that I’ve thought about it… Cherie Blair…cookery recipes.….. UGH!!!!!!! My mind is stupefyingly numb with the sheer horror!

(Note to self; get a grip on yourself Mrs T that was way too naughty. Write 100 lines; “I must NOT insult Cherie Blair, I must NOt insult Cherie Blair, I must N…o…t insult Cherie Blair….I must insult Cherie Blair……I must insult Cherie Blair…..)


4. To continue… I propose that all politicians be strapped to a hospital gurney for at least 24 hours and left in a hospital corridor to wonder whether they are dying or not. If they aren’t and manage to exit the hospital without contracting a deadly strain of MRSA I propose that they have all their teeth pulled out using some rusty old pliers because of the lack of availability of NHS dentists. (Whilst sitting in front of a bar of Green and Black’s Organic Chocolate placed just a fraction out of their reach…. Oh lord, I am cruel!)

5. All politicians must have a lie detector strapped to their chests which will be remotely connected to my laptop. In the event of them lying a large flashing icon will appear on my screen showing a thumb in the down position and a message will speak which says “ Political incompetence detected, abort term of office.” Whereupon, I will press the destruct button (The exclamation key) whilst casually eating a praline and sipping sherry from a finely cut crystal glass.

Hmm, I fear Mrs T is enjoying the prospect of absolute power rather too much.

Perhaps she should talk about something else for a while……before she starts lying herself. (Which, of course, is something she never, ever does.)

By the way, did I tell you I’m an excellent cook?

Now here’s some exciting news; yesterday Mr T and I celebrated our 17th wedding anniversary! Yes, yes, I know this means I only got married when I was 12 but I’ve always been a bit of a rebel. Blimey, old Mr T in his long johns is a lucky guy having a hot young chick like me! With any luck he’ll keel over soon and I’ll be a hot AND rich young chick.

OW!!! THWACK!!! (Sound of reverberating flesh.)

Hmm, the punishment for being too cheeky about Mr T is very, very severe.

Crikey, you would have thought after 17 years I’d have learnt by now.

Anyhow, what did we do to celebrate yesterday? Well…we went on a tour of the new Wembley Stadium with my boys’ football (soccer) club. Grrrreatt! You know those latrines were really rather fascinating. And that grass? You know what? It was…green. Yep, it was absolutely riveting.

Ah, I’m being a tad cruel; I really rather enjoyed it; especially as Mrs T is really rather fond of a bit of ball play from time to time.

Anyhow, on the subject of football, I think I should inform you that I am at present putting together a CD of footballing songs which we will soon be available for very little money from your nearest charity shop. Here are some of the tracks;

Another Window Bites the Dust. (Rock) by Queen

Another Football over the Wall (progressive Rock) by Pink Floyd

Oops I did it again (over the Neighbour’s Wall), (Rap version) by Britney Spears.

Ten Green Footballs sitting on the Neighbour’s Grass, (Traditional) Anonymous.

The Sound of Footballs (Musical) by Julie Andrews and the Von Trapp Family.

Last Christmas I gave you my Football (Traditional Xmas) by George (I used to fancy him until I knew it wasn’t just footballs I was interested in) Michaels and three other talent less people.

Gimme, Gimme, Gimme a Football after Midnight (Sick perversion) by Abba featuring Gary Linekar.

I’m not in Love (with a Football) (Classic love) by 10cc featuring …Gary Linekar.

You’re the one Football that I want (Even sicker perversion) by Olivia Newton John and… Gary Linekar.

I wanna hold your Foo…oo…otball (Sixties shite) by the Beatles and you’ve guessed it… Gary Linekar.

Let me entertain you (with some Footballs) (Raunchy rock) by Robbie Williams.

Two Little Boys had Two Wooden Footballs (and boy did their toes hurt) (Traditional Folk) by Rolf Harris and a psychotic parent.

Tears of a Clown (more sixties shite) by Smokey Robinson and Paul Gascoigne.

It’s Raining Footballs, Halleluiah! (Pathetic cover version) by Geri Halliwell.

Don’t Cry for me Sven Goran Eriksson… the truth is I’m only after your money (Duet) by Elaine Paige and Nancy Dell’ Olio.

F-F-F-F- Football (Classic stutter) by Paul Hardcastle.

I’ve got a Brand New Combine harvester… and I’ll swap it for a football (Just for the hell of it) by the Tribute Worzels featuring, Gary Linekar, Alan Hanson and Mark Lawrenson.

I appreciate some of these songs might go unrecognised by some of you folks abroad who don’t perhaps have the same dedication to football as we British. (Oh yes... apart from Mr Intrepidideas who seems to have a fetish for 80s British music including Duran Duran …to which I say…someone pass me the sick bucket.) So apologies if these marvellous songs pass you by.

Now if anyone would like to add to this collection please leave a comment. In the meantime I’d like to dedicate this CD not in the true artistic fashion to a long lost love (or possibly a prepubescent crush) but to Master Sy and Dear Floogie being as they're English and they're blokes. (Well I hope so …but you never know these days…)

In the meantime friends I leave you with this thought…

Should I go for the chocolate covered digestives or the chocolate chip cookies? Hmmm… tricky…maybe I should sample both…….

Yours,

Mrs T.

Ps..Before you all think I'm incrediably shallow, I realise that I don't really have much to whinge about and that millions of people the world over would probably like to be in my shoes. However, as a premenopausal woman with a severe personality disorder and a love of naughtiness it is my duty to point out the failings of the government, especially Mr Brown.( But I try to be subtle about it.)

Copyright Jane Turley 2008

Ssh...I'm going to tell you a secret...(looks around furtively)...you mustn't tell anyone...but... I LOVE CHOCOLATE.

Yes, it’s 9 days since I gave up chocolate and the withdrawal symptoms are beginning to kick in. I’m feeling slightly crazed and like I could snap at any moment. (Although not without the use of a chainsaw to break through the first few layers of insulation.) I’ve sharpened the blades of my kitchen knives and I’ve started digging a new patio… ….because I’m a woman living on the edge…


I’m even dreaming about chocolate…

In fact do you remember the Milk Tray advert where the man dressed in black does daring deeds in order to place the box of chocolates on the woman’s pillow? Well I keep having similar dream versions of that; a gorgeous man, dressed in black leather sprints like a stallion across fields, leaps across roof tops until finally he stands poised on my balcony. I’m lying on my bed, hair tousled, lips moist, salivating at the thought of the delicious chocolate inside the box which glints enticingly in the moonlight. The mysterious man flings open the window… my heart is beating, my pulse racing… soon I will have a smooth milky chocolate in my mouth that I’m going to suck it really, really, slowly and then suddenly I’ll get to the nut inside and I’ll finish it with a big crunch…He walks silently across the room, there’s beads of perspiration on my brow, heat pulsating through my body; I’m feigning sleep but I can see the box of Milk Tray in his hand. He raises his hand to place it on my pillow… and…..and...

WHERE DID THAT BLOODY FOOTBALL COME FROM?

No! No! NO!

I wanted CHOCOLATE, not a football!

When will men understand women love chocolate NOT football. Yes we all know men are ruled by their balls but we women are far more sensible…. One of these days men will realise that chocolate is an aphrodisiac… no hang on they won’t… they’re still under the illusion that a bunch of flowers is the way to a gal’s heart. So if you’re a man reading this let me tell you a little secret that will improve your love life….

YOU CANNOT EAT A BUNCH OF FLOWERS (unless you’re a cow) BUT YOU CAN EAT CHOCOLATE!

Ok so you’re a man and you need a few tips to get into the knickers of one of the following…

a) The girl of your dreams.
b) Your girlfriend who keeps uttering “Oooh Pierce, Pierce, show me your gun,” every time she reluctantly agrees to make love with you. (Feeling a little deflated eh?)
c) The woman you no longer recognise as your wife ‘cos she’s gained 36pounds but you know duty calls… and the lights are off…
d) Shirley the Sheep.

You need to follow my Top Tips to Quick Fast Knicker Release…

1. You must arrive unexpectantly on the doorstep with a heart shaped box of the most exquisite chocolate, beautifully wrapped with a red ribbon. (NB You should still have your clothes on under your coat because you mustn’t appear to be presumptuous. Oh, and the chocolate MUST contain some nuts….

2. Now this doesn’t allow you immediate entry (to the house Silly Billy you’ve got to work harder yet…) but you’ve made a good start. Now you have to remember that women fall in love using their brains (that’s the space between their ears) whereas men fall in love using the bulge in their trousers…(that’s the space between their legs.. which can vary in size somewhat) Or if they’re in doubt they refer to their eyeballs. Soooo you must woo her with words of love and must not use inappropriate language… never say “tits” for example it’s common, derogatory and your woman will instantly think that your sole reading material is only accessible from the top shelf at the corner shop…

3. You open the box of chocolate for her, slowly opening the ribbon… and teasing the wrapper off… you ask which chocolate she wants… and then you feed it to her…slowly…luxuriously…

4. Yeah remember that? It’s called FOREPLAY. It’s what every woman wants... so if you want that woman get down to the chocolate counter now…

5. Ok... so now you need to build on the promising start…. Do I have to explain everything? Come on dozy! Use your imagination…because if you don’t you’re out mate and if you get it right…you’re in.


Now back to that dream… I put my hand out to push the ball away in despair…but the ball feels strangely warm and smooth….that can’t be right… Oh my God….

…It’s a giant chocolate football….. OOOOooo….


© Jane Turley 2008

You thought I disliked football? You haven't heard me rant about steam engines!

Just for starters here’s my review of the Thomas Tank Engine book A Cow on the Line by the Rev Awdry. Let’s introduce it with that lovely theme tune from the TV series. Here we go…

♫ ♫ De de de de de de derrrrrrrrrrrr…de de de de de de de de de de derrrrrrrrr…♫ ♫
Come on, get into the spirit now!

(Alternatively, put your ear muffs on.)

There, don’t you feel exhilarated. No? Why not? Perhaps it’s because that repetitive tune is enough to drive a woman who has seen every engine shed and pisston in the whole of England to sheer and utter madness. (Me, obviously) In fact when I hear it, I reach for my double barrelled shotgun in order to blow my brains out. Unfortunately, the kids keep holding me back:

“No, no, Mummy you must watch this bit. It’s so funny!"

Yeah, yeah…and Gordon Brown isn't Scottish.

The reasons I've selected A Cow on the Line to review from the many Thomas books are:

a) It doesn't have Thomas in the title and I'm sick of him.

b) It sounded like it could be marginally more absorbing than the others. ( Until I opened it.)

Review: there’s a cow on the line and regrettably it doesn't get run over which would have made the whole storyline a lot more interesting.

Have you noticed that the Thomas stories are a little repetitive? No? Perhaps you were spaced out by the constant choo-chooing and poop pooping. Strangely enough, when I want to know about puffing and panting it's not this kind of book I want to read.

I suppose the kids like the Thomas books but really they’re not that imaginative or particularly well written... and somewhat dated especially as Thomas doesn't transform into an intergalactic engine that flies to the moon and destroys all other steam engines in his path. Shame really.

De de de de de derrrrrrrrrrr, de de de de de....... ♫ ♫ ♫ ♫

Right then -you should be getting the idea now that I'm not keen on steam engines. In fact the only thing that could be worse than a steam engine is a steam engine full of football supporters. I equate this to being in purgatory: when the inevitable happens and should I have been too naughty a girl to wing my way to the pearly gates my punishment will be an endless train journey squashed in a tatty seat, surrounded by drunken Luton Town Supporters. (All wearing baggy shorts.)

Yes, I’ve stood on, sat on and admired numerous steam engines. I’ve even risked my life by driving with only one hand on the steering wheel whilst pointing out the window and yelling “Look! There’s a steam engine whoo-whoo!” Yes, when you’re desperate to avoid the kids vomiting or stabbing each other in the back seat of the car it’s amazing how even the most boring things become suddenly so interesting. Yes, I’ve been known to become positively orgasmic at the site of a digger or a crane in full action. Sad, but true.

So what is it about steam engines that men find so exciting? Well obviously steam engines have big round wheels which are a major plus factor. (The male fascination with all things round a subject I have already espoused upon.) They are also disgustingly dirty and greasy, rather like football boots. (Which men also find appealing but as any mother knows must remain that way until 10 minutes before they are next required when hubby will use the best cutlery to prise the dirt off and invariably flick it all over the kitchen worktops.) Steam engines are also very noisy and grate on the nerves, again rather like football supporters, and every now again they emit an irritating whistle that sends shivers down the spine of any women stood on a platform knowing soon she will have to fork out an extortionate amount of money for a short and hideously uncomfortable journey. So to sum up; men like noisy, greasy, dirty things with big round bits which occasionally make high pitched squeaking noises. Sorry I can’t fully explain why…but it is obviously why Jordan is so popular.

Pictured below is Jordan. Britain's premier glamour model. Just as well she didn't want to be swimmer as she might have encountered a few problems. Beach ball might have been a suitable alternative though. Rumour has it that she is involved in scientific experiments to see how far human skin can stretch before it spontaneously combusts - not long to go now obviously.

Implants at their best/worst. Why Jordan is pointing at her breasts I've no idea as even without
my glasses I'm not having difficulty in seeing them.

Anyhow, here are my top tips for ensuring your son doesn’t become one of those old men lovingly stroking some olds nuts or a large rusty pisston;

1.Don’t buy him a train set. Buy him Monopoly instead; with any luck he might become a property magnet and you won’t have to sell your house to pay off his student debts.

2.Don’t buy him a Casey Jones type hat because a) he’ll look pretty stupid and b) he may end up as a cross dresser.

3.Don’t buy any Thomas the Tank Engine Books and if anyone gives them to you burn them along with any copies of Postman Pat. (Sorry, it won’t be smokeless fuel, but it’ll be very satisfying.)

4.Don’t let him watch any Thomas the Tank Engine video or DVD… he might pick up a Liverpool accent (which frankly would be worse than becoming a train driver.)

5.Encourage him to play “chef” in the kitchen and if he can also develop a lisp he could become an overpaid TV chef, producing inedible dishes but being paid heaps of cash which hopefully you will be able to (discreetly) embezzle.

What Is It About Men And Balls?

Having returned from nearly 2 hours standing in the cold watching two of my boys play football in a Christmas kick around with some of the dads from the football club I am posing the question...

WHAT IS IT ABOUT MEN AND BALLS?

Yes, I know men do possess balls.(Although I'm not sure about Gordon Brown now that he's ratified that treaty without asking the consent of the electorate.) Maybe that's why men have an affinity with anything relatively circular in shape: footballs, snooker balls, beer glasses, women's bottoms (regrettably, this doesn't include mine as it's round shape has become somewhat elongated over the past decade) and of course... breasts.

Women know men are particularly stupid about round things and even the thickest women know that if they stuff their breasts with large amounts of silicone so their breasts have a taut and bulging roundness they will become instantly more desirable to the opposite sex. Personally, I think cotton wool is so much easier: it's a hell of a lot cheaper, softer, easily removable and won't knock your partner out if you accidentally squash him during a passionate love making session.

Yep, men like round things.They can't stop playing with them either. Have you noticed they're always fiddling with them? On the cricket field those boxes always seem to require adjusting, on their desk at work they have a little squidgy ball that they can fiddle with every time they remember they can't multi-task and they particularly love those round soaps on a rope as a Christmas gift. (I think this is just so they can drop it in the bath and have lots of fun finding it.)

Men spend hours and hours kicking balls, throwing balls and, of course, watching balls. Yes, I'm sure I'm not the first woman who has been mightily displeased during the throws of ecstasy to find herself listening to the football scores.Men take note - if you want your woman to be satisfied turn the telly off. (Unless Alan Hanson is commentating which may in fact increase her libido. You know what? There's just something about that guy and it not jus just his wallet...)

Why men haven't developed a game called "Handball" instead of "Football", I don't know. Then they'd have the perfect excuse to feel their balls all the time, rather than making a sorry excuse by pretending they don't care by kicking them, heading them, bouncing them off their chests and feebly crying "handball!" should one accidentally touch them.

I'm not saying women don't like round things too because I particularly like a number of round things which include:

Pound coins. (They have a certain feel about them which is pretty good and if they just happen to be in Alan Hanson's pocket I'd be even more pleased.)

Chocolate Footballs. ( The only kind of footballs that require my undivided attention.)

Chocolate chip muffins. ( Even more satisfying than chocolate footballs.)

Round tins. ( Containing Quality Street, Roses or perhaps Celebrations.)

Men's arses. ( Yes, a pert round bottom is very attractive but, alas, even though we women spend hours watching football we don't even get to look at any nice ones as they're all hidden underneath those truly horrendous baggy football shorts. I say bring back those tight seventies shorts and let us have some pleasure whilst we stand in the cold.)

Good. Now I've got that off my not very round chest, I'm going to have my lunch; a banana, I think. A much more interesting proposition......