Mums the word for El Jefe
Time for a Mothers’ Day heads up chaps! This is a reminder and a bit of a plea to the male population as a whole because, lets face it, the male brain struggles to cram in more than its fair quota of important data - El Jefe.
Often supposedly relevant information such as birthdays, anniversaries, what went on the night before and where I got that filthy tattoo of the monkey are shelved at the back of your mind or pushed out of the memory lobes altogether to make room to house crucial items. These are usually along the lines of my favourite smell, a top ten of hotties boobs and arses, films where Elizabeth Hurley is topless and all the Alec Guinness Star Wars quotes. There is no need to underline the importance of these useful, everyday gems of data. I whole heartedly agree that they have to take a pride of place in the limited storage available. Darwin’s natural selection usually takes care of sorting the wheat from the chaff and is often cruel but fair.
last minute carnations from the local service station don’t really carry across a message that says thank you ...
That being said, the 18th March is one date which will require special attention. It is of course, the day our mothers expect to be compensated for carrying us around for nine months, undergoing back ache, vomiting, sore nipples, uncontrollable flatulence and all the other perks that crop up with the miracle that is childbirth (er, what about the subsequent years of grief?? - Ed). To provide a more vivid picture, this fun and frolics would be along the same lines as the worst hangover you have ever had where your erstwhile friends have then crammed a monkey up your arse.
There should be no other lady in your life on this day. People, she deserves a day to remember, however it should be made clear that last minute carnations from the local service station don’t really carry across a message that says thank you for pushing the equivalent of a reluctant, ill tempered, screaming watermelon from between your thighs. Take the lucky lady out for a meal, buy her chocolates and a nice bottle of plonk. Thorntons and a nice Riesling, not dairy milk and Blue Nun. She’ll be happy as Larry and then you can break the news about the lewd animal tattoo.
