Despite the above title I do not profess to be an expert when it comes to the female of the species. Indeed it is one of man's greatest failures I feel that he has not deciphered the web of intrigue that surrounds members of the contrary gender; especially put against the context of man's other great achievements. For instance, man has successfully imposed his churches and religion on the rest of mankind and more significantly used that religion to keep women effectively under his control as second class citizens (I've just finished reading "The Da Vinci Code", those of you that have read it will know where I am coming from). No mean feat, I am sure you would agree.
Nb. I don't fully endorse 'The Da Vinci Code", where fact becomes fiction is a topic for another posting, and the content is both extremely provocative and debatable.Anyway despite my failings as a mere man, I have been involved in a mutually consential contemporary romantic arrangement with a member of the opposite sex for some time now and feel that I have a good enough if not sound platform for what I am about to deliberate. I am always struck with great interest to be around my male friends who harbour a desire to meet a socially acceptable young lady (ie. not a tramp) and to initiate an ongoing romantic understanding. Of particular interest is one young virile male friend/teammate/dancing and singing partner who has actually written a series of articles entitled "Women how I love thee" which explore the reasons (many but not all sexually deriven) why he loves women. Another young friend, let's call him phatty also displays a heady desire to meet female company and I doubt that I need mention Hoogster as many of us would be well informed of his exploits at his place of employ. These young men are not unique and my intent doesn't lay in vilifying them for these desires, indeed I believe I speak for most young men in saying most of us wish to meet some young spunkette. I am indeed lucky to find myself in such an arrangement , and do not seek to dissuade these young studs from their aims; so girls go out there and get 'em (they are all perfectly respectable young gentlemen) .My primary aim here is to shed light on what one actually involves oneself in when one embarks on a romantic odyssey such as the one I am currently involved in. What follows here is an account of a typical night out with the Goddess, since time spent with the Goddess is rarely a trivial affair, anything can and usually does happen. So then an account that draws on the actual events of friday night...
I finished a particularly busy and trying shift at work at 7pm, the nature of which was only uplifted slightly by the surprise visit of good friend Phatty T and the knowledge that I'd be meeting the Goddess after work. 7pm came around and sure enough the Goddess awaited me outside, we had planned to see a show at the festival theatre that started at 7.30 and so hurried down so as not to miss the start. It is worth noting here that I had agreed to go to this show one week earlier when we had both had a few drinks, and consequentially had forgotten exactly what sort of show it was (an infraction I feel sure that the Goddess will not forgive lightly). However the Goddess has always had an artistic side and I've trusted her taste and judgement without question, and so it was no different on this occasion and I looked forward optimistically to the show.
The goat or who is Sylvia? as I found out the show is called upon arrival at the festival theatre is marketed as a comedy and future classic, or more simply the one word description on the flyer says "unforgettable". I am inclined to agree with that judgement. Briefly
The goat follows the story of an affluent American architect who has to tell his wife (whom he claims to love devoutly) that he has been having an affair with Sylvia, now here comes the twist... Sylvia is a goat. I began to shift uneasily in my chair as it became apparent that one of the core themes to the play is indeed beastiality. And not only was it confined to Sylvia the goat; geese, dogs and pigs also rated a mention. To say I was a little bemused would be an understatement,
had the Goddess known what the play was about? if so then was she hoping to provoke some kind of reaction in me? These were both questions running through my mind. However it must be noted that I was thoroughly entertained if not a little sickened at the same time. The goat lived up to it's label as a comedy and I certainly won't forget it too soon. The Goddess giggled (as only she can) throughout the performance, a sweet innocent reaction that placated my fears that she may be trying to send me some kind of subliminal message. However this is becoming a bit of a recurring occurrence with the Goddess, on our very first date we saw a very strange Spanish film which involved a male voluntary nurse getting a girl in a coma pregnant, and if that's not strange enough the film is punctuated by random dream scenes in which the male nurse (in miniature) walks over the girl's naked body and eventually into her womb... via you know where... hm hm...oh gosh I think I'm blushing.
Upon leaving the theatre I needed a drink before going for a bite to eat, and so we ducked into the bar beneath the theatre (it's ok I didn't know it was there either) to restore our (or mine at least) composure. By now it was nearing 10pm and we were going to have trouble finding a kitchen still open, however just over the road from the Casino, halfway up Bank street is a most dubious Indian establishment named the Tandoori Hut. Upon entering one is greeted by a huge mural of the Taj Mahal which would make Ghandi George gush with homesickness. Looking around we realised we were the only people there, except for the chattering of Indian accents somewhere towards the back behind a huge mirrored wall in what one can only presume is the kitchen. Eventually a turbaned chap emerged and greeted us, I made mention of my tenuous links to the British Raj and he hastily ushered us to some seats (looking around nervously as though he feared a shortage of tables). As we were seated he mentioned that we could only pay cash since the credit card facilities had been shut down for the evening, I replied courteously that the wealth of the British Raj had been somewhat depleted since the days of empire (due to the filthy pilfering Indians no doubt!!!....... bite the bait Shaun) and not possessing a credit card then this would not prove a problem. Left to peruse the menu we decided to share a few things, selecting a few plates of choice rice, nan bread and then a Chicken Moghali (done the mongolian way-
not very Indian) and a Lamb korma (despite the performance we had just seen). Another Indian fellow (un-turbaned) came to take our order and mentioned that since the credit card facilities were shut down we would have to pay cash, deja vous was beginning to set in. Having taken our order he left us to enjoy our meal, and I must say despite the rest of the restaurant being deserted I thoroughly enjoyed it- hearty Indian fare always gets me right there!! I made mention to the Goddess that I thought this would be a good place to come as a large group (at least we would be giving them some trade, and to be frank the prices were amongst the cheapest I've seen anywhere).
As we left into the chill of the night air the turbaned and un turbaned staff bid us "thank you, come again". We spent much of the rest of the night hopping from bar to bar, quite normal until the Goddess suggested that we go to the Woolshed to play pool (she has a mean competitive streak) and check out the cricket score (a topic for another post!!! Which I am sure I'll enjoy writing). I am sure most of you know (and sensibly avoid) the Woolshed, proclaimed somewhat dubiously as a country pub brought to the city. It was remember a Friday night and as we walked toward the entrance it was obvious that they weren't doing a brisk trade; only a few old gals line dancing, whilst Troy Dann (remember him!) and a few bruddas looked on drowning their sorrows with a few crownies (everyone knows that despite the apparent yuppie appeal, only bogans drink piss weak Crown Lager). So it seemed logical they might like our custom to boost the takings a little. Approaching the door the rather bored looking bouncer looked us over and as we went to enter I bid him good evening, however he stopped us just short of breaching the door and motioning towards me said "Sorry mate, can't go in. Wrong dress code".
[DEEP BREATH]
[DEEP BREATH]
Now I don't think I have ever been denied entry to any establishment for inappropriate dress code, let alone the bloody Woolshed!!! Those of you who know me personally (rather than just some cyber twit who writes random mutterings on this blog), will know that I try to take a certain amount of pride in my appearance (you have to do something when your as ugly as me!!). I don't think of myself as a "prettyboy" and I certainly hope that I don't come across that way, but I do like to make a little effort. On this particular evening I wore jeans, a shirt and vest; not overly "hip" or "trendy" I thought, but presentable. Those of you that have ever been to The Woolshed will know it as domain of the cowboy hat, bumster (outrageous) flare, flannelette shirt and steel cap boot (likely to have last seen wear amongst the sh*t on the nearest cattle station). And so you can imagine my incredulity at being denied entry to such a place.
It was all in all quite a surreal night and so hopefully you can take something from this, my message is to those of you who continue to write of your quest for the divine feminine. Take stock and beware, these girls you speak of are cunning creatures. Yet having said that, it all sounds rather nice, doesn't it?
Image at left: The most intelligent thing that George W Bush has ever done? Resigned to both being obese, stubborn and completely detrimental to any kind of peace in the Middle East, the Israeli leader and his Palestinian counterpart consider ending it all.
