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QUIET RAVINGS OF A DESPERATE MAN |
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(or - what I did when I wasn't playing Tony Hawk's 2) |
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By Matthew Craig |
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Today, I learnt how to do the Spidey Grind. |
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This is ancient knowledge I shall pass on to my children. |
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Assuming, of course, that I ever drag myself away from this keyboard (and vibrating doohickey) long enough to have children. |
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Although, the woman I exchanged glances with in Tesco's today might have been a likely candidate for that particular biological pleasure (moo-hoo-ha-ha-haaa). |
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What is it I look for in a woman? |
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(ASIDE: re-reading that line reminded me of the old aftershave adverts, starring Helena Christiasen. "What is the essence of man? The right man?" she used to say, while staring out of the screen with those dead, dead eyes.) |
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I recall once deciding that hairiness and webbed feet were an advantage, but someone suggested I was aiming a little high... |
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The woman I saw in Tesco's today was...hmm...I suppose she looked like she did a lot of aerobics. She was slim without being skeletal (think Nell from Ally McBeal before the weight problem), and had a fascinating ass. Seriously. It stuck out, although it wasn't exactly big. The trousers were the topper, though. She looked like she had asked someone to paint them on. I like that. No matter how big or small framed a woman might be, put her in the right pair of pants and she looks smashing. |
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To me, anyway. And what do I know? |
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I think she must have noticed me checking her out. I doubt, to be honest, that she was all that interested. But I'd like to think that she was, at the very least, flattered. It's not like I was staring and panting. |
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And, yes, I've done that before. Well, maybe not the panting. |
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Honest. |
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Oh, maybe the once. And it was more like hyperventilation (really: one of my fantasies came half-true, and I started hyperventilating and shaking. I'm such a fucking virgin). |
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Anyway. |
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I don't think the women that I've dated are exactly prime examples of the sorts of women I seem to...er, notice as I wander the streets of this crazy island. |
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No. That's unfair. Some of them were very much my type. |
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I'd love to name names, but I won't. Suffice to say, if a girl doesn't laugh at the comics thing, then that's a BIG frickin' bonus. Laughter = dumpage. |
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Well, it did for my last sweet baboo, anyways. That, and she thought monogamy was a sort of wood. |
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(ASIDE 2: I thought I was dead original with that line. Thought I'd made it up, used it whenever I could, even practiced it. Had a dinner party howling with laughter - okay, so it was one drunk RE teacher, but you get the picture. Turns out that it's not an original Matt Craig gag. Nope. I nicked it from "The Mask." My unconscious mind is stealing Jim Carrey's frickin' material! What next? My ass starts doing Dr. Doolittle?) |
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I've always thought that my sort of woman would have to be receptive to my...unique sense of humour. To be honest, that's one of the things I worry about most. Beyond the obvious advantages to having a long-term missus (nookie, and plenty of it, whupa) is the subtle advantage of having someone who, while unafraid to tell you to shut the hell up, values your...ahem....idiosyncrasies. |
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I'm gonna get divorced. I know it. |
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I mention this because I was out of the house today, at the Sunday Market. |
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The Sunday Market is a great example of how cynical I've become, and why that might keep me from finding that One, True, Love. |
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They don't half sell some shite at these markets, is my usual thought as I swerve to avoid the prammernauts and diahorretic dogs. Rank meats, tatty lawn ornaments, bootleg pyjamas for the kids that are liable to burst into flames if they even think about spicy food, and donuts that taste of fish. Crap, crap, crap. |
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Borne out of my supermarket snobbery, of course. If these people were selling dodgy meat, then people would get sick and complain. No-one could stay open for long like that. And as to the other stuff, well, clothes is clothes, right. Hell, until Christmas last year, I was Man at C&A. |
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The final straw came when I walked past the music stall. Every market has one. They all play the same shitty "Oirish" music that you hear on local radio. The stuff for ex-pats who haven't been near the Old Sod for forty years, but still insist on painting themselves as greener than a man's face after a night on the Guinness; "The Scented Rose of Tralee." "The Ballad of Lough Bollock." That sort of thing. |
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I walked past one of these stalls, which was playing "She May Only Be A Milkman's Daughter, But Look At The Size Of Those Jugs." And, yes, I started to sneer. Like a twat. |
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Then, I had a thought (it must get lonely in there): this music might be shite (and it is), but this man is putting food on his table at night, and clothes on his children's backs. |
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They may be sawing their ears of with a butter knife having to listen to that jism, but at least he can afford private healthcare. |
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Snobbery may be fun for a while, but it doesn't pay the bills. |
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At least the woman in Tesco's had a nice arse. The donuts I bought there certainly tasted like they'd been wiped on one. |
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Matthew Craig, poorly, 6th August 2001 |
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