I’m sitting at my desk whilst two of my colleagues are having a conversation next to me.
Her – “It’s so big”
Him – “You’ll get used to it”
Her new phone had arrived and they were talking about the size of the screen.
You know those people you see on social media, or in person, who are so ridiculously in love with their other half that it makes you want to puke your lungs out?
Yeah, that’s me I’m afraid.
I often get asked what the secret to a successful marriage is, and I usually reply with the typical series of clichés:
Blah blah blah.
But, in truth, one of the major secrets to a successful marriage is affectionate verbal abuse….or, as comedian Micky Flanagan puts it, ‘Casual Cunting’.
So why am I sharing this advice with you? Well, here is a literal word for word interaction with my wife last night (sorry in advance, Mum).
Now, In order for this to make total sense, you need to know that my wife is a tiny 5’1″. OK, got it? Let’s continue…
So I was looking for a lighter and I couldn’t find it. We both looked everywhere and then suddenly my wife said:
“Oh, here it is in my hand”.
I rolled my eyes and jokingly barked, “How do you hide anything in those little dwarf hands!?”
To which she replied, “I can’t…….except yo’ dick!”
Not only did she get a full on high five as we sat there screaming with laughter, but I fell a little more in love with her.
So the real secret to a successful relationship? Don’t take it all so seriously. You’re clearly together because you’re in love (or the other person has a lot of money or whatever), so relax and enjoy being the casual cunts you are.
Moving from England to Las Vegas has come with its fair share of life adjustments (if you hadn’t already noticed from this blog!).
Amongst these was something I did not see coming. Something that was never an issue in the UK because it was rarely hot (or warm, for that matter) and the humidity was a lot higher.
Plus it rained….a lot.
So what is this new stress in my life?
Now, in the past when I have visited this fine city as a tourist, it was always hot and I spent a lot of the time slathered in cream; mooching along the strip, shopping, eating, gambling or simply laid out by the pool getting shitfaced.
All of this was fine because I was covered in enough cream to mistake me for a female porn star at the end of a shoot (pun intended).
In case it wasn’t clear I was always moisturised.
The same can be said now that I live in Las Vegas…but only when it’s hot. I’m either covered in factor 100, sitting under a huge umbrella or neck deep in a pool.
It’s a hard life.
Without any form of sun protection, I tend to resemble a cooked lobster…in glasses.
I am, without question, the sun’s bitch.
However, it’s currently Winter here in sin city which means I’m covered in layers of clothing rather than cream based chemicals and the lack of humidity in Nevada has resulted in me having incredibly dry skin. This is especially so on the most exposed parts of my body; my hands.
It was getting to the point where it was hurting. I was worried about making a fist in case my hand crumbled like dry leaves. This was difficult because lots of things in life make me want to make a fist.
To combat this I decided to be a bit of a girl and buy hand moisturiser (that’s ‘moisturizer’ to my American friends…just in case you guys aren’t sure what I mean). So last week I went to Wal-Mart and headed to the skin care aisle.
Fuck me, there are a lot of moisturisers on the market.
I was stood there for at least 5 minutes trying to decide which hand cream would be the best. I was getting some strange looks from people as I tried to decide which would be the best without spending $15.
$15 for a tube of moisturiser? That stuff had better be laced with heroin.
Eventually I settled on a small unassuming tube of Vaseline intensive care because…
And that was the end of that. My hands are now pain free and supple.
It’s not an exciting story, nor does it have a particularly witty climax.
Or so I thought….
Fast forward to yesterday at work. A friend came over to my desk to see how I was doing and, during the conversation, I pulled out my tube of cream and started applying it to my hands.
“Sorry about this. I know it’s a bit girly, but my hands are so dry. I don’t usually use moisturiser”
He smiled at me. It was a smile I didn’t recognise.
“Sure you don’t”, he said.
I was confused.
He continued to smile at me, adding an eyebrow wiggle.
There was a further pause as he realised I didn’t have a fucking clue what he was getting at.
“You…you DO know what I’m referring to, right? You know, ‘moisturizer’?”
The penny dropped.
It was my turn to smile.
“Sorry mate.” I said, “I don’t need it. That’s the difference between us Brits and you guys”
It was his turn to look confused.
This did get me thinking about my trip to Wal-Mart though. To me, I was trying to figure out which hand cream would best moisturise my poor cracked hands. To others I was openly looking for a lubricant; picking them up, smelling them and basically making a performance of choosing a decent dick cream.
No wonder I got strange looks.
Now that I think about it, people were scurrying away; probably before I had the opportunity to ask them which one they thought would be best for some good ol’ fashioned self abuse.
Us Brits don’t need it.
Not where we come from.
Not in our hood.
 Spelt the American way, because he’s American and would’ve said it that way.
There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.
He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.
Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.
Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.
So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.
He walked to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.
At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.
Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.
Yeah right. Don’t flatter yourself mate.
I’ve heard the stories about steroids.
 It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.