How to tackle a woman (at 34) – midnight rants session

          Tomorrow is 14^th of February. Cue the clichés and the little angel with a bow. Cue the fragrance and the stupid music to go with panto faces and – badly exercised – gallant gestures. Rejoice in fake wishes and charade rendezvous, cold kisses and clumsy manners bestowed in restaurants bursting with sweat and candles and cheap perfume. Why this entire circus? Why “celebrate love” on a particular day? Why not all year round? Surely if people feel that way they don’t need the entertainment industry to rally them – it’s something they would naturally do every day. But enough of this.

          It’s not for me to harangue honest believers – religious or otherwise – unless I happen to take issue. And issue I take now, for it is most badly timed: the dreaded thing happens just as I’ve become single! For Jove, what am I talking about here; as embarrassing as it is for a man, I’ve been well and truly dumped! It’s not my finest hour but at least that got rid of the blinkers. And it pains me to see how dishonesty, dissatisfaction and pretence take hold of people as soon as any vows are thrown in. Pretence is then all they have left. (Once I nurtured the same feelings about marriage to the point that I made a note to myself reminding me not to do it. But at least married people have the excuse of living in an institution over which, once they tie the knot, they have little or no control – other than to divorce, of course).

          However, the main grievance was not being dumped. Frankly, it was overdue. What really pisses me off is being incapable of doing it myself. I think – as a man – that if a relationship is at an end it is my duty to put it out. There’s something harking back probably to our early ancestors about this, some primal “slam the door and walk away” feeling about it. There’s also the truth, and I beg anyone to dispute the fact, that women cannot do it properly. Break-ups they never could. It goes against all their instincts and the fundamentals of survival to do it; they’d be ill equipped to preserve the species unless they’re in a relationship.

          This sets out two diverging standpoints from the onset of any relationship. (To digress, I resent the word relationship because it takes to relate – which is an honest and pretty self-explanatory verb – and, by adding ship to it, institutionalise it). Anyway, as romance sparks out, glances are exchanged and hands are being held, out from the prying eyes war is declared. War between two genetically and culturally fortified positions. Even the most perfunctory analysis will show relationships to work that way.

          At this point the only reasonable thing to do is to negotiate. Explicit or not, every single relationship, as any institution, is based on some exchange of favours.  As for me, I couldn’t be troubled to. I conceded all. And expected all to be conceded and, cue the violins, I think the results are clear to be seen.

          You can imagine in the circumstances that my first rational thought was to assess the damage and see what can be rescued. And in spite of what cheap literature might tell you about pride, the truth is that everything can be rescued, it only depends on how low you’re willing to go. Everything except trust, that is. Trust can only be lost once. In moments like these common sense prescribes that against all instincts, against manners and feelings, never, ever, trust a woman. Never.

          One good example for this aimless rant of mine is sex. Take any honest woman and she’ll tell you that it only matters for the first couple of years. Then it becomes a “carrot and stick” tool for leverage (no pun intended). (We men don’t always object to this attitude because we think it’s allowing us to cheat, something we’re genetically programmed to do). What everyone seems to forget here is that we’re biological beings, we bloody need it! However elaborate love is, it gravitates around sex, and it has to do. Of course, it’s not only about sex. As an evolved species we have grown out of our basic instincts, but that is not to say that we got rid of them. I mean we are quite clever now to wrap sex in red ribbons and underwear, and perfume, and promises, and call it love; and write books and poems dedicated to the old act, but so we do with food. We don’t eat it raw, we use spices, dressings, ovens and grills, just like with love – we read books about it, but make no mistake: if we cook, we’re hungry.

          Next, please!

Dereliction

          I can’t quite remember when I met her. She must have been around for ages, but I began noticing her home, at garden parties. I was a kid back then and to me there was nothing remarkable about her. She seemed popular with guests – I didn’t really like her fragrance.

          She was good friends with Mother; that’s how I got to hang around her for more. She had pale, thin skin and scrawny appearance. Understated, she would be a good companion through dances and lengthy conversations. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea: although Father tolerated her, he didn’t like her at all. He would come home in the evening and swear he could smell her trail. I will always remember how he would warn me to stay away from her for she was deceptive.

          But dad had little to worry. Growing up I found enough distractions and friends to completely ignore her. I would see her here and there, bump into her at parties or travel along, but she wasn’t of any interest to me. She had the same cool charm, the same fragrance and the same affinity to philosophical conversations, yet I was immune to her spell.

          Years flew fast and I soon found myself with a thirst of knowledge that would keep me awake at night, rummaging through books and psychedelic music. It was then when it happened. I remember that night in all details: it was a hot, summer night; Telegraph Road was on the radio when I noticed her. She just stood there, in the dark, motionless. I first extended my hand towards her, unconvinced but willing. I touched her and she didn’t seem to mind, so I heated things up. And then it happened. It was pure, unadorned, guilty pleasure, lived through every breath. I persevered with an urge that consumed her entirely. I was ecstatic, for I thought I found a friend and a lover.

          There are literally no places where we couldn’t find pleasure. I got used with her taste, with her bitter-sweet smell filling my nostrils in the morning, with the texture of her kiss. We were inseparable at parties. We would go to bed together and looked for each other at sunrise. Once past college we didn’t have to hide anymore, I could introduce her to everyone, including my mates at university. I even told my father. Friends and family than once were frowning, now invited us around. Oh, the joy and relish of acceptance. For years I took her with me everywhere. I went to university with her, I travelled far and wide, I got lost, I fell in love with her, and I got my first job with her. We were inseparable and felt that it would last forever.

          Time went by and I started to notice something awkward. Routine was setting in and things we used to do didn’t seem fun anymore. We were a functional couple but passion waned away. As I grew older and mature she seemed to become increasingly young and foolish. Like a ladder on hosiery our bond was tearing; we grew colder and almost lost intimacy. Once we couldn’t stay separated for more than minutes and now we would go days without seeing each other. We started meeting only when going out with friends.

          And then something unbelievable happened. She started to become less and less popular. People spoke about her in harsh whispers and her presence became a concern. Acceptance was shrinking. A few people she knew turned their backs on her and I heard she even got barred from some pubs. There was no explanation for this. Poor soul, I can’t tell what she must’ve gone through.

          Then, on a cold winter night, in a smoke filled pub, we split up.

          It’s hard to describe love. Words, for all their power and pervasive profusion, will miserably fail to catch the emotion of a single feeling. It’s all more pathetic to think that when we lose ground on a lover, when the magic dispels, words, pompous and impotent words, are all we can use to try and mend it. It will never work. Read the signs and walk away goes the old song, for all we have left is to bid goodbye with dignity.

          Farewell, my dear cigarette!

Routine Driven

          Some while ago I decided that I drink too much coffee. I had to give it up; it was little more than routine filler between things to do, or the staple of business meetings at which, since they are not meant to be enjoyed, people can’t drink alcohol. So I stopped having coffee. At first I thought it would be unbearable, but after a few days I discovered I don’t actually miss it very much. And that made me look at all objects of desire that we acquire as we go through life only to discover, a few months later, that they’re not as exciting as they first lead us to think.

          Take the car, for example.

          Having a soft spot for anything with a crossplane V8 and rear wheel drive I bought myself an old E39 540i. Now, I’ve never been a fan of the post E34 5 Series mainly because the styling is rather reminiscent of middle aged men: constantly growing older, softer and bulkier. And Bangle’s first Bavarian creation manages this while being even featureless than a repmobile. But good E34’s are getting a bit long in the tooth so I bit the bullet and went for an old time favourite Oxford Green with cream leather. Visually, I would be hard pressed to find other items of interest.

          And despite the all-round plastic bumpers and fake chrome ornaments it’s got plenty of things I like. Chief of which is an engine that you could actually hear. And I don’t mean through the exhaust; it’s from the very bowels of the engine. The controls are nicely wrapped around you, the suspension setup is, as you would expect from any BMW, wunderbar. One feature I really like it’s the back massage feature: put it down in second and floor it; your spine will feel like it’s being caressed by a thousand Thai masseuses. But what makes it special to me above all, it’s that is properly involving.

          It’s a manly thing. It’s big, heavy and pushing forward in any gear with a real sense of urgency. You can tell what type of bug you ran over through the big steering wheel and if you are a proper man and go for the manual (as I did) your left leg will grow an extra set of muscles. The gearbox is whining and, on cold days, the gear shift is marginally softer than rigor mortis.

          Don’t get me wrong, I love the thing. But half asleep through the morning rush hour I find it hard to appreciate its qualities. And that is even before I mention the rush of adrenaline I feel every time I inch it through lanes of reps glued to their iBerry and housewives that look in the mirror only if they ever need to use the lipstick. It’s a chore.

          So, if you live in town, have a nice car and love driving, you might think it’s nice and comfortable to travel detached from the world outside the cockpit, but so does the dimwit tailgating you. Driving through rush hour is tiresome, risky and above all haunted by the inescapable fact that you only do it to get to work. So take this little piece of advice from me: don’t use your urge to drive. Save it.

          Instead, take the bus, or the tube, or what have you this side of walking and take your time to relax. It would save your time and, most importantly, the cohort of brain cells you would otherwise kill every day trying to convey rude gestures towards a man in a diesel Audi.

          I wouldn’t have thought of this had it not been for coffee. Because after a couple of grumpy weeks without the stuff, I have decided that it wasn’t anything wrong with it. So I would have one now and then, in the morning comfort of my home, Radio 2 on and reading the paper. And I was amazed to discover the explosion of flavours, the exceptional cocktail of taste and aroma. It’s a drink to enjoy. Consumed with moderation, it awakens your senses, flatters your feelings and ultimately makes your day.

          Fortunately, so is the car.