If I had a religious bone in my hot little body I’d be hallelujahpraisethelording right now – London has had a weekend of sunshine. On both Saturday and Sunday, the sun came out for unbroken periods of anywhere up to 20 minutes and temperatures soared into double figures (mostly 15).
Thousands of Londonders whipped off to their flimsies and strutted about the city’s parks and commons, swilling mostly-warm Magners and decadently gobbing on strawberries (grown in Israel). Yes, Summer has arrived and it’s called Spring.
But I’m not here to talk about the weather – I’m here to bloody moan about it. And not just moan about its chill breeze pissing on the chips of my sundress-and-flipflops ensemble, no no no. I’m here to moan about it for a far bigger, far more obvious, far more important reason. I’m here to moan about what the weather is doing to men.
Yes, that’s right, men! Men who see fit to strip down to their floppy cotton shorts and their tight-fitting t-shirts; who don their sexy-face sunnies and their cute little caps; who cavort and rambunction with frisbees and balls, rippling their shoulders and flexing their biceps; who apologise with winks for wayward throws and have naughty little playfights during which they swear a bit and pretend to kick the living shih-tzus out of each other. It’s precisely this that the weather is doing to men and I’ve got a big goddamn problem with it.
Misery has become MEN emerging into the SUN wearing far fewer CLOTHES and putting on a SHOW of what can only be described as REALLY FRICKIN’ HOT FEMALE-ORIENTATED PORN! (Or what would be porn if porn-for-women really existed, and I mean really existed.) My not-looking life has just become a thousand times HARDER. A thousand times TANNED-ER, TONED-ER and HARDER. Am I shouting? GOOD! Does the Earth not know what it’s doing to me with all this tilting on its axis?!
I had, as a matter of fact, been doing really jolly well in the not-looking FAIL stakes. Numbers had been hovering between zero and two for a good fortnight. Very well done me! Only now they’ve bobbed back up again. Right back up. We’re probably talking a good half dozen a day since the middle of last week. And all because the sun has got his hat on and the men are coming out to play.
And it’s not just that the rising temps and beating rays encourage men to show more of themselves – as my friend Anna remarked just this sunny Saturday, there actually seem to be more of them out there. It’s like they’ve been hibernating all winter, curled up amongst straw in sturdy cardboard boxes like a creep (you couldn’t make it up) of George-the-Blue-Peter-tortoises, and now Yvette Fielding, Caron Keating and that ginger bloke with the daft glasses have come to reintroduce them into the big, bright world of women.
I don’t mean to be mean but, well, actually, I do. I would be perfectly accepting of this seasonal exhibition of manflesh if I wasn’t the only human on earth prevented from buying a ringside seat. It’s just not fair in a stampy-foot, thumpy-fist, pouty-face, dishevelly-hair kind of way. Just. Not. Fair.
I want to lech and eye-up and observe and spectate and spy at from behind my dark glasses. Absolutely none of that is within my rules. Am I to stare blankly into space for the next 4 months? Am I to ignore the displays of gradually declothing manmeat as the weeks roll April into August? Am I to ignore my very basest female urges? Am I to miss out on all the freaking fun? Er, yes, apparently I am. It may be tortoise rutting season but I’m still in my box.
The only way I’ll get out of this cardboard prison, especially now that Keating’s no longer with us, is if some boy tortoise tempts me out with his limp lettuce. And given my entire life experience with men’s chat-up skillz, that is really, really, cataclysmically unfuckinglikely.
So, I’ve sort of thought of a little kind of plan. A bit of a mountain-to-Mohammad diversion, if you will. I can’t eye men up, I can’t giggle in their general direction, I can’t ask to borrow their bottle opener, I can’t flirt across their crowded frisbee circle. But I can catch their tactics and throw them back at them.
They wear shorter trousers, I wear shorter skirts. They wear tighter t-shirts, I wear tighter tops. They show more chest, I show more chest. They whip their tops off during a game of footie, I… don’t really like football, sorry.
But yes, you see where I’m heading here. As Henry Louis Mencken once said, “Temptation is an irresistible force at work on a moveable body.” And men have very moveable bodies, especially when there’s a football or a frisbee or a big pair of hooters to chase.