Posts Tagged ‘women


Why women love bastards – and how you can be one

Another of my friends has become enamoured with an arsehole – and science has provided her with the perfect excuse to keep putting up with his bastardry.

It’s been a confusing few months for women – on the one hand we have new research that women are hard-wired to find ruthless, unpleasant bastards attractive, on the other Harriet Harman announced a new Equality Bill that will force firms to reveal the salary gap between their male and female staff.

On the plus side, this means that some of the callous, self-obsessed and deceitful men that have been underpaying us for years will get their come-uppance, on the minus side we’ll probably end up sleeping with them for their troubles.

According to scientist Peter Jonason, women’s attraction to bad boys is the work of ‘the dark triad’ which is, before you get even more excited, a set of three unpleasant personality traits and not a really awesome kung-fu gang that operate at night.

Hold on to your petticoats, ladies, its the Dark Triad!

Hold on to your petticoats, ladies, it's the Dark Triad!

Apparently, it’s self-obsession, callousness and deceitfulness that really get women’s pulses racing because we equate men behaving like arses with masculinity and the ability to father healthy children.

The key for men who want to knock up as many women as possible before doing an early runner is to have the right amount of dark triad traits – too many and you’re a social outcast, just enough and you’re every lady’s favourite swordsman. Frankly, I’m not sure who comes out of this looking worse – the men who worship both Satan and the mirror or the gullible women who put up with them.

Jonason went on to give James Bond as the ultimate example of the kind of man that women find irresistible, telling New Scientist: “He’s clearly disagreeable, very extroverted and likes trying new things – killing people, new women…” Well, everyone’s got to have a hobby or two.

A bed-hopping psychopath with commitment issues - dreamy!

James Bond: A bed-hopping, crotch grabbing psychopath with commitment issues - dreamy!

Now I’ve met plenty of self-obsessed, callous, deceitful men (and, in the spirit of Harriet Harman’s Equality Bill, lots of self-obsessed, callous and deceitful women, too) but not one of them could have been compared to James Bond. For a start, not many international playboys are in the habit of living with their parents, driving a Mini Metro or being sick in my lap after one too many lagers.

James Bond may employ the dark triad in order to get women into bed, but in fairness, there are several mitigating factors that would probably make a one-night stand with him seem slightly less regrettable than normal the next morning. For example:

(a) James Bond is eye-wateringly attractive.

(b) James Bond is exceptionally, ridiculously rich.

(c) James Bond has a single digit sonic agitator unit on his ring finger. Imagine how that could liven up a dull evening.

(d) James Bond drives an Aston Martin that’s worth more than your house.

(e) James Bond may sleep with lots of women, but at least he’s choosy: all his bedfellows are required by law to have a name like Christmas Jones, Holly Goodhead, Harlot Bignips or Vixen Lovepocket.

(f) James Bond is unlikely to say: “If you’re looking for somewhere to sit, love, you can always try my face.”

(g) James Bond’s stories about his day at work are genuinely interesting.

(h) James Bond does not wear a t-shirt that says ‘Let’s Play Hide the Sausage’ or ‘If Found, Return to The Pub’.

(i) James Bond does not get involved in tawdry street fights, rather he harpoons his enemies to trees, or cuts them in half with a laser or a hovering killer tea tray.

(j) James Bond never pretends he’s going to call you. He’s James Bond. Simply being alive the next morning is bonus enough.

In a nutshell, being seduced by James Bond – even if he is partial to other women and killing people – is probably more fulfilling than spending the night with a more run-of-the-mill womaniser who can’t bring any spy gadgets, helicopters or speedboats to the party.

Jonason also believes that the dark triad traits may be genetic, meaning that some men are literally unable to stop behaving badly because they’re following an obscure evolutionary strategy developed specifically to impregnate/annoy women. If this is evolution, I think I may have to start believing in God.

There is light at the end of the tunnel, however (for women, at least), because the seduction techniques of the dark triads are only a short-term strategy for making babies. Women tend to settle down with nice men rather than one-man population explosions who pretend they’ve been in the SAS, continually rabbit on about their muscles and then make you sleep in the wet patch.

This leaves nice men picking up the pieces from their partner’s last relationship with a womanising cad who they will always suspect their girlfriend fancied more than them and a host of ancient dark triad merchants propping up bars across the land muttering about how they used to be ‘a player’ and trying to seduce your Nan.

Interestingly, the same research discovered that women aren’t considered irresistible if they’re callous, self-obsessed and deceitful, although if we get Harriet Harman on the case, we might be able to make it law on the grounds of equal rights before the next election.

PS J, if you’re reading, A is a twat.


Why the woman in black wears bright red knickers

I used to wear black on the outside because it was how I felt on the inside, now I wear it in the vain hope that it will somehow disguise the fact that my backside is used by astronauts as a homing device when they return to Planet Earth.

When I say I’m the Woman in Black, I mean it. I am the only person I know to whom getting dressed in the dark holds no fear.

My only concession to colour is my underwear, which is brightly coloured. This was a tip from a women’s magazine I once read that advised you should always aim for an element of surprise with your outfit. My element of surprise is saved for the ambulance service in the eventuality they might need to cut off my clothes after a hideous accident or the lucky few (if Mum is reading) who have been allowed access to my inner chambers.

My pathological hatred of fashion or clothes shopping means that as soon as I find a garment I can bear, I instantly buy six identical garments and then rotate them until I find something new that I like. Due to this fact, I shunned trousers for 15 years because I was working my way through dozens of totally identical skirts.

Flagrantly ignoring the Bible’s warning – “woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man…for all that do so are abomination unto the Lord thy God” – I bought myself a pair of trousers and experienced a sense of liberation I had not felt since I discovered the mute button on my phone at work. I instantly went back to the shop and bought five identical pairs.

God’s vengeance was of no concern to me. I have seen the gentle BBC comedy The Vicar of Dibley, I know that God allowed female clergy in Dibley to wear trousers without sending plagues of locusts or apocalyptic floods to punish their sins (more’s the pity).

For the first few days of trouser-wearing, I was irresistibly drawn towards sitting with my legs splayed like a leering uncle at a wedding and had to fight the urge to ostenatiously adjust myself whenever anyone was looking. And oh! the joy of being able to step out of my horseless carriage without showing even an inch of petticoat – I tell you ladies, I think these ‘trousers’ might catch on.

Having embraced a whole new world of sartorial possibility, it seemed time to readdress my hatred of fashion and give it a second chance. I was not far into my search for inspiration when I found this crock of shit from celebrated Danish designer Henrik Vibskov.

The police's new community support officers weren't entirely happy with their new uniform

I know I have been away for a long time, locked into a clothes hell of my own making, but is this really what the young people are wearing these days? Just look at those buffoons in the background; it’s like a New Order video for the colour blind. And then there’s this:

As Jared walked down the runway, he couldn't help wondering: how had it all gone so terribly wrong.

This is the kind of coat that the kids with fleas wore at my high school. At best, you could say the coathanger hat might come in handy if you needed to pop into the dry cleaners and didn’t have a spare hand to carry your freshly-laundered smoking jacket home, at worst, well, is absolutely everything else.

I need no further proof that black is the way forward. My calculations show that I need not shop for clothes again until 2012.

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