Busted!

So this is what you been up to on your lap top, this is the reason for the inward smile, and the defiant stare, not to mention the finger pointing and sniggering I currently endure on my tours of the Parish. Well Mrs Smarty-Pants Soccermom, I’m gonna be doin a little bit of telling it like it is! First up, for someone so smart, if you want to keep this kind of thing to yourself don’t click the “remember my password” box…......... .........or did you do that on purpose? ...........….Hmmm .........
Stop Stop! There you go again, filling my head up with self-doubt. You’re all the same you ladies, you say one thing but mean the opposite. You tick a box, but should it be ticked or not? Oh good grief what am I saying? Look I haven’t been snooping; I went to close your laptop, moved the mouse and discovered you had not shut down correctly. Your soccermom “thing” was still displayed on the screen and I was drawn in; believe it or not, it’s the truth.

But as I’m here there are a few things that I would like to pick you up on. Firstly Dancing is not a sport, and Football is. It also happens to be very popular with a huge proportion of the Earth’s population and, surprisingly enough, is even played by ladies in some parts, although that does take some getting used to.

My involvement in football is not something that is negotiable. Both our son and I (and you and our daughter if the truth be known) get an awful lot out of playing and watching the game, it may make us come across a little one dimensional at times, but there you go, we are a simple sex, where yes means yes, and no means no.

The vast majority of our actions are well intentioned, any mishaps that may occur entirely due to getting caught up in the moment, or being too tired to think; wearing football boots around the house is a genuine oversight and not some anti female conspiracy cooked up as part of a football fathwa.

It is a simple black and white world for the footballing male, sometimes with your efforts to introduce your “shades of grey” you try and make us into something we are not, or are ever likely to be. Yes, I like a dance, a gentle jig with some waving of hands is fine now and then, but I am never going to be Anton Dubeck. Neither am I ever going to be that Scottish man on Dragons Den that you keep pointing out to me. I don’t have his ambition, ruthlessness or Scottish accent and never will, despite the huge heaps of turnips you pile on my plate, followed by a grilled Mars bar (just because you grill it rather than deep fry it, doesn’t make it a healthier option). I thought we had learnt our lesson from that disastrous six-month attempt to turn me into some Tom Selleck clone. I am what I am, and am determined to stay that way. I like my tea from Yorkshire free from any witchcraft or infusion. My tuna, I like in tins from Tesco, not fresh and cooked on something we used to know as a sandwich toaster plugged by some American ex boxer.
I will always go to bed on a pickled Onion, they do count as one of your “five a day” despite your insitence otherwise, as does a large glass of red wine.

I do take an interest in the garden, one of the chief worries of the forty something male is his lawn, and is a popular topic of conversation during the football close season. I am not the only male who cuts the grass in only his dressing gown, and neither am I the only forty something who goes to the shop in his slippers.

I don’t like American TV comedy, nothing can hold a candle to Porridge , Rising Damp or Ken Dodd, and neither do I see the point of films that make you cry. I do like films that are true stories and feature submarines somewhere in the plot, and "The Guns of Navarone"

I don't need "Healing" mentally or physically by some new age mystic, neither am I "damaged goods" in need of some form of psychobabble from an earnest young man on a sofa.
I am full to the brim spiritually with my weekly dose of "Songs of Praise" and the only inner soul that I feel a need to get in touch with are the odour-eaters that you keep putting in my trainers. I can't talk to trees or give them a hug, I can however, appreciate a well grown Leek.

I will never buy a candle that smells, or order something from a catalogue that I don’t particularly want. I don’t like to talk for the sake of talking, especially during sport shown on the TV, and will not wear shoes that are very shiny, very long and very pointy. I will not pay for a haircut, and am happy to wear clothes that I have had for many years. I am comfortably understated and always will be.

I do like football, I do like Cricket, I do like Gherkins, and pickles in general, but can appreciate the need to moderate my intake. I do like your support when we go to a match, and your inane comments about the game going on in front of you or sometimes behind you. I do like that the fact that you keep trying to get us to do new things and despite obviously finding me very trying continue to try. I don’t like it when you wear my football tops in bed, snuggling up to someone with Gerrard written across their back gives me strange “male dominated” dreams often ending with a nightmare scene in the shower. I much prefer snuggling up to you wearing far less and am willing to try and talk like Anton Dubeck or affect a Scottish accent, but not to go down the Tom Selleck route again.
We are both very different. Sometimes your way is right, sometimes my way is right, it would be very "Howard and Hilda" if we agreed on every single thing