Humour

A Day in the Life of a Suffragent
by Athos

'Try to look feminine' she shouted', '...and try to look helpless, you useless, bald-headed, four-eyed weasel !'

It was the ghost of my wife, of course, haunting me regularly, now that she couldn't beat me senseless on those mornings when she woke up with her 'woman's troubles'.

It was my fault, of course, as I was just eviscerating her body with a marmalade spoon. I ladled her kidney onto a plate, whilst taking another bite of the succulent toast.

The blissful dream was shattered when I glanced at the clock and realised it was time to prepare for my first day's campaign action. I shaved, then chose the crinoline dress with the tight bodice, white knee-high socks, and black shoes to complete the 'innocent young girl' look. Gaily, I sashayed out of the door towards my first target - the white van, parked carelessly outside the allotment gates, behind my block of flats.

My timing was perfect as I saw the driver, ambling back to his vehicle, laden with baskets of freshly harvested vegetables. Daintily, I lay on the road, pulling myself underneath the bumper, as close to the front wheels as possible. Monments later, I felt the van sag as he took his seat and started the engine. I closed my eyes and clenched my fists, waiting for that first crunch of bone - whalebone from my corset and then my ribs. The gears engaged noisily and I waited for the painful blackness to convey me to glorious martyrdom.

" Equal Rights for men !" I screamed. "Bring down the matriarchal government that oppresses all men !"

To my horror, the van reversed and, just as the driver was pulling out he must have spotted me.

" What the blazes are you doing there, you gormless transvestite ?"
It couldn't be my wife, I thought, the voice is too deep.

" Get out of the road you crazy pillock !"

" I refuse to move until men are afforded equal rights with women", I shouted back, defiantly.

With that he climbed from his van, striding over to me, pulling back his sleeves and clenching his fists. He reached down and grabbed my bodice, lifting me to my feet, his foetid breath making my stomach heave.
" Equal rights for men" I whimpered at the reddened face with the glaring, angry eyes.

" Equal rights for men....?" he spluttered, "....now I know you're crazy."
He tossed me over the pavement into a blackberry bush as though I was a rag doll.

" If I don't get these vegetables back to my wife in time for lunch, she'll scream at me like a banshee and then sulk for days - my life won't be worth living !"

With that he climbed back into his van and drove off to the sound of screetching rubber on asphalt.

I looked down miserably at my torn bodice, feeling the cruel thorns in my back and legs.

"I suppose I'll have to try something else now - Mankind must be served," I whined miserably, strolling back to my flat.

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I was in the supermarket the other day, pushing my trolley and grasping my meagre shopping list in one hand.  Then began the Herculean task of avoiding being caught staring at the acres of exposed female flesh that seemed to fill every aisle more completely than any butcher's shop window at Christmas.  Orange flesh, brown flesh, acne-covered flesh, fleshy folds overhanging low-cut jeans and mini-skirts, and, the anathema of the male, obese flesh exposed  by ill-fitting clothes.  Oh, I forgot to mention my personal dislike, that seems to desecrate every bit of exposed female flesh these days, the tattoos and the body piercing, yuk and double yuk !

Being ‘over 60’ and single, I seem to be automatically branded a ‘dirty old man, or a ‘filthy old pervert, which makes it extremely dangerous to venture forth shopping on my own.  After all, it's difficult to avoid letting one's eyes fall upon a young lady bending over, exposing her breasts or her ‘builders bum.  Being caught can invite the aforementioned derogatory remarks.  On the one occasion when this happened to me, I responded, ‘"Madam, I may be 62, but I bath every day and, although I may be described as a pervert, you may rest assured that I am not a practising one".

However, there I was pushing my trolley and searching for the Romain lettuce (as one does), when I found myself in an impossible situation.  Somehow, I had passed between pallets of vegetables that were being placed onto shelves, with no space for overtaking to my left or my right.  Worse still, there was a fierce looking elderly lady in front of me with her trolley blocking mine.  It was that dreaded moment from ‘The good, the Bad. and the Ugly, where everything falls silent except the musical ticking of the clock, slowing down to the point when everyone is going to start shooting.  I looked again at the elderly lady, with her unblinking, coal-black eyes, set in a calcified face of wrinkles and makeup.

“Give way to a lady,” I heard.

“I beg your pardon?” I replied. I looked around me and saw that I was at the end of the narrow part of the aisle whereas she was steadfastly blocking my exit.

“You should give way to a lady,” she reiterated, “and ."Where are your manners?”

This was indeed a ‘Mexican standoff’ in true Eli Wallach and Lee Van Cleef style.

“Madam,” I replied, haughtily, “anyone can see that you are blocking my exit from the narrow part of the aisle, and it is simply not reasonable of you to expect me to back all the way, simply to allow you through, lady or not.”

Miraculously, she moved aside to let me pass, but not without comment.

“In my day, you'd have been horse-whipped for your ill-manners.”

I looked back, stunned.

"And you, madam, would have ended up in a ducking chair, prior to being burned at the stake!” I retorted, moving happily on my way through the jiggling bosoms and thrusting buttocks.

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Titchmarsh show becomes interesting
by Aramis

Thanks to John McCririck, the usual anodyne Titchmarsh Show took on some life on the 20th September. Instead of the usual chummy-chat, we had a guest with opinions, a man who was willing to answer back to two women, Gloria Honeyford and Ingrid Tarrant, who were having a go at him from both sides. Answering back to women on PC TV? Wow!

   The episode started with Ingrid Tarrant’s photographs showing her in a basque and fishnet stockings. Now, I ask you, a 52-year-old woman in that outfit! I know that women over 30 are in urgent need of their upholstery to hold everything up as it starts migrating south but it’s generally covered by other garments. I think McCririck was unimpressed by a sheep trying to dress up as lamb, to give the impression that she was “desirable” to any man.

   McCririck was angered by Ingrid Tarrant’s attack on her ex-husband as he, of course, was not there to defend himself. Her revelations angered McCririck, who said: "You had a cheek to say that he smelt of vindaloo and fish and chips in bed, what's wrong with that?  You're such a ghastly woman, you put a tracker on him."

   Ingrid, 52, replied: "He lied, how ghastly is that?"

   John said, "All I can say is poor old Chris Tarrant, look at what he had to work with if he was bad in bed." John had hit the nail well and truly on the head. He reinforced his point with: "You can't be any good in bed, that's why he strayed away." This exchange showed clearly that whereas Ingrid could dish it our, she was no good at taking it.

   I had to put down the magazine I generally read while watching the Titchmarsh show, and give it my full attention. Even the usually smarmy Gloria Honeyford was less than her usual mellifluous self and resorted to name-calling. I detected a serious crack in her over-heavy makeup.

   Then, just as things were getting really interesting and all three guests started to throw insults about, Titchmarsh started to panic and his customary painted-on smile faded somewhat as he proved his inability to control a lively discussion. He called time and told John to leave saying, "Go on, off you go." Alan would be better sticking to his trowel!

  The show continued and I reached for my magazine again.

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It's in their genes

by Athos the indomitable

“Well, at least I’m not bald and wrinkled !” The sneer on my granddaughter’s face was enough to raise my blood pressure to Krakatowa level.

“I’ve told you to show some respect by not calling me names,” was my terse reply.

“You’re a gripper….. !” she repeated, defiantly,“… an old gripper, gripping onto life by your fingernails !”

The lava was at the top of the crater. “You should respect your elders, you cheeky little madam.” I had to remind myself that she was only eleven years of age, eleven going on twenty-one, the little cow.

“Gripper, gripper, gripper !” her younger sister taunted, poking her tongue out at me, making the palms of my hands itchy.

This little horror is only six; what will she be like by the time she’s eleven, or 21 for that matter ?  All I could think of was the poor unsuspecting sods that would meet them one day and be smitten by their sweet, deceptive smiles, and be dull enough to fall in love with them.  Young girls like them should carry a health warning, I thought, to put the poor, unsuspecting young men on guard against getting lumbered with one of them.

“I’m going to marry Steven Gerrard,” the eleven year old declared.

“Yeah…..” her sister added, “….as soon as she murders his wife.”

I couldn’t believe my ears – so young yet already so mercenary.  Typically female, I realised, but how in ones so young ?

I sulked in silence, allowing the lava level to sink back into the crater, whilst the two harpies devoured a packet of chocolate marshmallows, not offering any to anyone else, of course.

“Grandad ?” The syrupy voice woke me from my slumber. The eleven year old was standing before me, smiling sweetly, causing me to bristle defensively, like a mongoose before a King Cobra.  I looked at her through narrowed eyes as she battered her blue eyes.

“Grandad….” she repeated.

Wait for it, I commanded myself, gripping the chair arms more tightly.

“Could I have fifty pounds towards the cost of a computer, please ?” My brain was searching for an appropriate answer.

“It is my birthday next week”, she added unnecessarily.

“I’ll talk it over with Nanny….and your father of course.”

“Is that a ‘yes’, then, Grandad ?”  Her smile didn’t waver a millimetre.

“If your dad approves and Nanny agrees to share the cost.” Her face beamed with childish joy.

“Well, in that case, could I have seventy pounds, or perhaps ninety, please ?”

I slapped my forehead and sank back in the chair. “Children…” I gasped, “…children like fully fledged women alread… it must be bred into them !”

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Sanctimony, thy name is ‘Woman’ – A Colonist’s view

by Athos – the well-travelled man-at-arms

“Thank you ma’am” I stared into hardened eyes as the bag with my donuts was dropped onto the glass shelf in front of me, followed by my change.

“I am not the Queen . . .” her look of disdain was powerful enough to smooth the surface of a golf ball.   “So I’ll thank you not to address me as ‘ma’am’ !”

A lady in the queue behind reached for my change. “Here let me help you,” her voice trembling, as though she knew this harridan behind the counter.

“Then I guess you’ve never heard of the U.S. of A…” I snapped, “….where Americans are polite to ladies, always addressing them as ‘ma’am’, ma’am ?”

“Oh dear,” the lady behind me sighed as she crept towards the doorway.

“We don’t have a Queen, but we do pretty well without one, and we like to treat all our ladies as if they were queens – ma’am….”

She sniffed the air haughtily. “I am British, with centuries of breeding and culture in my heritage.”

“Oh, you mean you’re descended from a long line of wenches and serving girls. Then – aren’t you all supposed to say ‘Thank you’ and curtsy, or have I got your lineage mixed up with the other type of ‘working girls’….hmmmm ?

I turned and walked out of the shop, my blood boiling.

“Dames” I muttered, “….they’re all the same – all ego and hairspray”.

“Scuse me…?”

“Women !” I snarled, pretending to spit in the gutter before I realised that the man who’d questioned me was hopelessly drunk. His face became a look of horror.
“Don’t mention that word near me bud…they’re the reason I drink !”
He augmented the declaration with a loud belch, the emission sending putrid alcohol fumes across the pavement, causing me to gag.  I saw him sway as he turned, just managing to keep his balance.

“Wuz married….…tree times…” he burbled as he walked away, “…only thing hat kills the pain.” He waved the bottle, protruding from the brown bag in his hand.

“I understand….” I called after him, “….I was just talking with your ex-wife.”

Suddenly I realised that I needed a drink – a big one !

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The ‘Tale’ that Wags the Dog
( A true tale from the memoirs of Athos the bold)

“I don’t care if she can’t find the keys, that scooter must go outside immediately !”

That’s what you get for stepping out into the corridor with reckless abandon and failing to check if the harridan was around, I thought, nervously.  I was tempted to retreat into my flat but thought it better to ‘grasp the nettle’ by seeing what the fuss was about on this particular Spring morning.

“The Fire Officer has said that these scooters would block any escape route in the event of a fire !”  I could feel the contents of my bowels liquefying as I came upon our ‘warden’ staring menacingly into the face of the son of one of our tenants.

“My mother is 88 years of age, is seriously handicapped and will not put her scooter outside.”

The harridan glanced at the offending electric scooter and then back to the son.
“Outside, immediately !”

The son considered his options, it being one of those life or death moments.
“Absolutely not !” he replied firmly, reminding me of Audie Murphy stepping onto an enemy beach with bullets and shrapnel whizzing past him as he fired his machine gun from his hip.

“Anything I may do to help ?” I asked, stepping into the line of fire, with reckless abandon, once more.

“I have been given my instructions, and these scooters must be put outside immediately.”
I gave her the smile that I usually reserved for my ex-wife when she had finished berating me about being a lousy husband and a lousy father.

“There’s always a compromise….” I began, “…and one thing we mustn’t do is cause any upset to our elderly and chronically ill tenants.”

Of course, I should have remembered that the ‘c’ word wasn’t in the female dictionary.
“Don’t worry yourself any more…” I offered, “I will deal with the matter, calmly and pleasantly. Oh, and by the way,” I added, “the fire instructions state that, in the event of a fire all residents must remain in their rooms… so no ‘escape route’ problems”

With that, she turned on her heel, marched into her office and slammed the door. I feared the worst – she was reaching for the telephone to summon reinforcements. Time for a tactical withdrawal, I decided, to head for the relative safety of my flat. I looked at my old and weary face in the hallway mirror, seeing the weathered, weary features, eroded away by years of female onslaughts, at the hands of three wives and a daughter who had inherited her mother’s knack of going straight for the scrotum whenever I dared to suggest an alternative opinion.

Sure enough, our warden had summoned the ultimate evil entity – at what price to her soul I could only imagine – The Harridan-in-Chief, line manager of all wardens, freshly returned to our shores after girding her loins on the island of Lesbos.

“I am informing you all that these scooters and that cupboard must be removed immediately…. do you hear !”

The unmistakeable battle cry of the demonic being, rattling the rafters above me, turned my blood cold. “What are you – a man or a mouse ?” I chastised myself quietly. “It’s only another menopausal woman after all” I reasoned.

I pressed my ear to the door. “Get stuffed you stupid old bat !” came the gruff response from my neighbour below.  Martin was not one to be trifled with as I knew to my cost after he caught me eying up his wife in her bikini one summer’s day.

“We shall sssssee !” the demon retorted, returning to her lair with the unmistakeable smell of burning sulphur filling the corridors as she loped along, crashing through fire doors.

I heaved a sigh of relief and turned to my computer where I began a message to one of my co-Board members at the Association’s HQ. “That’s it…”, I shouted, “Not only am I Chair of the tenants committee, I’m a ruddy Board member to boot.” Quickly I typed my plaintive plea to my colleague, ending with the request ‘….could you have a word with the Chief Harridan…. as I have to go out ?”

Minutes later the reply came. “I totally agree with you, we can’t have the tail wagging the dog, can we……” I smiled and read on….. “….so I’ve asked Joanne the Housing Manager, (female of course), to speak to Patricia and to tell her to back off.”

“Ruddy coward !” I shouted at the screen, running to make sure that my door was double-locked in case the Harridan tried to use her master key to gain access to my retreat.

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