WARNING: This blog post contains an abundance of sweary words and a-larger-than-normal-amount-of-ill-humour. Continue at your own peril. You have been warned!
Guys, do you have any idea – any fuckin’ idea – what it’s like to be female? Let me enlighten you…
First up, we have menstruation. Periods. Having the ‘decorators’ in for a week. Once a month, every month for forty flaming years. And that means PMT, ovulation pains, PMT, stomach cramps, PMT, tender boobs, PMT, water retention and PM-fucking-T every month!
And ye Gods, sanitary products! What a choice! It’s a toughie all right – risk toxic shock with tampons, or choose pads that are supposed to stick snugly inside yer knickers. Trouble is, those sticky bits aren’t all that sticky unless, of course, they’ve inadvertently stuck to your pubes, and then, suddenly Houston, we have adhesion! And can you gently prise that gluey stuff away from your hairy bits? No, Siree! There’s only one way those wiry little suckers are coming free, and bugger me, it hurts!
Girls don’t choose Brazilian bikini waxes, you know; they just happen by accident – one month’s worth of battling industrial-strength glue on sanitary towels, and Bingo! The job’s a goodun!
And then we have pregnancy and childbirth, and stretch marks, and piles. Labour, episiotomy scars, stitches. Flabby bellies, droopy boobs and cracked nipples.
We become mummies, fine-tuned to the needs of our offspring. We hear a baby cry – any baby- and whoosh! our boobs are spurting milk. And do our female hormones have any respect for time or place, any sense of decorum? No! A cry, a kitten’s mewing, even the sound of a friggin’ garden strimmer, and boy! It’s lunchtime! It doesn’t matter if you’re in Tesco, or having lunch with the in-laws – whoosh! Soaking wet tee-shirt and skimmed milk dripping off your nipples.
We nurture, we teach, we nurse those babies through childhood, and illness and puberty, and then the little bastards grow up and leave home! And us mummies are left, abandoned, bereft and pube-less! And daddies say, ‘Great! More time for me on the X-Box!’
And we suffer cystitis and thrush and cervical-bloody-smears. And society tells us we’re only attractive if we look like Barbie. I mean, seriously, have you ever heard a woman say, ‘Oh God, I love a bloke with great big balls’?
No, I thought not.
And grey hair on a guy says mature and distinguished. On a woman, it screams haggard old cow! And let’s not even mention the menopause or bleeding non-stop for three years or cervical-bastarding-biopsies! And once we hit our fifties, we need breast-screening. Ho ho! I’m looking forward to that one; you have to flop your boob out on this kind of ledge thing, and the machine sort of squishes it flat between two plates before taking an x-ray. Well, what if you don’t have enough boob to squash? I just know I’m gonna struggle – I’ll be up on tip-toes, lurching forward, trying to make the most of gravity, and the plates are just gonna slam together, missing my puppies but slicing off my nipples!
And blokes moan because they have to shave once a day! Helloo! We’ve gotta shave, too, y’know, and not just our faces; we’ve gotta do legs, underarm, chins and bikini lines. Now both of my boys have super-duper top-of-the-range, rechargeable, gliding action razors for a soft, smooth skin finish. Neither of ’em has more than a smattering of upper-lip bum-fluff. Me? I have sub-tropical, dense foliage and a rusty old Bic disposable!
Guys, go home and make the woman in your life a cup of tea, give her a massage, take her out for dinner. Being female isn’t all about glittery nail polish and fluffy pink jumpers, you know.