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What's on our minds?

I know what you’re thinking. How can this fat bloke with a crap beard possibly be able to fathom what is going on in the mind of such a complex woman as I? I could, of course, prove you wrong. It doesn’t take much scratching beneath the surface to unearth the depth of your thinking process: the longing for a pair of Manola slingbacks, the perils of a Pina Colada cheesecake, the delights of dry-weave top sheet with wings. Maybe I’m right, maybe I’m wrong – but frankly, I don’t give a damn.

Not in the I’m-so-hard-I-don’t-care-what-people-think fashion and certainly not because I don’t value your opinion, but because – as a free thinking, confident and independent woman – you can think what you like.

So why aren’t men allowed to get lost in our thoughts without you turning Spaniard with your inquisitions? Cracking your whip and shrieking ‘ariba, ariba, andale, andale!’ while we’re hurriedly trying to think of a suitable response to your demand: ‘what are you thinking? Tell me now! Tell me now or I’ll kill you.’

‘Uh… I was thinking, you know, how much that thingy you’re wearing makes your tits look lovely.’

‘Liar!’

Trust us. You don’t want to know the truth. Go on. Take a guess. Football? Any man that sits around daydreaming about fit men playing with their balls has no friends. Sex? It’s undeniably in the back of our minds, but it’s at the back of yours too – we don’t sit around having vivid fantasies about bonking when we’re in public. It’s a private matter between us and the pullout lingerie section inside this month’s Bliss magazine. Beer? Don’t be silly – if the option of alcohol presented itself – we’d be in the pub drinking it. Fact is, unlike you, guys don’t sit around thinking about things that they want to do, or should be doing – precisely the reason we don’t make lists or come out with banal requests like: ‘Can you remind me to buy some eggs tomorrow? We’re going to need eggs tomorrow.’

So what does go on in the mind of a man? Before I reveal the truth, once and for all, let me ask you this: why do you want to know? Don’t answer that – I can’t hear you. Even if you’re convinced you have this weird ESP thing going on (if I had a penny for every woman who has dazzled me with her sixth sense, I’d be skint right now). My extensive research in getting into women’s minds – it’s all I can do, none of you let me go anywhere near your body – has given me some fascinatingly dull insights. You want us to share our thoughts because you can’t stand the uncomfortable silence, or you’re worried that vacant stare in our eyes may be the first signs of action myoclonus renal failure syndrome, or you’re fishing for us to give away some important information about ourselves in a moment of weakness – so you can use it as an emotional missile to nuke us with at a later, more vulnerable date.

But mostly, you’re begging us to tell you what’s going on inside our heads in the hope we’ll have something interesting to say, because there’s nothing of note going on in yours.

Or, more worryingly for us, there is something going on – and you want to reveal all, in blow by blow detail, all about how your so-called friend Anuja, right, she only goes and gets her nails manicured in the same salon you booked to get yours done, two weeks before you, how dare she, the evil harlot, together we must destroy her. Can’t you just accept we don’t want to know? Isn’t the fact that we don’t share our inane thoughts with you a clear signal that you don’t have to speak and we could just, for once, watch a programme or listen to a song without interruption?

So what’s on our minds?

It’s not what you think. And those of you who wish you were, or believe you are (wrongly I might add) mind-readers, let me assure you that one peek into the dark and sinister filth inside the average man’s mind will turn you instantly insane.
Because unlike you, we don’t think with words. Not in the way you do. Sure we tell our boss to shove it where the squirrels hide their nuts in the privacy of the toilet or give interviews to Rolling Stone magazine when we’re on the bus – but most of the time, we just feel and act upon it. Hungry? Must eat. Horny? Must look at woman with big jugs across the street. These aren’t detailed instructions. Unlike you lot, who analyse every tiny aspect of any given situation, thinking about what other people think or may be thinking, until you turn into total paranoid wrecks.

We don’t worry about things like that. We fantasise about things that aren’t real, you worry about things that are. But you don’t have to worry anymore – I will now, on behalf of all men, reveal exactly what is on our minds, constantly, from the moment we wake to the second we pass out. Ready?

We’re thinking about how much we love you.

Back biting

Are you sitting comfortably? I’m not. See, I have this royal pain in the backside, as if a crown of thorns has been unceremoniously shoved up there by the king of all pains.

If it sounds like I’m talking out of my arse, I am. Unlike my anal passage, I’ll come clean. I have haemorrhoids, which is as difficult a word to spell as diarrhoea and, when you have one – you’d better pray you have the other. Otherwise, wiping yourself after relieving yourself is like reliving your most fierce, masochistic nightmare. My name is Kismet Hardy and I have piles. There I said it, I don’t feel better.

For some reason, no one wants to know. While the girls in the office think nothing of shoving their green lurgy in my face as a demand for sympathy or go to great lengths to point out the blood gushing out of their nether regions is justification for stealing my lunch – the moment I try to share my piles with them, they squeal, like little piggies, calling me a fat freak. Butt seriously, why should I keep this a secret? Have the afflicted no voice? Ooh, ooh, you have turnips on your rump, let’s poke you with a stick. Well, I’ve had enough.

The first time this happened to me, a matter of days after my 30th birthday, it was an incredibly lonely experience. Without any warning, a crack troop of these round helmeted Nazis armed with bayonets invaded my crack and started stab, stabbing with such ferocity, I woke up fearing the worst. I had been drugged. That innocent bag of crack I had ingested the night before was in fact rohypnol and I’d been gang raped by a team of vicious donkeys. But the truth was far worse. I was getting old. Piles is what old people get. Then they die, diseased and smelly. It was with this thought, a heavy heart and a heavier bucket of butt wad that I crawled to the chemist to seek emergency aid. But who should be there behind the counter but a sweet little 15-year-old girl, clad in a Muslim headdress, already eyeing this groaning, shuffling mass of humanity approaching her with much suspicion. There was no way I was going to tell her about the fungi sprouting out of my butthole so, instead I asked her if she had anything that soothed intense pain. She gave me a tube of Deep Heat. Back in the safe haven of the office toilet, expecting a cool rush of ecstasy up my rectum, I applied this serum. The scream that ensued was prolonged. The pigeons in Trafalgar Square fluttered their wings in fear and fled, never to return.

I’ve since discovered the joys of Anusol (and they say pharmacists have no sense of humour), in particular the suppository, which involves shoving a gloopy rocket up a passageway that up until now always read ‘exit’ and never ‘entrance’. I kind of like it. See, the male G-spot is an inch and a half up the back alley (precisely the reason why men enjoy spending so much time in the bog) and when the piles pilot explodes his Anusol missile up there – heaven hath no joy, let me assure you. It doesn’t matter if you don’t have piles, I say, you ought to try it anyway.

Funnily enough, none of the men I’ve passed this pearl of wisdom on to have shown the slightest inclination to partake in this experience. Some have even gone so far as to saying: who are you? Why are you in my house? Leave now or I’ll have no option other than to stab you in the head.

Men, I’ve discovered, have a problem with their buttocks. It is the hub of our sexual confusion, the abyss that should never be gazed into lest it gays back at us, the bent tunnel that leads straight to the gates of Sodom. Sod it, I say, if you’re not sure of your sexual workings, you probably are a bumhole engineer. Deal with it.

As a professional heterosexual who adores, worships and pervs shamelessly on women, I find this male fear of their own backsides fascinating. I blame you. Women are always going on about men’s bums. Ooh, he’s got such a cute bum, don’t you just want to bite it and squeeze it and take it shopping?

It’s a fact. Human beings are obsessed with fatty lumps of flesh. We love your breasts; you love our bums. But while you can utilise your breasts to gain power over us by bouncing them or revealing just enough to show you’re in charge, we know full well that butt cleavage will never be in fashion. We don’t like our bums or anyone else’s. When we see a babe with her big butt sticking out we think of Alpha Romeo convertibles. When guys ask if we have a match we say: yeah, your face and my arse.

My theory is this is why the piles keep striking – to punish me for not loving my bum. From now on, I will look up to my bottom. I shall no longer turn my back on my backside and leave it behind. Maybe then the piles will go away of their own accord but until then, the bottom line is, well, lined with turnips…