I write in the hope that you may be able to help me.
The thing is, Mary, the little woman, fickle bint that she is, has moved on from sighing over your man Fraser Nelson (sorry, Nelson, old bean). Her latest dream-squeeze is this telly historian wallah, name of Ferguson. Niall of That Ilk. Maybe you recognise the name?
During Ferguson's last stand, I swear she breathed the wistful words 'alpha male' on a badly-suppressed sigh. Quick as a flash and in a marked manner, I riposted with 'What?' This finely-honed witticism elicited a heavenwards stare, the full slowly-raised eyebrows job, then a throw-away tsk and a withering glance before my beloved swayed dreamily kitchenwards, bloody well sighing again.
First Nelson, now this Ferguson. I mean, Mary, exactly what have these handsome, fit, virile, right-wing, brainy, politically sound, intellectual Caledonian types got? I mean, that I haven't. Eh? Eh?
I have been practising Ferguson's beetled-brows meaningful stare in the mirror. I have to say I find myself quite convincing. With regular practice in the bathroom (power-shower full-blast) I am also close to mastering his pedagogical end-of-sentence downward inflexion - the one conveying, 'This is a statement of the bleeding obvious which only a socialist thicko like Willy Hutton could possibly not get'. Goes with the brooking-no-argument sustained glare. I can do that quite well, although it does not yet elicit the correct response from the dear spouse. Think of ghastly Xanthippe and poor old Socrates.
I suspect I have a rather better chance with my 'in-the-half-light-I-could-almost-be-Ferguson' than I have with my version of your man Nelson's glittering-prizes-await-me-school-prefect persona which has, I am afraid, proved elusive so far.
Oh, yes, and the little woman has mentioned 'decent haircuts' - in tones of asperity, I might add - and I can't help noticing that both my new rival and his illustrious predecessor are both rather well-coiffed. Any idea who their barber is? Or where Ferguson gets all those blue shirts - assuming it's not always the same shirt, of course. Wait... there's a thought. The old girl is a stickler for personal hygiene and punctilious laundry habits. If she thought... but of course a bastard like Ferguson would have girls falling over themselves to take in his washing. And, given the times we live in, the odd bloke too, I shouldn't wonder.
Pathetically grateful for any tips, I remain
Yours,
Prodicus
The amount of comments you get on here mate, I'd give up.
ReplyDeleteAnd your point is...?
ReplyDeleteI write for my own amusement, nobody else's.
Anonymous, most of the blogs around the world - and there are hundreds of millions - have zero comments. You don't seem to realise what blogging is about.
ReplyDelete