Opposing SEX?


 or are they the Adjacent

sex … ?

Women,” smugly sayeth The Sage once (actually, quite often) “are a foreign country.”

Whenever I hear this I brace for his punchline— “Nice to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there.”


the original Ancient Mariner complete with skinny claw, well chomped pipe, rum fumes and sou-wester hat. Okay, long-dead too but it never shuts him up when he feels like rhapsodising. Hah—his bite is worse than his bark, I can see right through him. Most folks do, in fact. Except The Spouse, she’s seen him a few times and it seems more often recently. According to esoteric theory that’s just not on …

But I get his drift. You can say what you like but women are not the same as men. Thank the gods. To my experience men are open, honest, often hairy, unsophisticated, uncomplicated, and excellent company for a boozy run ashore or wenching.

Women on the other hand are unpredictable, moody, deep, clever, irrational, stupid, emotional, basic, decisive, social, clannish, gregarious, complicated, anti-social, fashion-addicted, don’t care too much for booze and useless at wenching. Women can blunt a razor by simply picking it up. They can stop charging bulls in their tracks with a glare, they refuse to bait a hook or kill a fish but are excellent at cooking it—

Careful Lad—ye be sailin’ into dark waters if she sees this script—

He’s quite right, but I should worry? As clever as she is, Spouse is not computer literate.

Aye … but she be a fast learner.


So should I worry? No. The worst she could do would be to tear my arms and legs off and stuff them—

Aye, Lad … and centuries ago she were a Celtic warrior princess—

—okay. I’m worried. Sue me.


I read somewhere, regarded each other as equals. Women too could own property, rule tribes, play boyish games and fight in the ranks alongside their men. Many a lady’s mount had fresh heads dangling from its mane (an essential fashion accessory almost out of vogue these days).


accept each other as equals today? Admittedly some do. I certainly try—but still can’t stop myself opening doors, especially car doors, for The Spouse.


cost modern womanhood its femininity? Possibly not. Those wimmin charging into male-only clubs and bars waving their bras in the air whilst shrilling unintelligible shrieks did their sisters no favours at all—that so few of them were grabbed by the scruffs and nonchalantly tossed under passing buses says a lot for male forbearance and amused restraint—but for a male caught short to seek refuge in a Women’s Toilet (restroom) is to risk instant arrest and all the attendant nausea. Brrr.


perhaps. And there’s nothing wrong—despite modern gibberish—with masculine. Men too are people. And equal. ‘Equal’ should mean only one thing and that ‘thing’ is a concept, not a measurable fact. Equal should mean Equal Opportunity. Nothing less.

(Bugger—almost no coffee left in my huge mug … The Sage! It occurs to me that he’s keeping awesome quiet all of a sudden.)


Contact” (Jodie Foster, boom-boom!) for many reasons. One is her character’s ability to switch from a jeans-wearing mix-it-with-the-boys scientist to ultra feminine in a “drop-dead dress” at a classy social gathering soon after.

Women, it seems, are free to switch and mix; to be one of the boys when it suits or one of the weaker/fairer sex when meet. Men however … no matter what we call it, a gorilla in a freshly pressed tuxedo is still a gorilla in a tuxedo. So the clue is in her dress, no? Her clothes are her signals—if she wants to be seen and treated as a Lady she wears a dress and frills. But if she’s in jeans then heaven help any misguided male who opens a door for her.


sorry. Don’t look to me for guidance—I was brought up in an unequivocal cut-and-dried world of non-interchangeable blues and pinks; and never the twain did meet (although sometimes, just sometimes, ladies got away with wearing ‘slacks’*).


and provoked a commiserative observation from my very own personal Sage?

a)  the weather, and

b)  my survivalist “run before the storm” nature


here today has really turned and bit like a bomb. Chill winds lancing out of the deep south driving icy rain into numbed faces, and such. So: being a Mere Male (MM) and aware of the facts I dressed accordingly. But—

“Hey you~! Hairy unkempt uncouth smelly thing—”

“Yes, o’ beloved Spouse? Of whom every wish is but my absolute devoted command, the service of which is my entire and sole reason for being—” (yes! Lay it on with a trowel, they love it—and being female of our species cannot spot gentle satire—women in the main don’t do ‘subtle’; and blatant is beyond their ken. We’re safe …)

And here it comes, as predictable as the dawn and as welcome as ants in the beer; the one question guaranteed to send chills through my very fibres—

“What should I wear?”


Just like that, a single innocent broadside blows me completely out of the water. There is no way any man on this planet can answer that question.


  • that I’ve seen all of the latest reports, charts, and forecasts available on the web
  • that I’ve already laid out my own choices of raiment ready for donning after my shower
  • that she’s bimbled backwards and forwards often enough this morning to have taken it all in
  • that whatever I say will ipso facto be wrong (no man is a hero to his valet, cat, or wife) (not necessarily in that order)

I take refuge in the good old ‘broken record’ defence which this time is a summary of forecasts, maps, charts, radar, reports, trends, and even a quick grope of the seaweed suspended from a pole in the back garden—

“Eek~! Er … icy cold blasts and driving rain. Sunny with rain and hail, wet spells interspersed with dry calm. Max of nine degrees if lucky. Gales. Calms. Wet and dry.”

“Oh. So … whatsit gonna do?”

“Er … icy cold blasts and driving rain. Sunny with rain and hail, wet spells interspersed with dry calm. Max of nine degrees if lucky. Gales. Calms. Wet and dry.”

“Should I wear my puffer jacket?”

“Er … icy cold blasts and driving rain. Sunny with rain and hail, wet spells interspersed with dry calm. Max of nine degrees if lucky. Gales. Calms. Wet and dry.”

“Or maybe not, it’s only water-resistant. What do you think I should wear?”

“Er … icy cold blasts and driving rain. Sunny with rain and hail, wet spells interspersed—”

“If I go into shops they turn the heating up to blast-furnace so the assistants can flit around in filmy lacy stuffs—”

“—with dry calm. Max of nine degrees if lucky. Gales. Calms. Wet and dry.”

“—but outside the sweat freezes to your body in seconds. What do you think I should wear?”

“Awk! Icy cold blasts and driving rain. Hic! Sunny with rain and hail, wet spells interspersed with dry calm. Oink. Max of nine degrees if lucky. Gales. Calms. Wet and dry. Phlubba da blubba da blubba da phlu—”

(We’ll draw a veil of charity over the next twenty minutes but I compare to countless times in the navy getting ready for a run ashore—)

“Hey guys—whadda we on for tonight? Birds, booze, or big-eats?”




and that’s why men and women can never be as equal as feminist manipulators would have us believe. Boy/girl doesn’t work, there’s boys and there’s girls. Long may it last, vive la difference!  Equal?

As equal as opposite sides of a coin, maybe.

But interchangeable? No way.

Hell, even a guy dead for three hundred years knows that …




Courtesy on Mac's on-board dictionary
Courtesy of Mac’s on-board dictionary



14 thoughts on “Opposing SEX?

  1. Generally I would say that I enjoy reading your blogs very much, I find you very entertaining and strangely of a like mind to my own. I was beginning to warm to you, and your quirkiness. But the old chestnut about the battle of the sexes only ever gets wheeled out by men who are grumpy, and you sir sound grumpy. Not just evident in your writing of late, but I can physically feel it. Sorry to have put your nose out of joint, and sorry for any other woman who has done the same to you lately. It’s not our fault that you are grumpy. Get over it.

    1. To each her own, Ma’am. I just call it as I see it. Did you know that in New Zealand now they tie ribbons around trees in school yards, and no little boy is allowed to climb past them? They are considering forcing any kid on a scooter to wear a crash-helmet? In Southland here primary kids going to/from school or otherwise outside the gate have to wear day-glow (hi viz) jackets?

      Grumpy, moi? Good heavens … only with manipulators …

      1. Manipulators… what female ones? Man alive that’s rich! Yes Grumpy toi…
        Girls like to climb trees as much as boys, ribbons don’t just affect the poor boys. Have it your own way blokie. You’ve said your piece, your blog your rules. You win.
        There are in roads and out roads, but no roads in between right?

      1. Nah Ish a good’un, don’t take her the wrong way. That girl is razor sharp and gives as good as she gets. I know I’ve been at the blunt end! She’s a good pal though.


  2. I like bridges, especially Roman ones with pointy bits on one side to break the flow of an argument. Rope bridges are a bit more treacherous, might give one cause to plummet to uncertain death. Zip lines even worse, not good for the queensberries by all accounts. Not that I would know. Apparently socks come in handy.

    1. I think that was her subtle way of her telling me to “put a sock in it”?

      I guess I’ll never learn; have just set myself up for more of the same on another blog. Jest a slow learner, methinks (me, not she).

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