Today’s chattering classes, those with nothing better to do than post their ill-gotten views and other dirty mental laundry online are, as the peculiar English phrase goes, up in arms.
I think this phrase means they are ready to shoot someone, although I am not entirely sure, as the arms at our disposal here in the Pond are stumpy and have the grip of a Touretter in an earthquake.
You try being a frog and eating an ice-cream.
The cause of large human mouths raising arms is an article by a chap called Tad Safran, in what is sweetly referred to in America as the London Times.
As if it were a provincial offshoot of the somewhat deteriorating paper of record in New York.
Mr. Safran, who appears to make a living writing movies people don’t really like (as do most Hollywood screenwriters) expounded on his experiences with American and British women.
In essence, he believes English women rot after the age of 18.
They don’t bother trying to cover up the ravages that time ekes out on their being and, essentially, while being pleasantly self-deprecatory, they resemble truffle-dogs.
And not ones who would ever win the Westminster Dog Show.
American women, on the other hand, spend $700 a month on “standard obligatory beauty maintenance”.
And a further $1000 a month on what Mr. Safran calls “physical conditioning,” this being anything from pilates and spinning to, presumably, actually having sex.
Which briefly made me wonder where American women are getting all this money from. Briefly, because then Mr. Safran rapidly continued his dissection of the American Beauty.
He concedes that American women are rapacious to a degree that Genghis Khan’s wives would have been proud:
“The irony is that, as obsessed as American women are with their looks, they totally ignore their social skills. Within 10 minutes of meeting an American woman, I guarantee you will know her salary and most recent medical/ dental procedure. They all but turn up with their CV printed out. In return, they will immediately want to know “all” about you, ie, how much you earn, how much you have earned in the past, what your future earning potential is, whether you own property, whether you have an investment portfolio, where you shop, where you “vacation”, what you drive and how large your parents’ house is. I once got to the end of a date in New York, pulled out my credit card to pay and the girl solemnly remarked: “A green American Express card? I didn’t know they still made them in that colour.”
Mr. Safran also believes that American women take themselves too seriously and are annoyingly confrontational. But it seems clear that if pinned to the wall, he would rather be pinned to the wall by someone very angry who had lovely teeth.
I myself was, indeed, born in the Disunited Kingdom and now live in the Highly United States.
And I would therefore not wish to disagree with a word of Mr. Safran’s wisdom. However, I am of the general view that it is very much easier being a man than a woman.
Which is why I am so very disappointed that he did not cast his steely anthropological gaze on the males of both continents.
To my bulging amateurish eyes, it is no wonder that English women decide to rust naturally like a 1970s Fiat.
Because English men have all the presence of sliced bread at a caviar bar.
I was recently sent a photograph of my contemporaries at an English high school. They were attending some sort of reunion. I believe it was a reunion of the National Morticians Society.
Please cast your eyes at these dynamic, tie-wearing (I am excluding the one on the right. I am hoping he will buy me a football team. And anyway, his suit isn’t so bad.) Masters of the Punyverse.
If you were an English woman, might the following question drift across your thoughts?:
“My religious beliefs prevent me from contemplating slitting my throat with the kitchen knife I bought on QVC, but why on earth would I want to have sex with this vapid collection of style-deficient buttocks?”
In fact, is it possible that you would prefer to have sex with your child’s rabbit? Or that strange tramp who sometimes sniffs his way down your street and claims to be a long-lost member of the Albanian Royal Family?
English men eat their own dandruff. After it has been sitting on their suit collars for a day and a half.
They pull their nose hair out by hand. When it tickles their upper lip, that is.
And, as you can see, they send their blind teenage children out to buy their clothes.
Mr. Safran might well criticize English women for not going to get a mani-pedi often enough, but please try and imagine what English men’s feet might look like, once they have removed their sweaty socks and picked at the little dark-colored balls of dirt that have become embedded in between their toes.
And then put those little dark-colored balls of dirt in their mouths, rolled them around and then spat them out into what they charmingly call their waste-paper basket.
English men’s festering, beer-addled, mothball-ballasted body odor pollutes the British Parliament, the Financial Center of London, and the majority of gentlemen’s toilets east of Minneapolis airport.
Is it any wonder English women would rather spend money on food and beer than on temporary cosmetic relief?
And what of the travails of American women? Their sheer materialism? Their vanity? Their unbridled sense of confrontation?
People, what can one say about American men that John Wayne Bobbit’s wife has not already so succinctly put?
Lorena is Ecuadorian, by the way.
And Tad Safran is, you already guessed, American.