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Women – can't live with them, can't live without them

A weekly column reproduced from the Bristol Evening Post


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Women eh? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Not until they invent oven chips that do the ironing, anyway.

It was Mrs Beelzebub’s 40th birthday this week. Surely this was a time for great celebration? An occasion for much merriment and drunken ribaldry? Not so.

Instead a dark depression has sunk over Beelzebub Mansions. This situation is not helped, it must be said, by the fact that every farmer for miles around seems to be building bonfires of sheep and cows. Even the cat daren’t go out in case someone comes after him with a box of matches.

Meanwhile the smoke from the funeral pyres has made the billiards room smell like a Turkish chip shop while Whittaker, the odd job man, is busy scraping black grease off the glass in the conservatory. It is not a happy house.

Mrs B, it seems, is not ready to be 40. Therefore time must be re-arranged. I think this is a job for Doctor Who. She thinks it can be achieved by spending £35 on a mascara at Debenhams and then retreating to Blow-Dry Burton’s hairdressing emporium for several hours. And bear in mind that the Liberace-lookalike who runs this establishment charges by the minute.

Why will we never understand women? I thought the painted bedsheet sign nailed to the front gate, the announcement in the local paper and the specially-baked, flameproof cake complete with 40 candles would have impressed the good lady, but instead I was made to feel about as popular as a fart in a space suit.

Bloody women. They don’t do themselves any favours, do they? I read at the weekend about the latest gimmick in the War of the Sexes, which is an inflatable bra. Apparently ladies of less ample proportions can wear this apparatus and pump up their natural assets to create the impression of a cleavage worthy of Baywatch.

Except that it isn’t at all.

So it’s Friday night, you’ve pulled just before the last dance (therefore avoiding any unnecessary expenditure on Malibu and lime), you go back to her place, off comes the kit and whooosh! What started off as a genuine 36DD ends up as a pair of spaniel’s ears.

It’s just not on. Surely Trading Standards can do something?

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