Sometimes what you don't know, won't hurt you.

The truth behind the top ten lies that men tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

Obviously he isn’t fine and he’s shitting himself about telling you he’s lost this month’s mortgage payment on the 2.15 at Chepstow.

‘This will be my last pint’

No it won’t. He’s just ordered another three before he texted you. And one of them was for a bird.

‘No, your bum doesn't look big in that’

He’s looking at someone else’s arse.

‘I had no signal’

Not technically a lie. Bad reception in the bookies, apparently.

‘My battery died’

That’ll be the incessant text messages to his Facebook ‘friends’ – All female, obviously.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

He was too busy poking his eyes out with a rusty fork. Oh, and getting a blow job while he was at it.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

Before condoms came into the equation.

‘I'm on my way’

To A & E, or a Sauna usually.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

He got a payday loan in your name to fund it.

‘I'm stuck in traffic’ 

In the back of a Police car.

The truth behind the top ten lies that women tell:

‘Nothing's wrong, I'm fine’

I’m on my period and come within ten feet of me and I’ll stab you to death.

‘Oh, this isn't new; I've had it for ages’

Well, had an eye on it for ages anyway.

‘It wasn't that expensive’

I forged a payday loan in your name to get it.

‘It was in the sale’

Yes, last year. In a different colour. And in a completely different design.

‘I'm on my way’

In the opposite direction.

‘I don't know where it is, I haven't touched it’

It’s broken and it’s buried in the garden.

‘I didn't have that much to drink’

After 3am.

‘I've got a headache’

I have plans and they don’t involve you.

  

‘No, I didn't throw it away’

I gave it to charity.

‘Sorry, I missed your call’

I was far too busy having much better sex with a much better looking guy who is earning much better money than you are.

It’s not all about Christian Grey, you know!

Prompted by a friends recommendation,  I’ve started reading the ‘International Phenomenon’ (*rolls eyes*) ‘The Man’. 

What can I say?  Other than it being yet another FSOG clone (yawn).

On a literary level, the typescript is absolutely horrendous - although it reads much better when under the influence of stimulants/prescription drugs,  I must say. 

Please allow me to summarise it for you:

‘Ana Ava is a naive idiot who thinks with her fanny young professional who cannot overcome her attraction to domineering selfish bastard playboy Christian Jesse.’

I know.  Sound familiar?

When I read a book, it’s usually because I either want to learn something or I want to escape normality for a while.  So, when I read a book for recreational purposes, I enjoy it much more if I’m given the opportunity to create my own mental picture of it.  I don’t like it when every single iota of detail is dictated to me.  For instance, in many erotic novels I’ve read, way too much page space is given to tedious minutia that’s completely irrelevant to the storyline/book objective. 

Personally,  I don’t want to know every single decorative detail about the setting/backdrop/characters personal life;  neither do I want to read about everyday mundane occurrences or be painfully subjected to an exchange of banal and pointless dialogue. 

I want the book to set the scene, not to over-analyse it.  I don’t need to know that the lead’s six foot nine inches tall with a square jawline and hazelnut coloured eyes.  I just want to know that he’s fit and I’ll mentally construct the rest, thank you very much.

I want the book to divulge the outline and sketch out a few seductive details. I don’t need the I’s dotting and the T’s crossing.  That’s the job that my reader brain has to do.  I don’t want the neuroticism, materialism, idealism and sometimes downright stupidism that all too often lands itself on the pages of a hell of a lot of erotic novels I’ve recently read. 

I don’t want to be force-fed formulaic Mills and Boon bullshit and I don’t want my lead to be a billionaire, have his own Charlie Tango and be a ridiculous incarnation of the man from the Milk Tray advert.  I want my man to be completely real and completely human.  Flaws, falls, fails and all. 

After all, aren’t the best sexual fantasies the ones that are anchored in reality - involving real life people and real life situations?

My not-so-polite note to the PM

For the Attention of Mr my head is up my posh arsehole Cameron 

I think you need to take your airy fairy arse out of that ivory tower of yours and open your eyes to what’s happening in the real world, posh boy.

You’re supposed to be leading this country but all you’re doing is decimating it. 

First Coal and now Shipbuilding?

I seriously think you’re Maggie Thatcher’s illegitimate lovechild.

And don’t bother blaming Labour either to cover your evil ways. I’m sick to the back teeth of hearing that same old tired regurgitated shit. Labour aren’t in charge now. You lot are. 

I have grown in a political era which seduced me as a youngster and then left me to perish. The ‘New World’ I grew up wanting to be a part of, has disintegrated into a life full of endless promises, astonishing greed, imbalanced wealth, unnecessary deprivation and suffering – all thanks to the Tories.

It is only now that I am truly recognising that despite all of my efforts, I am in the same place that I started from. Below the breadline. And I’ve worked all of my life at that. 

Under Thatcher, I have disturbing memories of my miner dad being called a scab and spat on in the street, my reluctance to wear education issue clothes (which were then three sizes too big for me, btw) and a constant diet of uncle bens boiled rice (before foreign food was even in fashion). 

Under you, I’m at the same social disadvantage some twenty-five years later. No industry, no growth and no fucking hope either. WTF are you doing to us all?

Diligent years of slaving away to imaginary and unachievable benchmarks, to reach a time when before we can even think about going out to work, we have to contemplate ridiculous child-care costs. And after childcare costs have robbed us blind, along comes the authorities with their rent and council tax demands.  And on top of that, extortionate water rates and feeding gas and electric meters like they’re going out of fashion. Then, oh my god, don’t even mention the rocketing cost of food shopping. 

No wonder IDS flopped out on the challenge of living on a week’s JSA. Sanctimonious piece of shit, he is.  Is it any wonder gambling houses/charity shops and pawnbrokers are booming? 

People need a national lottery win just to cover their basic living costs.

I wonder, do you and Samantha ever have to copper up to feed the gas and electric meters or make a fiver last you three days? 

Nope, I didn’t think so.

Parents can’t afford to clothe and feed their kids and all you want to do is build big army toys to aggravate other countries with and look good on Twitter.

No strings = good things

According to some sources, if you haven’t met your husband by the age of forty then you might as well just lie down and die. 

Thing is, I don’t actually want a husband. Husbands are just another mouth to feed, more pots to wash and more tidying up to do. Plus, I don’t particularly relish the prospect of being poked awake by an erect penis every morning for the rest of my life. 

No, what I really want is a completely hassle/risk free sexual liaison that has mutual benefits and is on agreeable terms - no emotional head-fuck and no extra ironing pile. Easy.

I know, in an ideal world, we’d all be married to amazing princes who were also amazing fathers and who did their fair share and then some, they’d treat us to new shoes every weekend, make us feel beautiful every day and even put the toilet seat down. 

But in real life, more than half of marriages end in divorce and a worrying amount involve domestic violence, oppression and result in horrific deaths. Hardly a positive advertisement is it?

Besides, being a single mum takes a hell of alot of juggling – to throw a full-time man into the middle of all that would just completely obliterate my equilibrium to smithereens. Historically, the impact it has had on the family dynamics has rarely been a particularly pleasurable one. 

Nope, I don’t need a ready made husband/father; I need a ‘pop-up’ lover.  

I don’t need a husband reminding me it’s time to hit old age; I need a lover who makes me feel twenty-one again. I don’t want a text asking me if its meat and potato pie for tea, I want a text asking me what colour knickers I’m wearing.  

I want clandestine, seduction, playfulness and fun. 

And in my particular case, that’s exactly what I get.