King of the Mingers

Many years ago, a torn-faced witch of a boss of mine looked over the partition at me, and apropos of very little (other than a failed marriage, no discernible dates and two teenage daughters getting more than enough for the three of them) said "You know you'll never find a man strong enough for you, don't you?"

That was something of a slap in the face at half past three on a wet Wednesday afternoon but as I was entirely unsure how to respond, I left it well alone. I did, however, move my chair back a little so I wouldn't get caught in the blast radius when the house was dropped on her.

It's been bothering me since, but not for the fact that to date at least, she's been right.

Anyway, it came to mind for reasons best known to my mis-wired subconscious as I was walking home from the pub last night just before midnight. On a Saturday night. I got confused looks from drunk men (apparently I'm not fat or ugly enough to merit intrusive comment these days) and pitying looks from women all of whom, without exception, were dressed like the worst kind of trashy movie whore.

See, there are those films with tasteful whores (think Jamie Lee Curtis in Trading Places) and those films with comedy whores (think Crocodile Dundee) or films with real whores (and I'll be damned if I can think of any right now) - but those films that want you to see the seedy side of a city. Hillside Strangler did that quite well last year, although the movie is an offensive piece of crap. Still, the whores did look reasonably authentic. Or you could go look at the girls who populate the roundabout on the highway near my parent's place in Spain.

But it strikes me that the discerning, pissed-up, under-educated, grunting, badly-dressed moron trying to get value for his £15 (and not just a third-rate blow-job behind a skip somewhere) would be hard-pushed to tell the city whores from the city mingers, even on a good day.

You know that only mingers are holidaying on the Costa Brava these days when the lads would rather risk life, limb and hard-on crossing four lanes of motorway traffic to get to a bored whore who will just give them a third-rate blow-job behind a skip. But at least the weather's better, eh?

Anyway, as I walked home through crowds of pregnancy scares waiting to happen, I ruminated on the average woman's total inability to dress herself, although judging by the doorway action, getting undressed isn't quite so much of a problem.

See, I would love to say, hand on heart, that any woman should wear whatever the hell she damn well pleases if it makes her happy. No really. But then I feel just as strongly that it has to be a good idea to dress in a way that accentuates all your strengths and makes you look your absolute best. This rarely extends to lemon yellow ra-ra mini's and strapless white tube dresses nicely set off against corned-beef legs. Which, on a total aside, reminds me of a scary French sausage called anduillette (I think) which is a white bag of lumpy gristle with added multi-coloured mysteriees and when you grill it, it looks like a waterlogged corpse exploding.

The streets last night (and most other nights) were full of women who saw something that looked fantastic on the hanger, bought it, crammed most of their cellulite into most of it, added a pair of canary yellow stiletto's and ventured forth. Looking like scary French sausages.

Oh thank you, uber-minger, for making me feel dead classy.

Last week I saw a hen party staggering their ugly way down Cockburn St. 11 women all wearing the kind of boho-chic that even looks bad on the fashion pages, but amongst them one woman (lucky bitch was over 5'10" if she was an inch) in a very short black simple dress, glossy hair, legs that went on for forever (they were tanned too) and she was seriously striking. She had the kind of body and the kind of walk that would leave men dribbling as she went past. Good on her. I hate her, but good on her anyway. Then she stopped across the road from where I was sitting, bent forward, and lifted the back of her dress, flashing her (doubtless perfect) arse at some guys a block behind them. Then when done, she clapped her hands, squealed and ran around high-fiving her girlfriends. Not quite so classy. Then, just in case they'd forgotten her, she did it all again.

So you wonder….why? Well ok, I wonder why. I have a cleavage you could lose the rescue dog in, never mind the skier, but I never ever get the urge to flash it at anyone. It's hard enough getting undressed in front of one person without giving the world a gander. I'm sure most men would be appreciative, but what would be the point? No, that's not strictly true - what's in it for me? That's a much better question. What the holy crap would be in it for me?

A couple months ago I was in my local with a bunch of people I've known forever, and with them a guy I'd never seen in there before. We are all chat-chat-chatting all night and it's a very pleasant evening. I had on a black zip top and under it a vest that was doing my head in. It's reasonably low cut but gapes in the middle (it has since been stitched shut) so I spent half the night trying to close the gapey bit and was wishing I'd worn something - anything - else.

At some point, the new man said "Have I bought you a drink yet?" I answered no. He said "I'd like to buy you a drink. What are you drinking?" So I told him and he went up to the bar. I went to the bathroom and when I came back he was still at the bar so I went to talk to him while he was waiting to be served. When he had both our drinks he held mine out to me. Before letting me take it, though, he said "Well, you've been flashing your tits at us all night like a whore, so I suppose you've earned this."

I told him where he could stick his drink and went and bought my own. What fucking planet do I live on that that's considered an acceptable thing to say to someone?

The conversation often goes around the intelligent, single women I know (the women who have found someone wonderful are thoroughly envied, trust me) about the fact that if only we were stupid and girly and behaved in thoroughly non-threatening and silly ways, we could attract no end of male attention. But that's missing the point. Male attention is easy to attract. Insultingly easy, most of the time, but it's attracting the attention of someone worthy that's so bloody difficult. Hence my original point, if I had one.

So I'll never find someone strong enough? Ok. I'd rather be on my own than with someone feeble. But strong enough for what? For me? Am I really so scary? Strong as in confident, brave, secure and capable? Is that really so much to expect? Strong enough to be faithful, that would be nice. Strong enough to be the other whole person in a relationship, that would be nice.

But according to at least one wicked witch 'women like me' don't stand a hope in hell.

A friend of mine (infinitely scarier than me - when a mutual friend introduced us he told me he reckoned we'd either be friends for life or kill each other on sight…) met her gorgeous and devoted husband when she drove him home after a meeting. She'd had an appalling day and was in a fearful mood - livid, fuming and resentful of the diversion on the way home. He thought she was scary and wonderful. She could barely acknowledge his presence. He wanted to see her again. She was oblivious. Is this how it has to be?

It can't be that the world is just full of Neanderthals who only want to fuck some pastel-clad screeching minger in a doorway surrounded by spilt chips and vomit.

In any decent scientific experiment that involved as many variables as my love life, there would at least be control. Where is the control, dammit?

There's a wonderful quote in Lanark, which I am loving reading. Lanark encounters a mad Scotsman when seeking refuge from his emotionally volatile wife and newborn son. The man says to him:

"You see, women are different from us. They're seventy five percent water. You can read that in Pavlov."

After a moment, Lanark said "Men are mostly water, too."

"Yes but only seventy percent. The extra five percent makes the difference. Women have notions and feelings like us but they've got tides too, tides that keep floating the bits of a human being together inside them and washing it apart again. They're governed by lunar gravity; you can read that in Newton. How can they follow ordinary notions of decency when they're driven by the moon?"

So that's my excuse. I must be tidal. That would at least explain why the miserable, self-indulgent bits of my grey matter are sloshing back and forth in messy whorls of dead dogfish, opaque glass, blue rope and wooden crates.