C is for the Christmas Male Office Dancer

So today I am going to talk about a type of man women rarely see: the male office dancer.  In fact, I am going to be quite specific I am going to talk about the Christmas Male Office Dancer which is an even rarer beast. Now Christmas Male Office Dancers are very peculiar creatures and are slightly different to the Male Wedding Dancer and the Male Birthday Dancer in that the Christmas Male Office Dancer is provided with free beer by his employer as opposed to free beer by his mates or relatives. The thought of the Christman Male Office Dancer’s boss footing the drinks bill always tempts the Male Office Dancer into excessive over-indulgence resulting in a devil-may-care attitude. This, in turn, leads to the Christmas Male Office Dancer watering the office plants with vodka martinis, photocopying his arse and sending it to the MD from his boss’s email address, and vomiting in his boss’s wastepaper basket. But, worse than all of these horrors, his over-indulgence leads to what The Christmas Male Office Dancer is famed for – non-stop boogying.

There are a number of common features to the three phases in the Christmas Male Office Dancer’s routine. These are:

Phase One - The Slightly Inebriated Stage

Arms to side, fingers pointing like a cowboy in a wild-west shoot-out, mild hip thrusting. Usually attempting to move rhythmically but actually inflicting heavy bruising on his partner's feet or, if approaching the second stage, inflicting partial blindness. Miming (badly) to I was made for Dancin' by Leif Garrett, Dancing Queen by Abba or, if you're really unlucky, Contact by Edwin Starr. If the opening bars of Contact result in the Male Office Dancer clapping and grinning like the Cheshire Cat it is advisable to:

a) take cover behind the filing cabinets

b) secure the windows and doors,

c) ring for an ambulance.


Phase Two - The Wholly Inebriated Stage

Legs jerking all over the place, arms waving up and down aka John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, intense hip grinding and thrusting. Frequent screams, whoops and winking whilst rubbing crotch and whispering incoherent beer babble in the nearest woman’s ear. This babble is usually an attempt to get a telephone number or, if the Male Office Dancer is married, a plea for sex in the rear seat of his car – although it sounds more like a precursor to a heavy bout of vomiting. The opening notes of Thriller, Last Christmas or Hi Ho Silver Lining will result in the Male Office Dancer giving rapturous applause or leaping up and down like a pneumatic drill or (worst case scenario) should he have taken a toilet break, running back from the bathroom screaming "This is my favourite song ever!" and grabbing the nearest person. Unfortunately, this is usually either the woman from HR, the lesbian girlfriend of the woman from HR or his boss. He will then pull his victim to the centre of the dance floor and perform wild sexual gyrations whilst telling them that he loves them and wants to have their babies. This usually signifies:

 a) the end of his marriage

 b) the end of his career

 c) a spell in rehab

 d) All three.

Phase Three - The Totally Legless Stage

There is very little dancing in this stage which is characterized by vague head movements, mouth opening and closing like a fish, and saliva dribbling from the corner of the mouth. At some point, the Male Office Dancer will collapse onto the floor with other Male Office Dancers of a similar disposition. The sign of impending group Male Office Dancers’ unconsciousness is when they all form a long chain sitting behind each other, legs apart, and rock from side-to-side to the tune of Oops Upside Your Head by The Gap Band. As they start to sway and wave their arms to the beat of the song the hypnotic effect of the motion takes effect and, one by one, they keel over and slip into a deep coma. If this happens it is advisable to:

 a) remove all their car keys

 b) turn off the music

 c) tread carefully towards the exit.

So there you have it: the Christmas Male Office Dancer. A rare but dangerous breed of man. Almost as deluded as Air Guitar Man. (See my letter A!)

Unfortunately, it's not only men who affected by Oops Upside Your Head. Check out this video!

B is for Balls and Breasts.

Firstly, in case any of you are super sensitive types, I want to be clear that this post is primarily about balls - as in footballs and circular objects and not the UK slang meaning of balls which is men's testicles which, let's face it, aren't really round - more like droopy bags of turkey giblets.

Now in my time as a Housewife Extraordinaire, it has come to my attention that men seem to have an affinity with balls, or indeed anything round in shape, including footballs, snooker balls, beer glasses, marbles, DVDs, women's bottoms (regrettably, this doesn't include mine as it has become somewhat elongated over the past decade) and, of course...breasts.

Now us gals know that all men are particularly stupid about round things. Especially breasts. Which is why even the least intelligent women have deduced that if they fill their breasts with large amounts of rounded silicone they will become instantly more desirable to the opposite sex. Personally, I think stuffing your bra with cotton wool is an easier way to attract men. It's also a lot cheaper than plastic surgery and has the added bonus that you can safely remove it after your man comes home from the pub because by then he will believe anything you tell him including that Tom Cruise is 6ft 6in, the Pope is a woman and that you are Pamela Anderson's sister.

Yep, so men like all things round. Breasts are their favourite circular objects of course, but balls come a close second. Men cannot stop playing with balls: footballs, basketballs, soccer balls, bowling balls, cricket balls, tennis balls, the dog's balls...They're ALWAYS fiddling with them. Even on their desks they have a squidgy ball that they play with every time they remember they can't multi-task and there's nothing they like better for Christmas than a football unless it's one of those round soaps on a rope. (This is so they can drop it in the bath and have lots of fun finding it.)

Basically, men spend hours and hours kicking balls, throwing balls and watching balls. Sometimes they play with their own balls and sometimes it's other men's balls. Sometimes they even have the audacity to play with a stranger's balls - although that's usually only if they come across one lost in the park. 

Men don't care what type of balls they play with just so long as they get to have a play. Sometimes they play with big balls, sometimes small balls and, yes, sometimes they even like to play with sticky balls. (Which is gross but, I suppose, better than slippery balls.)

I often wonder to myself why men haven't developed a game called "fingerball" instead of "football". If they played fingerball then they'd have the perfect excuse to play their balls all the time. I think it's pathetic to see men trying to deny their love of balls by kicking them or heading them or bouncing them off their chests - so they might as well come clean and play handball. You see, we women know the truth - men love their balls and they ALL secretly want to go to bed at night with their balls tucked up close beside them.

The ultimate way for a man to relief his stress is too squeeze his own balls.

Okay, I want to be fair here. I'm not saying women don't like round things too because we do. In fact, I particularly like a number of round things. However, I think my list of round things is a little more discerning. In no particular order here are my top five round things:

1. Pound coins. (They have a very satisfying feel about them and if they just happen to be in Chris Hemsworth's pocket I'd be even more satisfied.)

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

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

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

5. Rings. (Preferably set with diamonds. But I'll also accept rings set with rubies, sapphires and emeralds.)

What are your favourite round things? Let me know!

A is for Air Guitar

Okay, so today I am going to talk about air guitars.

So I looked up "air guitar" in the Turley English Dictionary and it gave the following definition:

An imaginary guitar (instrument) played by Homo Stupidus, a subcategory of the male Homo Sapien species.  Air guitar is commonly played by the Homo Stupidus during a mid-life crisis but it can also affect the pubescent male and the geriatric male of the species. The early-onset of airguitaritis (air-g-ti-tis) in the pubescent male usually leads to severe complications in adult life including rheumatism, earache, marriage breakdown and a reputation as a complete twat. Late diagnosis of airguitaritis usually leads to incarceration in a specialist mental health clinic.

Homo Stupidus wearing his standard Friday night attire. Sadly, the love-heart boxers do not attract females only other air-guitarists which can lead to worrying displays of male bonding.

Now,  for all you ladies out there who have had the misfortune to marry a gentleman with an air guitar fetish let me give you my Top Ten Tips for dealing with this unwholesome situation:

1. Divorce your Homo Stupidus. (You know it makes sense.)

2. Have him incarcerated in an asylum on the grounds of mental instability and emotional abuse.

3 Jump up and down on his air guitar whilst singing "Beat it" by Michael Jackson.

4. Send a dubious brown package to Eric Clapton. It does not have to contain Semtex (which is preferable) but just the thought of blowing up Eric Clapton will make you feel a whole lot better.

5. Start performing imaginary cooking, imaginary housekeeping and imaginary ironing. Air-ironing
is particularly effective as a way to disarm the working Homo-Stupidus.

6. Ask your Homo Stupidus if he is also performing imaginary sex because you haven't had an orgasm since 1993.

7. Ask your Homo Stupidus is he would like his air-guitar restringing. If he says "Yes" mark that down in your little black book so your attorney can cite it as evidence in the divorce proceedings.

8. Write a kiss and tell article for The Daily Mail. "My Life Of Hell With A Man Who Preferred His Air Guitar Over Sex" will propel you to instant fame and fortune. You'll be commissioned for your autobiography, a film and make a whole stack of cash. If you're really clever and manage to get an imaginary wizard into your biography you will become even more famous.

9. Stick his head in the oven.

10. Put on your earmuffs and tell him he is not playing loud enough. While he performs even more wild air guitar manoeuvres video him and then post the clip on YouTube with the caption "Man Found Wandering In Borneo Jungle Seeks Mate". Also tweet the footage using the hash tags #fuckingbonkers #saveme

So there you have it. A is for air guitar - accompanied by some sound and ever thoughtful advice from Mrs T.  See you tomorrow!

Tomorrow I begin again

So tomorrow is the beginning of the April A to Z challenge. I signed up for it a while ago not knowing whether I would be in the right frame of mind - and I am still not sure if I am or if I will make it to the end like I did last year. However, I am going to give it a bash and we'll see what happens.

The last 16 months of my life have been pretty horrendous. I have had a lot of issues to contend with from just about every quarter. I have, of course, been through many struggles before in my life and those were partially reflected in my novel The Changing Room which, I hope, also showed how I believe trying to adopt a positive mindset helps to overcome many problems.

Of course, that isn't always as easy as it sounds. Especially when you are faced with many hurdles.

However, over the last few weeks, I have been taking stock of the events in my life and I have begun to see them with a new clarity. That clarity means that every day I become stronger and less vulnerable to the emotional effect of these events.

So tomorrow is a new day.  A day when I begin to write again on the A-Z and, finally, continue the sequel to The Changing Room which has been lying dormant in my fiction folder.

So join me tomorrow and let's get silly. Laughter, as I've always said on this blog, is truly the best medicine. And I will be looking to entertain you and me and anyone else who chances by.

On a final note, I have nothing planned for the A to Z so if you want to make a suggestion for any topic just leave a comment. The more outrageous the topic the better!

The Temptation Trap

I was bored last night and went for a surf on Amazon. And, by chance, I fell upon a unique item.

A life-size cardboard cut-out of Tom Cruise!

Now me and Tom have had a bit of a thing going on over the duration of this blog. I don't know why - I don't even fancy him. It's just some folks tickle the comedian in me and Tom happens to be one of them.

Yeah, so even though I tried to restrain myself I eventually succumbed to the temptation to leave a review. (Admittedly I didn't try too hard to resist -I am just too shallow.)

Now I know I've failed as a human being and will be damned in the fires of hell for being so cruel but, on the plus side, I'll finally get to meet Tom whilst I'm there because I'm fairly sure that believing in little green men is not okay with Him Upstairs either. We'll be able to hang-out together and he'll be able to regale me with tales of Mission Impossible retakes and how he missed out on a role in Tom Thumb to Danny Devito.

Awesome.

Anyway here's my review:

Short but succinct. Like Tom.

Pronunciation please, Jason!

For an old(ish) gal, I'm still a bit of a pop babe which is why Want To Want Me by Jason Derulo is one of my songs of the moment.

However, I've had a bit of a problem with it. For a while, I was convinced that the first six lines of the lyrics were:

It's too hard to sleep
I got the shits on the floor
Nothing on me
And I can't take it no more

It's a hundred degrees
I got one foot out the door
Where are my keys?
'Cause I gotta leave, yeah

I'll be honest this situation rings quite a few bells with me. And I don't blame him for wanting to get out of his house if he's had the shits and it's a hundred degrees. I have a problem with the shits at normal room temperature.

Also, what normal person wants to sing about having the shits? 

Oh, okay, I wrote about having the shits.  Maybe folks do want to sing about it too.

Hmm... maybe that's what Bridge Over Troubled Waters is about?

Anyway, eventually I realised it's not the "shits" Jason is singing about but "sheets."

I was bit disappointed really. I was beginning to think Jason was a music rebel - turns out he was singing yet another love song. Humph.

Well here's Jason singing Want to Want Me. It's a great funky song and he's a pretty cool dancer so it's great entertainment. I wasn't quite so keen about the young lady sticking her butt in the air all the time like a meerkat on heat though. Give me Dame Shirley Bassey in a full-length gown any day. Now that's what I call classy.

Yet another embarrassing moment for Mrs T

I've recounted a few embarrassing moments on this blog so it may come as no surprise to hear that I've had yet another...

So the other day Mr T dropped me into our local town and arranged to pick me up a short while later outside the library after he had picked up Master Jacob from school. I duly did my shopping and rushed back to the library to see Mr T and Master Jacob parked in our silver-coloured car outside the library as agreed.

I waved at them and rushed into the library to drop off a book and dashed back so not to keep them waiting any longer. However, when I came out, to my annoyance, Mr T was already reversing out of the space. (A few choice words about impatient husbands may have crossed my mind.)

I duly ran over to our car, opened the door and was in the process of hauling my arse into the back seat when a voice piped up;

"Not this car, love."

Yes. That's right. I got into the wrong car. Fortunately, the two blokes in it thought it was very funny and had a good laugh at my expense.

I felt a bit of an arse though. And I had to take back all those naughty thoughts I'd had about Mr T.

Bah humbug.