A Nice Can of Greer

Being a man, its sometimes all I can do to occasionally remove my puce, glistening face from behind whatever lump of slaughtered carcass I happen to be guzzling to bare my buttocks at a passing citizen from another town, kill a bomb to bits with my bare hands, or bellow profanities at a heron. On having completed one of the above last week, I happened to glance at a closeby switched on computer screen which informed me that people had been mulling over what would happen if women ruled the world.

The article in question included the testimony of experts and pictures of inspirational women in positions of influence, including Condoleezza Rice, Christine Lagarde off of the IMF, and Judge Judy; and the conclusions drawn suggest that yes, it would be a Good Idea. Women are generally more empathetic and this leads to a collaborative approach to leadership, rather than a competitive one. Who would you rather have sorting things out at the UN. Basil Fawlty or Polly? If you had to choose one. Yes, one of those two. No its not real its just for a game, I couldn't think of a better example right now. No, you can't choose someone else. No, I know Manuel could represent Spain as well at the same time but that's not the point for this exercise and OH SOD OFF

This author for sure is choosing neither to refute or celebrate the findings; its an interesting read, and as food for thought its chunkier than a concrete Big Soup with depleted uranium croutons. Certainly the caretakership hasn't been exactly tip top so far, so why not have a change? Whatever is said here is irrelevant anyway, seeing as the average person's influence on the machinations of party politics and global business is equal to that of me yelling driving directions at Charon, Pluto's moon. But on washing the petrol off my hands and returning the matches to the kitchen drawer after visiting a nearby orphanage for some “bants” with the lads, I spotted a nearby television which was also switched on and it opened my eyes to an array of potential pitfalls to be overcome if the gynarchy is to succeed.

Firstly, what if its the elderly Sicilian women who take over? According to Mama-Mia Margarine, they'll be too busy tricking poor unsuspecting taught-bodied young men into occassionally exposing their genitals to them. When they're not doing that, they'll be too busy stuffing their faces with boulders of bread smothered with butter substitute (infused with the Crone's Catnip that apparently allows them to live to 154 years old and still not get tired of looking at an innocent's meat-and-two against their will) to notice that the world's electricity bill hasn't been paid in months, we've all had the power cut and literally all the milk in the world has gone off.

But what of the young, go-getting office worker types? The television, literally seconds after the toothless cackling from the previous featurette has faded, soon confirms that no, they would be no ruddy good either. What used to be known as a Fizzy-Cola-Super-Pop Lite-Break has now turned into a full-blown Fizzy-Cola-Super-Pop Lite-Picnic. No wonder the economy, as the Chancellor of the Exchequer is constantly at pains to point out, is “Up the Shitter”; what used to be thirty seconds or so of drooling at Etta James and listening to a man clean the windows – or something like that – its now a whole bloody afternoon crafting a plan of Ocean's Twelvian proportions just to get a look at some manflesh.

The amount of planning that is required to successfully pull off this particular “heist” is phenominal, if you consider that 1) you first have to make enough friends to have a picnic; 2) you need to get a job, in order to buy a nice picnic blanket and afford clothes to go to the park in; 3) you need to make sure that everyone can make it to the picnic on the same day, otherwise its simply Going To The Park, which isn't the same at all; 4) remembering that Tina is coeliac, so bring a radish for her to eat; 5) it needs to be a sunny day, which never actually happens; 6) with government cutbacks the chances of there being a grass cutting man at all – let alone a buff one – are slim and 7) you need to buy a can of Fizzy-Cola-Super-Pop and hope that the buff grass cutting man is flimsy of brain enough to pick up, and attempt to drink from, a can that has been rolled towards him like a sticky grenade from a gaggle of eejits waving and grinning like maniacs. All for a few seconds of Washboard Gawp. All that time organising could have been spent sorting out Mali, surely? And will you still be so keen on him while he is tending to his torn-up face when the can explodes under the blades of his Flymo? Would you? WOULD YOU? You would? Oh.

And what of the normal men – the Non-Adonises? They can be found getting over excited about fried chicken, convincing their wives and girlfriends that they are doing their chores using cardboard cutouts in order to escape to drink Slightly Effeminate Rum, and generally ladding it up. And then, in the break for half time of the Premier League football, the special adverts just for us boys; weak lager, followed by a reminder not to drink and drive; a nudge towards gambling, before a reminder not to gamble with that tab you're about to smoke because it may well turn into a gooey pepperami in your hand.

Whoever does end up ruling the world – be it a continuation of the old guard of old men, a change towards women or Plankar the Crab Lord (predictably, my money is on the latter) – the first thing they could do is at least make that five minutes a bit less depressing. In that spirit, they've said nothing against combining the lot by drinking and smoking ourselves to oblivion whilst riding a lawnmower, so we just need the weather to perk up now.