Pissing Into The Wind

The Only True Thing a Man was Born to Do.

If there is one thing a man loves doing above all the other things a man is supposed to love doing above everything else, it is pissing out of doors.  It is the one activity that a male was built to do, it is the one activity that a male is really good at doing, and it goes without saying, it is the one activity that a male really likes to do.  And this means, of course, that it is the one activity that man is prevented from doing by every single one of those so-called moral guardians who have never done it! And having never done it, and most likely having been punished even for thinking about doing it back when they still could have done it, they therefore feel it is their moral obligation to punish everyone else – by running for political office.  And once they have run for political office and have officially become politicians, they can then make it their business to prevent those who have defied the so-called moral guardians and have gone ahead and done it anyway, from ever doing it again. That is why the words and phrases, “pervert” and “wait ‘til your father gets home” and “you are under arrest” and “indecent exposure” were invented.  As well as stiff fines and lengthy prison sentences.

And all because it is the male animal’s one true talent!          

Now don’t get me wrong.  I am not talking about sexual predation.  I’m not talking about flashing in front of the church’s stain glass window on Sunday the minute the choir launches into the abridged version of the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’, and I’m not talking about whipping it out in the Mall and watering the begonias in the food court.  And, believe me, the last thing I am advocating is to water your grass in the back garden when your neighbours are holding a barbeque for the vicar (even though, unbeknownst to the neighbours, the vicar does it regularly in the graveyard, right on his late mother-in-law’s headstone.

What I am talking about is the joy of pissing out of doors for the sheer joy of pissing out of doors.  It is as simple as that.

I realise women might have a problem with this, and I can understand their point of view.  After all, pissing out of doors is something they are not designed for.  It is something they do not do very well.  It is something that, when they do do it, they often regret doing.  For very often, when they do do it, they fall over into the puddle they have just made.  But of course, that is when they cannot find a convenient log to squat on, and so they try to squat by simply squatting.  And even when they do find something to support them while they squat, they frequently spray urine all over themselves like a garden hose when you’ve put your finger against the nozzle into order to increase the strength of the spray.  And then they are known to say a bad word.  And forget it when they try to do it standing up, especially if they are wearing their shoes.  Because then, of course, having sprayed all over their shoes, they need about a roll and a half of loo paper, not only to dab themselves and their short and curlies, but also to wipe down their legs.  And then – it goes without saying – they feel they have to curtail the picnic – right at the moment the steaks are perfectly barbequed – in order to run to the mall in the next town to buy a new pair of shoes.  Never mind that they should have thought of going there in the first place – before the picnic even got under way – in order to pee.

In spite of the fact that women are thoroughly incompetent when it comes to pissing out of doors without making a mess, they still managed to get a law passed that permits them to do it.  And in the middle of town.  And in full view of passersby. Of course, according to this law they have to be pregnant, and they can only pee against the rear off-side wheel.  But I ask you, what is there to prevent an otherwise unpregnant woman from merely stuffing an old cushion up her jumper and pissing against any wheel she feels like?  After all, it is not as though a policeman is going to ask her to prove she is pregnant, and it is not as though most women carry around a spare pregnancy test just to prove they really are as pregnant as they say they are.   At least, not without a court order, but by the time one of those is obtained, it will be too late for the woman to funnel the pee she has splashed on to the street back into her bladder.   And as for the off-side business, they only snuck that into the law because there is no woman on earth who can understand the male-invented off-side rule.  And therefore they can plead ignorance.  But just let a man try that!  The whole thing smacks of one of the early suffragettes, who obviously forgot to go to the loo before she chained herself to the railings of the Houses of Parliament.

Which reminds me, what did happen when one of those suffragettes had to go to the toilet?  Did one of the friendly policemen – the one who had been beating her with his night-stick – simply halt his beating, say an apologetic, “Sorry, Madam, will you come this way, Madam,” and escort her into the building and out into the garden where – because of the fact there were no inside lady’s toilets at the time – she peed against the rear off-side wheel of the Prime Minister’s landau?  And afterwards, after she had sullied the upholstery of the landau, as well as her new black dress – for according to the photographs, they all seemed to favour mourning – did she demand to be escorted to the Army & Navy Stores to replace the dress and stockings and shoes she had ruined when she had sullied the upholstery of the landau when she had inadvertently missed the rear off-side wheel?  And after she had been duly escorted to The Army & Navy Stores, was she then returned to the Houses of Parliament, where – after re-chaining herself to the railings and hurling insults at the policeman – the same policeman duly picked up beating her where he’d left off?

But what about those women who snuck off while the policeman was waiting outside the ladies’ changing room in The Army & Navy Stores?  Even though every man on earth knows how long it takes a woman to change her clothes, didn’t it bother him when – after three hours had passed – she still hadn’t returned?  Even if he had been married to the slowest woman on earth – one of those who insisted on having ten dozen microscopic buttons on her bodice and who was obsessed with getting each and every button into its corresponding button hole (even if she had to undo each and every one of them a hundred times and start from the beginning) – wouldn’t he have grown suspicious after a while?  And, if so, wouldn’t he have gone to look in the restaurant, because that is undoubtedly where the woman would have been spending the last three hours – sitting with all the other women who had evaded their friendly policemen, and who had just finished a delightful three course afternoon tea – prior to slipping out the back door?

I once rode across country with a couple acquaintances of the female persuasion, and all it all it was a most enlightening experience.  Whereas usually women don’t talk a lot about their toileting habits, at least not in the presence of men who are not their husbands, these two talked about nothing else.  It seemed that the summer before they had driven across Canada, from the West Coast to the East, and being the rugged, non-nonsense types, they had slept rough during the entire journey – wherever possible avoiding the official campgrounds. It goes without saying that this is not an unusual thing for nature-lovers to do, for as anyone who has ever stayed in official campgrounds at the height of the season can tell you, they can be less peaceful than a pub on one of its monthly ‘Uptown Saturday Night ‘Free Beer’ Striptease Pub Quizzes’.  

Up to a point I enjoyed hearing about the women’s experiences.  But then they got on to the subject of relieving themselves. And after they had thoroughly rehashed every single ‘amusing incident’ that had befallen them on each single occasion when they had stopped to spend a penny, they got on to the subject of toilet paper.  Now, like many campers who are fastidious when it comes to the environment, they had originally discussed the logistics of ‘packing it out’ and carrying the soiled paper to one of the approved ‘dump stations. That plan – in the way of all such plans – went awry the first day.  So after that, they decided to do without toilet paper altogether and (as they put it) employ the good, old-fashioned ‘drip dry’ method.  Then, for the next two hours, I was forced to endure the ‘hilarity’ of their ‘summer of the urine-stained knickers’. 

Personally, I don’t like it when males – who tend to be much more scatological than females – get carried away with this sort of idiocy.  And I don’t like it any better when females resort to it either. After all, was that all there was to the holiday?  Hadn’t they passed through some sort of scenery? Hadn’t they seen any wildlife?  Hadn’t they met any interesting people?  Or was all that merely incidental to the main purpose, which was to experience “Shitting In The Woods Like Bears?”  Anyway, after about two hours of becoming increasingly pissed off, I spoiled their good time by finally opening my mouth.  First of all, I made it clear that I was speaking as a man and, therefore, was not exactly conversant with their problems when it came to peeing in the woods, to which they immediately got huffy and replied that – such being the case – I should shut up and mind my own business.  Well, I ignored that remark, and carried on.  I said that even though I was a miserable man and – therefore – a boor when it came to women in general, I happened to be a fairly experienced camper. I also pointed out that – since men were known to shit at least as often as women (and sometimes more often seeing as how they were gross and depraved) – men also had to deal with defecating in the woods.  And furthermore, when it came to clean ing up, we faced the same problems – except perhaps more so because we had hairier arses.  And without pausing for a breath – because I knew if I let them get a word in edgeways, I would never hear the end of it – I asked why, since they happened to have a car with them, they hadn’t just brought along a bucket?  And also a small shovel or some sort?  And also a few containers of water?  At this point, the driver said something not needing my input. But of course, being in full rant, I ignored her – simply to drive my message home. I suggested – for future reference – that a bucket was a handy place to squat when they had a pee.  And since they were already going to sully the forest floor with their urine, it was an easy matter simply to empty the bucket.  Then, I suggested that they could take the water they had been carrying in their car, and with that water they could wash themselves off.  And after washing themselves off, they could rinse out the bucket.  One of them tried to interrupt me by asking about the times they didn’t happen to have a car with them, to which I replied, “That’s bullshit and you know it! You never go anywhere without your bloody car. You even drive your car into your garage to pick up your other car!” And then they got all stroppy about using leaves to dry themselves off, and about how they always ended up using the wrong leaves – the ones that gave them rashes.  And that was when I opened my mouth one too many times and mentioned buying a guide book for local flora.  At which they said yelled, “All men were alike,” to which I retaliated, “At least a man pisses; we wouldn’t be caught dead wee-ing or tinkling.”

Interestingly enough, I never saw them after that, and they even stopped sending me their tie-dye greeting cards for Christmas.   

But back to the unbridled joy of men pissing in the great outdoors.  Unlike women, who seem to like to urinate in packs, men – at least when indoors – tend to treat it as a solitary exercise.  For example, when standing at a urinal when there is another man standing beside them, they cover themselves and look straight ahead.  Setting aside accepted etiquette, it is a territorial thing. A man urinating is a vulnerable man.

However, get a man outdoors, and man reverts to a more primitive state.  Whereas in a restaurant, two or three men sitting at the same table would never even think about going to the toilet at the same time – which is what women seem to do.  However, get them outside and at the edge of the car park, and they will have a grand old group piss-out.  And (excepting in certain cultures where it is taboo for a man to look at another man’s private parts) it is pretty much universal.  In fact, pissing in the great outdoors seemed to be one of the few activities during which even sworn enemies can call a truce.

In every single country in which I have lived (except for those dominated by Islam) I have seen men – young and old and in between – celebrating this one particular moment together.  No matter whether it’s on the side of a road or on a mountain top or on the edge of a cliff, the scenery is always better if it’s enjoyed while in the company of fellow pissers.

It goes without saying that pissing out of doors can be a risky business.  First of all, right at the point of no-return, when there is no chance of turning it off, the wind is bound to change.  And if you are in a group – all standing in a line in the usual way for you never piss in a circle, all facing inwards – and the wind resorts to the sort cheap whiplash joke it saves for such occasions, you’ll find that all men who have always pissed like men in the great outdoors, can all turn together, as if by some secret signal.  So clever are they that it’s only when the wind double-crosses them that they end up pissing on their neighbour’s breeks.

I know quite a few men who – given the choice – will always piss outdoors.  Even when they are at their own house. Perhaps it’s a throwback to bygone days when we used to mark our territory.  Who knows?  It makes sense to me.

Several years ago, I found myself staying at a small, disused hill farm in the mountains. Close to the shack in which I lived there was a family of foxes.  At the time, I was reading a book by Farley Mowat – Never Cry Wolf – in which the protagonist (I believe based on Mowat himself), decided to see how well the wolves would respect the territory he himself would establish by using his own urine trail.  And so, I decided, why not try it myself.  And so I did.  With the same results.  After encircling my little home with a trail of piss, I went inside and waited and watched.  Sure enough, the next morning, I found that the male fox had marked his territory just outside mine. I was ecstatic!  And I felt that, for once in my life, I had actually done something that mattered, and which was in tune with what nature had intended.

But back to pissing outdoors in more mundane surroundings.  It goes without saying, the minute you get caught out when you are walking alone along a completely deserted road – without a vehicle in sight – the second you open your flies and start to spray the countryside, there will be, not only one car coming from one direction, but ten cars coming from both directions.  And they will all pass each other right at the point at which you’re standing.  It never fails.  Of course, you could always turn around and salute the passengers, but I really would not recommend it.  Because at least four of the cars are bound to have little children riding in the back, the parents of which will inevitably be city dwellers that will look upon any man with open flies as a sex offender – no matter that he happens to be innocently pissing at the time his flies were open.  In this day and age, it is better to play it safe than to see your name placed on the sex-offenders list for pissing in front of a child.

Ah… but pissing into the wind and in the middle of a gale: that is when a clown like me feels most alive. And when I also happen to be standing on a cliff facing out to a north Atlantic sea, I am as close to heaven as I am ever likely to be.  And what about splashing?  What about splashing?  I am standing in a bloody gale, aren’t I!  Or as they say, “Innit!”

The Felkyo’s Curse: a peedie faerie tale

How Peedie Willy Lost His Aimer

This is a tale off an innocent young lad and an evil auld felkyo called Owld Mither Morag NicOxter-Arroo.  Every word herein is sad, and every word is truly true.

Now, many many eons ago, long before there was a sun up in the sky or an earth on down in the mud, there lived a wee peedie ting in a bog on the western slopes of a far-off island.  T’was in the north sea, somewhere between Orkney and Norway and The Rose of Tralee (which was for a time a gently mysterious floating nest of flotsam, long before it drifted in the wild Atlantic tide downwards ever downwards tae what was tae become The Kingdom of Kerry; once there, the Rose was soon proclaimed: The Fairest of all the Jetsam, and we all know the rest of that story).

This lad’s name was peedie Willy o’The Briny Breeks and he lived alone in his little croft with his mountainy sheep and his dog and his chicken and his pet herring, Misther Maet.  Now, peedie Willy had always lived alone, ever since he had found himself wrapped up in swaddling and in a basket outside his own front door.  So, of course, being the generous-hearted peedie ting he was, he had taken himself in, washed himself off, changed his little nappy, and set him down on his potty.

Now it had never occurred tae peedie Willy that he didn’t have a mither.  For he had never had one, had never heard of such a thing, and wouldn’t have known what to do with one had he had one. In fact, it was just as well that he found his own peedie self out front of the house every morn, and not a mither.  For having lived with himself for a great many years – perhaps even two hundred or more – he knew exactly what to do with his own peedie ting.  However, had it been his mither that he had found on the stoop, he would’a have been in a steer.  God only knows what me might have done if he’d he unwrapped such an awkward and not-very-nice-looking scrag from its swaddling?  First of all, she would’na been what he was expecting; secondly, she would’na been a beautiful sight for his sore eyes (he had – as ever – stayed up all night reading without remembering to light the lamp). And, if truth be told, he might’a thought she was rookel so owld, that he’d best hurl her intae the sea. And thirdly, she would’na been the same as a he. She would’a been a she. Now, peedie Willy had heard rumours tae the effect that there was such a thing as a she, but as far as he knew, one had never been seen on the far-off isles of the greatest of northern-most seas. And had it been a she he had discovered on his doorstep instead of a peedie he, what on earth would he have done? What could he have done?  For when you are but a peedie Willy, do you even know when you are faced tae face with a she?  After all, when all is said and done, you have never ever seen such a dastardly, rookel-some baste as a she?  “What is it?” you cry.   “What is it indeed?”   For as up is up and down is over there, it is not a he as you had expected it tae be?

Unbeknownst to peedie Willie, he had had a mither after all, but he had never seen her, not even once; nor had he ever set eyes upon a creature so fair and winsome as a bonny red-haired lass fae far beyond the western seas, otherwise known as the distant isles called Hebrides.  

Not that this was what his mither actually looked like.  For although I have just described what a lovely she well might’a been, I have really described another and not his own mither. No, it was not really she.  For if truth be told, his ancient mither – called Owld Morag NicOxter-Arroo – was none other than the infamous hoyden and slapper and slag, who worked fae dusk tae dawn and all through the day on the docks far tae the south of the beautiful, far-off isles of the northern-most sea.  And while she might once have been called a sturdy young heifer of a wench – that is, when the lights were set low and two bottles of Scotch were a’fermentin’ in a punter’s puggy – she was now a heuved and withered owld scrag who could fetch but tuppence three farthings when the wind was blowing fae the west and she was facing tae the east.  Owld Morag had but a single tooth in her foetid, snirly, auld mouth, and a goitre under her throat.  She had earwigs breeding in her left eye-socket and her nose drooped down like a stoat.  Not a single hair grew on her wizened head, for her dog had chewed it all off, but she did have a fine crop of fur on her crotch, in which she grew tatties and leeks and was known to hide four dozen bottles of Scotch.

Peedie Willy knew not that he had been of a woman born, and if someone had told him such a tale of woe, he would’a been aghast.  For although he had been ‘round for a very long time, and knew about the breeding of sheep, he had taken for granted that he himself was really rather unique.

It therefore came as a great surprise, when one day there on his door there came a loud knock.  The first thing he thought was that he’d be there again, to which he’d replied to his peedie self who was a’sittin on the pot, “Pray tell, but is the world soon to be completely populated by me?”

But alas and alack, that wasn’t to be.  For afore him was not basket containing a tiny, fresh-whalped peedie Willy so fair, but something that looked – for all the world – like it had been buried in shite for a very long time, and it really did give him a scare.  The first thing out of his peedie mouth when face-to-face with this felkyo so vile (for a felkyo she did indeed turn out tae be, and not his poor owl mither who she’d knifed in a fight over a sailor from some other primitive isle), was a yelp of sheer terror, followed by a none-too-friendly, “Jeezus Howlee Mither o’God!”

But after she had slapped him upside and down and narrowed her eyes tae a glint, he took a deep breath and straightened his tie and affixed a smile tae his face “Pray tell?” he asked with a shite-eating grin, “And exactly who are you?” At which point he put on his specks and examined her through and through. “And why are you so impossibly old? For as sure as there is owld crap in your drawers, you’ll never see me a’sleep with your whores.” Tae which he added, “And keep yerself far away fae me boars!” It was then he peered intae her rheumy eye, the one that’d not fallen out, and he said with a sneeze that was just like a cold, “Feckin’ Christ, what a grand sewer of mould.”  

The fact that he’d yelped, “Jeezus!” straight into her face, did nothing to improve the owld witch’s mood.  She fell intae a swoon, and when she’d revived, she clouted him round his head with her spoon.

Now here is where the tale turns sad, so listen well my friend, for the felkyo really was the vilest felkyo in the land; she’d been whelped not on a beach in the fog, but in a filthy ditch right down in a bog.  And why had she come tae torment him this way?  Simple: she wanted to marry his hog.

Now if truth be told, and it’s truth I shall tell, mankind was not always the same as ‘tis now. 

For in the beginning, when God made a man, He’d said, “Here, please use this long detachable spout.”  For it had so many uses, just like a hose, and with a small nozzle one could turn on and off at your will.  And when you had done, and you’d had all your fun, you twisted it off and hung it up high, from a nail right over your sill.

But poor Willy, he shouldn’a said those aafil words tae the felkyo.  For her spoon was a wand, and she took her revenge, by cursing all men with a blight.

And, from that minute on, instead of a detachable, utterly manageable, spout such as God had truly designed, she’d forced man tae wear a nozzle so small, that no matter how clever or how short or how tall, it could never be aimed intae anything at all.

So remember, my lass, when your lad goes tae the loo and leaves a loch greater than Ness, it was never his plan tae splash on the wall, nor for his sweenkle tae make such a mess.

For you see, though he may have the mind of a mouldering log and not as much sense as your ten-years-dead dog, when you look back in time, in your glass you shall see, the original willy was as innocent as can be. For his detachable hose it was such a joy; and fae a distance, t’was just like the Old Man of Hoy.  But alas, alack, now life is a slog.

And it’s all the fault of the baste from the bog.

The Little Wet Spots of My World

How We Got them, What To Do With Them, and Who Is To Blame

When your dog is chasing his tail round and round and round and having a grand old rumpus, and whenever people happen to be watching, there will always be at least the one imbecile who will make the following comment:  “Isn’t he sweet!  But, of course, he doesn’t really know it’s his tail, does he?”  And you sigh, and roll your eyes and swallow your reply.  For the thing is, you know exactly what would happen if he caught his five year old son whipping out his willy in Kensington Gardens – right under the statue of ‘Peter Pan’ – and was joyfully chasing it round and round a tree.

Applying similar criteria to his son to that which he applied to your dog (who in your opinion is a whole lot more intelligent), do you think for one moment that this same imbecile would say (with the approved, embarrassed, fatherly chuckle), “Isn’t he sweet? But, of course, he doesn’t really know it’s his willy, does he?” 

No, I’m afraid he would not!  And not only would he not, but his first reaction would be to smack his son’s hand, stuff  the offending willy down  his son’s trousers – possibly circumcising him in the zipper in the process –  and drag him out of the park.  And all the while pretending that it was all the boy’s mother’s fault (or that the boy had a learning disorder) and that he himself – as the father – was merely an innocent bystander.  Needless to say, the minute they got home, he would immediately put his son across his knee, wash his mouth out with carbolic, and send him to his room without his tea.  And then – ten years down the line – this man will wonder why his son has joined a terrorist cell.

Now, I know that in society children must learn to operate on a ‘higher’ plane from that of ‘lower’ animals, but for God’s sake don’t smack them in front of the statue of ‘Peter Pan’!  The only thing that will accomplish (besides inspiring him to join a terrorist cell, of course) is to run away from home. In other words, after being sent to his room – and after drinking the glass of milk and eating the digestive biscuits his mother smuggled up to him the minute her husband had stormed out of the house and down to the pub – the son will manage to sneak his pet dog into his room.  Together, the two of them will wait patiently for night to fall and for his parents to go to bed.  Once everything is quiet, the little boy embarks upon the course of action he has earlier planned.  Now, it’s not that he doesn’t love his parents; after all they did promise to buy him the latest X-Box for his birthday.  However, his father did humiliate him in front of Peter Pan. And there are other certain mitigating circumstances, as well, and these alone demand precipitate action. 

The first circumstance involves having his penis rubbed with noxious substances that make it not to wish come out and play. And while he hasn’t yet experienced this in person, his best friend has.  And this best friend is currently filing suit against his parents and has moved in with his older sister and her husband.   The second mitigating circumstance involves the sudden plan to have him sent to the Jar-Head Mercenary Boot Camp in the Mississippi Delta – an accredited K through12 academy that guarantees to turn your liberal faggot son into a brutal ironman assassin, no questions asked.

With these images spinning round his head, the little boy can think of only one way out.  And so he fetches some of his mother’s talcum powder from the bathroom, sprinkles it over his and the dog’s head and calls it fairy-dust, after which he flies out the window to Never-Never-Land.  And if you were still waiting for the first mention of a little wet spot, let’s just say you should have seen what his little willy did the moment he jumped.

Now let us proceed to the second scenario: You come home from an afternoon spent visiting the neighbours’ new litter of kittens.  Your new puppy – who is usually so ‘good’ – is so excited to see you that he momentarily forgets his manners; a tiny sprinkle of yellow liquid splashes on your new white Nikes and leaves a wet spot on the parquet.  However, since he is usually so fastidious and since you feel guilty for leaving him alone so long whilst eating your way through the neighbour’s daughter’s birthday cake, you clap your hands and laugh and clip the lead on to his collar and take him outside for a walk.  Because, after all, he is only a little doggie, he is your precious love, and – let’s face – he’s not really very bright.  And also, you are thrilled that he was so glad to see you that he actually burst his bladder.  The ultimate compliment.

Now, let us substitute your aged, senile and foul-tempered mother for this sweet little puppy.  Suppose you left her alone – under a similar set of circumstances – only you didn’t come home until after eleven that night.  Let’s also suppose that, when the old bag hears your key in the front door, she struggles to her feet – knocks her Zimmer frame over on to your new glass-topped coffee table, smashing it to bits, and then totters into the hallway to tell you just what she thinks of you.  Keeping in mind that she is not a cute little puppy (and is not nearly as bright), would you still think – even though her Tenas have overflowed, resulting not so much in a little wet spot as in a loch the size of Ness – that the old harridan is an adorable little cupcake?  Or would you hold it against her that, even though you have been out partying and getting snockered while she has been sitting at home alone, she simply refuses to take the hint.  In other words, in spite of all your prayers and your donations to the church’s restoration fund, the old termagant keeps right on living (and does it intentionally to spite you); because of this, and because she asked for it, you will probably resort to the sort of punitive action that doesn’t exactly thrill the social workers.   And due to the fact that she will then yell at you and call you an ungrateful child and a changeling, you strap her down on to her bed. And when she has the gall to demand her bowl of gruel and inky black tea, you lie to her through your teeth and tell her she already had it.  Because you know that even if you did go to all that trouble, she wouldn’t appreciate it any more than she would remember it.

Of course, once the old cow is safely in bed and her door is securely locked, you return to your lounge – the room you keep for ‘best’.  After all, considering everything you’ve been through you deserve a drink and a good sit down in front of your seventy-two-inch flat screen television.  It goes without saying that you’ve only recently refurbished this room.  It has all-white carpet, white upholstered sofas and chairs, black and white stripped wallpaper with real paintings of clowns, and – naturally – a black marble wet bar.

However, the very first thing you notice upon entering this holy of holies (which she has been forbidden under pain of death to enter) is that she’s gone and smashed your new Waterford  Crystal coffee table with her Zimmer frame.  And the next thing you notice is that she has left a very large and very noisome wet spot right on the sofa cushions – a spot that has spread to include every inch of the sofa.

Clearly, there is only one sensible thing you can do: first thing in the morning – even before getting her dressed or spooning her ounce of gruel down her gullet – you take her straight over to that nursing home – the one on the bypass that accepts walk-ins.  You leave her on the doorstep (or, if you prefer, in the middle of the street) and you don’t even bother to say goodbye – after all, what did she ever do for you except call you an ungrateful child and to wish she’d had the abortion her boyfriend had promised to pay for.  And, it goes without saying the last thing you’ll do is leave a forwarding address or her medication.  After all, even though this is ‘one of those’ nursing homes, there is still the matter of those telltale bruises and the broken arm and the fractured pelvis and the fact you haven’t changed her nappy for a good two months.  It’s a case of  “good-bye, mummy; don’t bother to wait up.”

But wouldn’t you have been saved all this bother if you hadn’t given her a home in the first place?  That way you would have had the spare room – which would, of course, be absolutely perfect for that delightful little puppy you saw making a cute little wet spot in the pet shop window.  And wasn’t he just soooo cute?

Having dispensed with the sort of large-scale wet-spot scenarios that we love to share round the barbie with our neighbours, let us get down to the ordinary, everyday, common or garden variety that are the bane of everyone’s existence.

And we shall start with underwear.  Men’s underwear, to be precise.  Now why on earth – unless you are endowed with one of those scrotums the size and weight of a bull elephant’s – should any man wish to wear underwear?  After all, it pinches, it makes you sweat, and it invariably gets caught in your arse crack and leaves embarrassing skid marks (because God forbid you – being a real man – should actually wash).

Now, let’s face it, there may be two reasons for a man to wear knickers; however, only one of them is honest.  The first one, which we shall dismiss out of hand as being unacceptable to any rugby player, is either because you are a male model – and therefore a faggot – or a premier league football player wearing it to please your sponsor.  After all, you do have that new Bugatti Veyron and the penthouse in the Burj Khalifa in Dubai to pay for.  As well as your string of newly minted pop starlette WAGS.  But, let’s face it, the minute the promotional photos are taken, the first thing you do is rip them off and go commando like the real working class lad he is.

That having been said – and believe me, although given the choice I will go commando any day of the week, there really is one good reason for a man to wear underwear:  The wet spot.  Now, let’s be perfectly blunt about this: when God created man, he included one really glaring flaw, for which – had man been a car – he would have been recalled.

The flaw is this:  no matter how hard or vigorously a man shakes his penis after urinating, there is always that one drop that waits to emerge until after said penis is returned to the trousers. And the result is a wet spot that no man can conceal.

Now, it’s not as bad for an uncircumcised male, for he can always pull his foreskin over his penis and a tie a ribbon round it.  However, if you are a real man and you are in a public convenience, and there are others around – especially that interested little specimen in the pink shirt and the champagne pompadour and the very large ex-fullback in the Security Guard’s uniform – the last thing you want to do is tie a ribbon round your willy in plain sight.

 The only other problem with the ribbon solution in dealing with that pesky wet spot is that the interior of your foreskin is, at the best of times, a moist, unwashed, rancid and foetid  receptacle for jism and other delights.  Add the wet spot to the brew and it will waste no time in fermenting and starting to smell like the den of a male lion.  And because of this, you might not ask your girlfriend to fellate you until after you’ve added a dash of cologne. Otherwise, your flavour will not be her flavour-of-the-month.

But, at least an uncircumcised man does have an option.  However, for an uncircumcised man all is lost.  You are out of luck.  There is nothing you can do about that one extra drop of urine, which will spread and spread and spread, and it will be a particularly virulent shade of yellow.  Especially if you are wearing white trousers and don’t have anything you can cover yourself with.

It goes without saying, the only solution is: underwear.  Because, if push does come to shove and you are wearing underwear when your wet spot runs amok, you can always wait until things settle down and then remove the wet-spotted underwear and bin it. This does, of course, mean bringing sixteen or seventeen extra pairs whenever you leave the house, but wa-HAY, why do you think God created rucksacks?

Now, there is one piece of good news for male underwear sufferers, and that is that the new lycra boxers are really quite refreshing to wear.  You can almost fool yourself into thinking that you’ve got nothing on at all. But then, men also believe that vegetables cause impotence.

But then, of course, if you are one of those slacker student types, your cargoes will already be so stained that a mere wet spot will be redundant.  In fact, many students – particularly philosophy majors – can piss straight through their flies without interrupting their latest discussion in the cafe, and without exposing themselves to ridicule. Because, you see, nobody will notice anything different. 

Having said all there is to say about underwear in its role as a man’s wet spot-concealer, let us segue to the role of the wet spot as the reason for the male’s unwillingness to sustain (and endure) long-term sexual relationships. Long-term meaning – in the excepted vernacular of the sexually active male human animal – anything longer than it takes for him to achieve his first organism. And let us brutal about this: it is not the fault of the man; he would be more than willing – if not to spend the entire night (in which case there’s always the danger that the woman might say, “I love you”) – but at least long enough to achieve a second orgasm (and with any luck, by that time the woman might have become desperate enough to resort to the tried and true method of clitorising herself while the man huffs and puffs  and pumps and blows his wad up her tunnel – and always a split second after she has asked him not to come inside her).  For to listen and to have sex at the same time means multitasking; something mean are not designed to do.

But now we come to the reason why men are so bad at long-term relationships.  And quite simply, it is – once again – all the fault of the woman.  For, no matter what, she makes a wet spot.  And not only does she make a wet spot, but should the man remain even long enough for a second go – thus providing the woman with a heaven-sent opportunity to finally achieve an orgasm of her own – she will repay him by moaning that he is not taking his turn to lie upon the wet spot she made in the first place.

Now I ask you, is that fair?  And do you blame a man for sneaking off at the first convenient moment (such as when she goes to the bathroom after their first go-round)?  In my humble opinion if a woman wants to keep her man for any length of time, she will train herself never to leave a wet spot, and if she leaves one by mistake, never to suggest to a man that he might trade places with her.  After all (and this is purely a physical reason), a man’s bottom is customarily hairier that that of a woman.  The sort of fluids that make up this particularly annoying variety of wet spot, tend to stiffen the delicate hairs on the man’s posterior.  These stiff, clotted hairs will, if left unattended – (as it no doubt will be, men not being particularly well-trained in the bottom-washing department) – lead to a rash.  And a rash will lead to a certain unbearable itchiness, which – after it has been sufficiently scratched through the real man’s jeans – will develop boils.

I ask you this: Is a long term relationship worth getting boils for? 

Now, we segue to the unlikely scenario that the man actually does enter in to a long term relationship which leads to marriage.

What this usually means is that a compromise has been struck.  The man sleeps in his wife’s bed, but only long enough for her to make the wet spot.  He then adjourns to his own bedroom – where he remains until such time as she has freshened up (because, after all, she is probably not smelling too good by this time) and changed the sheet. And when everything is once again bright and breezy, it is then the cue for the husband to re-enter the marital bed and start the whole thing over.  And sometimes this procedure can be repeated as many as three or four times in a given night.  Now, pity the poor man, for every time he has exhausted himself by pumping and huffing and puffing and blowing his wad, he then has to traipse all the way into the other room and take a nap whilst the woman repairs the damage that her latest wet spot has done to the bed.  And then, as if that is not enough, the man is then obliged to get himself up from a sound sleep and return once again to his wife’s side. And it is about this time that she brings up the subject of love – and sometimes even babies – and the poor man is so tuckered out that all he wants to do is go down to the pub with his mates. After all, all the sheets are dirty, and he is certainly not going to lie on them until his wife stops pouting and gets up and launders them.  And, irons them, of course, because in spite of their hairy bottoms, men are delicate creatures, prone to developing not only rashes and boils, but inconvenient chafing.  And believe me, no man wants to take a shower in front of his mates at the squash club if he has any of these conditions.  For you know full well that every single one of them will know that his wife has forced him to sleep on her wet spot, not having had either the compassion or the foresight to keep at least a dozen changes of sheets in the cupboard.

There are, of course, many, many, many other types of wet spots, and eventually I will get to them all.  This may take time, as I value a scientific approach to life above all else. This means I shall have to experiment until I have personally researched each and every species and sub-species of wet spot, all their permutations.  I shall learn all there is to know about their shapes and sizes and molecular densities, about their odours and flavours and even about their musical tastes.  For believe me, the world of the seemingly insignificant wet spot is a glory to behold.  And just so you know, I might even dedicate a whole chapter to the strange and mysterious medieval curse that condemned the feckless willy to an existence without so much as one single, perfect aim.  It is truly a sad tale, but one that is worth the telling (besides which, it has only recently been declassified).   

But for today, let us finish with a snippet of culture.  To quote whoever it may have been: “some are puddles are large; some puddles are small; but throughout it all it was the good Lord who made them all.” And when the nights are cold and you are alone in your truckle bed, please remember that “even the tiniest wet spot is a thing of beauty and a joy forever.”