Winter Nights – Couple Up, Nanna Up or Perish…

The winter nights: full of soups and homey meals, lamp lit rooms, red wine, smooth jazz and getting snuggled up with your beau… Ahhhh.

The couples have it good. The dual heat under the covers help keep the other from dropping dead half way through the night. Sleeping is effortless due to the constant warmth from the other and in-turn, getting out of bed is no task as the couples can act as a team, motivating the other to get-the-hell-up and go to work. Day to day routine carries on as normal and both members of the couple seem to be on top of their work load and in higher spirits than some of their colleagues. All in all – the winter months are good.

Poor singletons are faced with bone chilling evenings flying solo through the night – each evening colder than the last, questioning their very own existence with every spine chiller of the untraceable draft. Their must-have’s consist of flannel twin sets, thick socks, electric blankets and a coco for one – the Nana style inspiration has never been more popular, the only difference (perhaps) is a smutty novel to take the edge off the harsh air of reality. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Snuggie blankets all round? Due to sleeping alone, the singleton’s bed in the mornings is bitterly cold. There is no other to motivate the singleton to get out of bed, therefore leading to lateness in the workplace and an increase in sick days. Due to poor nights sleep, no thanks to the now formed cricked neck – the singleton is falling behind at work. Heating bills are higher due to the depressive nature of living alone and a questionable alcohol problem has arisen.

Twin Sets from Peter Alexander

He-Who-Observes has solved the problem. Singletons must form sleeping partners. A solely mutual friendship and sound understanding of ‘no sex – just sleep’ will allow body temperature satisfaction and sleeping optimisation. Its either this or regression into old-age during your twenties. David Attenborough / Robert Winston would undoubtedly observe and document such behaviour – leading to countless ‘Sleep Ads’ on Gumtree and a united single race as we know it. Try and feel the perks.

Death by cold lonely nights? No thanks. We will not be beaten - nor will we sacrifise our in-home style needs...

You know you've hit rock bottom single life when you're walking around the house in one of these...

PDA – Where “A” is Anger… and amusement.

He-Who-Observes just loves a good public display of anger. I’m not talking your 3am street brawl between those members of society with rocks for brains, no. I’m talking those in arguments with their other half, the pensioner waving her stick in the air and tutting, and the man with the gut and moustache shaking his head after walking past a group of squealing gay men in ripped denim jeans.

It’s hilarious. Fact. And it’s a big ray of sunshine in a thank-god-I’m-not-involved kind of way.

My personal favourite are those in the couples category. Such displays of emotion can be found in locations such as: home-furnishings/electrical/gardening stores, and in café’s on weekends. Arguments are expectedly fuelled with a hangover – the spoon stirring the short fused mixture. Perfection.

“Baby waby, which cup and saucer set do you prefer for Pete and Kate’s wedding? The one with the gold trim and pink flowers, or the one with the silver trim and purple flowers?” Whiney tone. Painful to the eardrums.

“Do we have to get them these cup and saucers?” Uninterested tone, slumped expression from male.

He-Who-Observes detects an argument and carries on inspecting the overpriced casserole dish, ears prick up, eyes hover above the display fixture – you all know the drill.

“You don’t even care do you?!”

He doesn’t care at all. Give the guy a break, it's the weekend. He’d happily smash that plate on the floor in front of you.

“Yes I care”

Liar

“No you don’t, you don’t care about any of my friends do you?!”

“Yes”

Liar

“Well, you didn’t seem that interested in Caitlin’s break up story last night”

Male lowers his voice and speaks through his gritted teeth

“For god’s sake” He says

“Here we go again, you always do this…”

And off it goes. All the while We-Who-Observe lurk and meander around the aisles, smirking into our frying pans.

Praise single life. Pity the other half. We will not become this couple. The weekend is too short to go floral plate shopping. Order online love. It’s only you who cares.

Floral plates available at cathkidston.co.uk - Always one step ahead of a brawl.

PDA – Where “A” is Affection… and annoyance.

“I love you”

“No I love you”

“Noo I love youuu”

Pass me the sick bucket and push the eject button. Now!

Whether it’s couples kissing (or attempting to choke each other using only their tongue) on the escalator, groping each other at the pedestrian crossing (presumably conducting some kind of genital examination) or lying in an un-orthodox position in the park: its plain rank.

For one minute, He-Who-Observes would love Not-To-Observe this display of overindulgent affection whilst on route with a dinner for one. He-Who-Observes requests all couples to think back from a time when they were in a similar state of ‘grey’ single life and become a bit considerate of others, if this is even possible.

The worst, and I mean, THE WORST is picking each other’s skin: I’m talking blemishes. If I had a $/£/¥ for every time I’ve experienced this, I’d have enough to buy my own private island. At what point does it become OK? And when does it become OK to do this in public or in front of your friends? During one observed blemish correction procedure I text a friend asking for guidance, the reply simply read “Throw a boot at them”. Sound advice if you ask me.

Another friend came to visit He-Who-Observes from a country far away, enough for a nine-hour flight. After our hug at the airport – no irony here please: – it wasn’t a hip grinding embrace, I asked her how her flight had been. “Awful” She replied. “I sat next to a couple who, from the moment they sat down, gazed into each others eyes and snogged for the entire flight juration”. She rolled her eyes and gagged.

Mushy talk at the checkout queue, sloppy kisses in cinemas, snuggles on bar sofas that may as well be in bed – Give it a bloody rest! When did the human race become so inconsiderate and selfish? Don’t answer this.

I’m over it, and I’m guessing many others are too. I just don’t think I have enough boots to throw… sadly.

Trend Watch: Fantastic Mechanic…

He-Who-Observes loves a good trend that could potentially transform the male fashion street style and in-turn alter the style opinions in those outback signal-less holes.

The all in one – its wham bam here’s my statement: ABSORB IT. Sauntering down the catwalks for the SS '11 menswear collections are a number of one-piece-wonders for us boys. Pockets, elasticated cuffs, the works. Fingers crossed for essential zippers – otherwise a full strip down at the pub urinals could lead to black eyes.

From topleft: Jean Paul Gaultier, Adam Kimmel, Givenchy - All SS'11

Thoughts: Incredible trend that could and should alter the menswear world as we know it.

Predictions: Rejection from the market and in turn a cramming of the sale rails come winter.

Roll on discount shopping I say...

Topman.co.uk - Sale rail bargain.

That Number...

We all have one – whether it’s two, eight, twenty-four or three hundred. In today’s ‘free and socially excepting’ society: your Number can deter another instantly. Does it all really matter or are we socially programmed to judge? Surely it’s just plain biology and maths.

When one friend announces they have only had three sexual partners, they say it with a level of embarrassment. The other friend over one hundred: but no shame. The confessions could be broken down into the first friend with three sexual partners having encountered the act of sex much more than the other, who may have just had over one hundred one-off one-night stands. So which one is to be heckled or judged? The one that has had the most sex, or the one who has had potentially the least sex, but more partners?

He-Who-Observes has listened to countless discussions on the number. Men are proud when they have conquered more than their friends, spreading their seed like a bull in a heard of buffalo. But the moment the topic is flipped to a female who has mirrored the male’s sexual actions: she is the village bicycle, everyone’s had a ride. It’s the same old same old – and this endless cycle is something that baffles. She has every right in life to do the same, we all live once – there’s no dress rehearsal: and in our society, the rights of woman were equalised decades ago. Is it purely because men are afraid of their pride? Or does this reflect the animal kingdom (say a pride of lions) – the alpha male has numerous females to mate with – but the female only has her one male. Does this mean our social norm on the number is stressed and determined by our co-habitants of this planet in the animal world? Somewhat cave man don’t you think? Come on human race… catch up!

Does it really matter? He-Who-Observes finds it irritating when one person is termed something they’re really not. The men that judge the woman are just afraid of their own performance not matching up. The women that judge the men are simply intimidated by a number that in reality: means nothing.

Divide, subtract and place it all in a petrii dish. The end result will be no different. Numbers are numbers, and this number will always be an issue in our test tube society – however we try and manipulate our data.

Fish Tales

Upon an outing the other day, one heard a story so disturbingly alarming, yet hilarious: He-Who-Observes just had to share.

Four friends were sat around a table in a bar, chatting, catching up and soaking the others tales and tribulations of the previous week. Eaves dropping to the max, a tip of cleaning out ones Goldfish arose...

"How's Ainsley?" One friend asked, in a banter-esque tone. It is later apparent Ainsley is the fish.

"Oh, you haven't heard? I have grave news my friends, very grave news indeed" The owner announced. "I killed Ainsley"

Gasps arose from around the table. It would appear Ainsley had a bit of a fan club...

"How?!"

"Why?!"

"Poor Ainsley incurred a horrible death. I was cleaning him out, it'd been a while and his water wasn't looking as fresh as one would hope. So, I scooped Ainsley into the net and placed him in our utility sink. Carried on washing the bowl in the kitchen sink and making sure everything was perfectly spotless for him..."

The tone of care could be detected in her voice.

"When I returned to the utility sink to scoop him out, he didn't look right, but I thought 'sometimes this is just because of the sudden water change from room temperature to cool', and ignored his emotions..."

The table was tense, hanging off her every word...

"As the afternoon passed, I noticed he just wasn't looking himself. I left for the shops and returned a few hours later, and there his was, white as a sheet and foaming at the surface of the bowl..."

"Oh my god!" A friend exclaimed.

"Well, I waiting until my housemate returned home and told her the news. After describing and re-enacting my actions of cleaning him out, my housemate screamed, and then giggled... She'd only gone and bleached the utility sink that morning! I had bleached Ainsley to death!"

Screams of shock and laughter came from the table, the RSPCA would have shivered.

"Its OK though, I was given a free fish on the back of my food shop receipt so Im picking one up tomorrow"

The topic was completed and changed in a milli second.

Life on the back of a coupon? So 2010.

Choose Your Hairdresser Wisely

The following is an experience that should never happen to a Sartorial Male. Let this be a lesson to us all.

After a tough day and with a weekend of socialising ahead of me, I needed a quick, cheap and tidy hair cut. On my way to a train station, in an area that cannot be name, I was greeted at the last corner to turn with a barbers.

All I wanted were the sides taking shorter and the length on top leaving exactly as it was. A simple procedure that I have had performed many a time. Nothing quite like what you are about to hear has ever, and should never happen to anyone…ever.

I walk into the salon and see the barber sat on his bench. The place is empty and so one is immediately directed to the chair. Over the cloak goes and I explain what I want. Very clearly. I notice that as I am telling this, the man has a somewhat lazy eye and glasses that resemble triple glazed windows. I gaze over his attire and he is donning an old faded and slightly tight charcoal (previous black) polo, black jogging bottoms that finish at his ankle – not elasticated: so one would presume they had shrunk, white socks and black hiking sandals. The moment I reached his feet I was filled with dread and my acquaintance looked equally as nervous and hid behind a back dated copy of Heat.

The clippers began and off went the sides. It was all going well. He trotted away from view and I thought great, I must be finished. I also noticed a queue of Lebanese men had formed – a style of man that does not resemble my own. The guy trots back, making heavy, saliva echoed breathing. He whips out a shaving brush and a mug of water and begins wetting the hairline from the side all around the back and the side again. He takes out a Sweeney Todd style blade and begins sharpening up my… ‘border’.

I daren't move and can see I'm looking somewhat Italian and have now gained the thinnest side burns down to my jaw. He limped off and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The barber took out some thinning scissors to which I outright protested! He was having none of it and went for my longer hair to ‘belend’- not a spelling, a pronunciation. Afterwards, he swooshed to cloak off and beckoned me into the back room.

What happened next happened so quickly I can barely believe my memories. He turned on the washbasin, grabbed the back of my neck and shuvved me under. I was soaked head to toe. He lifted me up, threw me a towel and proceeded to lift the tap, out of its socket and drink from it. Yes, you read that right...

He then said ‘$15’, I paid him and left, absolutely sodden. I walked around the corner and screamed with uncontrollable laughter. I couldn’t even breathe. There I was, Lebanese hair do, dripping wet and in the middle of shit brick nowhere. Well, we howled on the train home.

Thank god for the pack of Gillette razors at home - the side burns lasted 10 minutes, but my hairline was scarred for weeks.

Choose your hairdresser wisely.