The A to Z of why you should sleep with me

Recently, while negotiating with the ‘lady who decides everything’ about some possible future game of Doctors and Nurses, I found myself essentially making a list of all the pros that came with my idea. I know what you are thinking and you are right, I am a romantic fool and master of seduction.

Anyway, because I believe in sharing the wealth, here is my A to Z of reasons why getting a slice of Glen-cake should be top of any woman’s bucket list.

A is for athletic. Admittedly I’m only talking about my feet but it still counts.

The Boboli Gardens 1996

B is for body. I most certainly do have a model’s body; I’ve been the muse for many an artist’s sculpture.

C is for considerate lover.  I totally understand a woman’s needs and take great care not to jolt about so much that you lose your place in your Kindle.

D is for donkey. Just saying. Actually, to be more accurate, I’m usually described as an Ass but I’ve already done ‘A’.

E is for euphemism. During foreplay you will be impressed by how many different words for boobs I know. That should be more than enough to get you going.

F is for Foreplay. See 'E'.

G is for gratitude. I always say “Thank You” Politeness costs nothing.

H is for hairy. Chest, back, toes everything. Except head.

I is for imagination, which you will need plenty of if you are to see George Clooney in the room.

J is for Justin – those people whose imagination can’t see Mr. Clooney can pretend they are with Justin (aka Mr. Tumble) instead.

K is for Kilos – about 95 of them to be precise, ask a scientist for a detailed answer about why that’s important but it’s all about momentum, apparently.

L is for longevity which is not something I’m blessed with so you can relax. There’s no need to miss Desperate Housewives, we can easily get things sorted during the commercials.

M is for manly. I can assure you I’m all man and can prove this by repeatedly farting during E and F.

N is for no socks. Pre-sex sock-removal is 100% guaranteed when you are with Glen.

O is for orgasm (obviously). I can, again, 100% guarantee that one of us will have one.

P is for post-coital pizza; I was raised to be a gentleman so I will always let you relax as I pop downstairs to answer the door.

Q is for quick; they don’t call me lightening for nothing. No woman has ever complained of getting bored during lovemaking with me, there just isn’t time.

R is for romantic. This list should be more than enough proof of that – especially 'N'.

S is for small. No need to feel intimidated or anxious with me – you’ll hardly know it’s there.

T is for treacle – or Golden Syrup to be more precise – we all have our weaknesses.

U is for uniform. I do have one of those.

V is for volume, or more importantly, the lack of it. I’m not a tennis player and see no real need for over-emphasised grunting.

W is for wet patch, which a gentleman like me will always volunteer to sleep in.

X is for xylophone-playing, which apparently requires very strong wrists and fast moving hands. I suspect I’d be good on a xylophone.

Y is for “Yabba-dabba-doo”, which I may occasionally shout at seemingly very inappropriate times. This may slightly contradict ‘V’ but does at least deflect attention away from the simultaneous farting.

And finally, Z was going to be for xylophone until Spell-Checker got involved but now stands for ZZZZ, which is all you’ll be hearing from me between Yabba-dabba-doo and the doorbell announcing the pizza is ready. I won’t keep you from your book with idle chat or questions about which bit you liked best.

So there you go. 26 highly agreeable reasons as to why my wife should have succumbed to my devastating charms last Saturday night. All I need to know from you readers is..

1.      Why didn't it work?

2.       How do you remove a tin of treacle from your backside without the lid coming off?

The End

Flash Fiction Friday from -  http://www.flashfictionfriday.com (I know it’s Wednesday)

Cue: Write a story where your protagonist is mistaken about something they “know” to be true.

Length: Up to 1200 words

The End.

“Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not – look, Dave, we have been through this enough times.”

The girl looked tired. Bloodshot eyes with puffed out bags draped heavily beneath them betrayed her lack of sleep but it was the sheer wall of stupidity and lack of trust she was facing that exhausted her the most.

She knew she had lost him, she just didn’t know if she cared.

Dave’s heart was broken.

His head was telling him that it had only just happened, that Stacey’s horrendously callous ability to lie and cover up her actions the night before had killed their love. His heart knew better. The love had died years ago.

The love died the day the trust was lost.

Dave stopped trusting Stacey two years earlier and when that happened their relationship entered a downward spiral from which it hadn’t recovered. It had seemed such a good idea. Both of them went on separate holidays with their friends, recapturing some of the fun they both had known in their youth.

Dave had a blast. He’d drunk and eaten whatever he liked. He’d checked out the ladies on the beach and flirted outrageously with them in the bars. Then his mate had suggested a game.

They had to decide whose “bird” was the most ‘doable’. Who they thought was likely to be the best in bed. What a laugh. They did it on paper as a secret ballot.

Stacey won by a landslide.

At first Dave was proud but as they laughed about it he began feeling uncomfortable. Why were his mates talking like that? Why did they all think they stood a chance?

Dave drank hard that night and woke up with Jemima. Was that her name? He really wasn’t sure but however fast her name may have escaped him, the guilt stayed put.

But it wasn’t just him was it? Stacey was clearly as bad. She must obviously be flirting around his mates all the time and God knows what she got up to in Cornwall?

Dave’s inability to trust himself manifested itself swiftly into a suspicion of Stacey. The arguments flew thick and fast after that holiday but Stacey never actually admitted any wrong doing, so Dave never did either.

Once trust dies so does the relationship, even if it isn’t actually the other person you don’t trust.

But he generously forgave her, even if he couldn’t forget.

And now she was doing it all over again, and this time he would not be able to forgive. Her face was so brazen, so adamantly innocent that he knew he would never again be able to believe a word she said. How could such a convincing liar ever be believed?

Stacey sat with her head in her hands and shook with a rage she could barely contain. What was she supposed to do now, pack her bags and leave? This was as much her place as his now, it was home. Stacey had moved in four years ago and felt totally in tune with the flat. She could easily imagine the smug smile of satisfaction on her mum’s face when she found out just how right she had been about Dave all along.

Dave watched her closely. He desperately needed her to give him the redemption he sought. If only she would admit her failings and tell him what really happened, then he could be angry, then he could be right, then he could be forgiven.

But no relief was coming. Stacey stood and silently headed upstairs to pack some essentials. Dave watched her go and let his shoulders sag as the burden of responsibility was gone. The relationship was over and it wasn’t Dave at fault. She would go. It was the right thing. It was time to move on.

Wordlessly, she threw things into a bag as tears damned well refused to escape from her eyes. Dave watched, stifling his own confused emotions as he did so.

As she headed to the door, Dave’s mouth betrayed his intentions and shouted out for one last chance.

“Don’t go…” He shouted, “Don’t. Just tell me. Tell me and I’ll understand. I will. We can work through this but you have to tell me. You have to be honest and we..”

“I have been honest, you stupid bastard” Stacey interrupted, “ I’ve told you everything – nothing happened!”

“I’m not stupid. I’m not. I know where you were last night”

“Yes, I’ve told you where I was. We were all there – at Jane’s. All of us stayed over when we missed the last train, me Jane, Julie, Vanessa, Pippa and Shelley! How many times have we been through this?”

“Yes I know all that so why won’t you be honest with me?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Dave.”

“Stacey. I’m 36 years old. I’ve been around and I know how things work. I know what happens when women get drunk and have a sleepover so will just stop lying and tell me who won the bloody pillow-fight?”      

Facebook Dining

So I had an idea.

I have a feeling it is probably a bit brilliant.

I may be wrong.

It stemmed from when my wife and I were out on a ‘date’ last week; I had to stop myself from using Facebook while sat supposedly being romantic (as discussed already). I’d tried to suggest to Jo that we could spend the whole evening in silence, only ever conversing via Facebook but she hadn’t seemed too keen. Instead, she insisted on spending the evening banging on about whatever it is women bang on about when you are trying to read a menu, or evaluating the quality of other diner’s plates to see if what they have is worth ordering.

That night, as I patiently waited for sleep to catch up with me I let my mind wander off down its inevitably irreverent paths unchained.

Where it took me was Facebook Dining.

Facebook Dining is (or should be) the future of the social network’s brand. I’ve already emailed Zuckerberg and anxiously await his cash to arrive in my inbox.

I figure that everyone (who matters) uses Facebook these days. Whole social groups depend on it. People chat, joke and bumble their way through whole conversations on it even though they have absolutely nothing else in common with the people on the other side of the Internet. In short, people with no ability to talk to each other in real life can tap out words for hours on their mobile’s FB app.

Here’s where my idea comes in.

What does every town everywhere have? Restaurants, right? Usually the same damned ones. Chains are everywhere. Once inside there is nothing to set them apart. What do real life friends love doing when they meet up? That’s right, they go to restaurants.

So what do virtual friends do? Nothing. They stay in because there is nothing worse than going to a restaurant alone.

Until now.

Get your virtual friends together via Facebook invitations. Book single tables at the same chain (let’s assume Nandos for now) at the same time, accounting for time zones.

Then you all go to your respective Nandos brandishing your mobiles, ipads or laptops. You are effectively sharing a meal at the same restaurant together like real people do. You can order what you like as there will be no quibbles with the bill over who had the extra coleslaw. You sit, eat and drink in as big a group as you can organise without having to book a huge table. All the conversation flows through comments within the event you have set up. You can upload photos, share your opinions and have a great night. All without actually having to hang out with the people who never really liked at school anyway.

You are no longer eating out alone – you have friends! In fact that foursome in the corner looking at you dismissively can sod off, they have no idea that you are actually out with 31 friends – they should be in awe of your social standing, not pitying it!

I’m well up for experimenting with this – all I need now are some other idiots stupid enough to try it with me.

Facebook Dining – the future of the socially inept.

Just how exactly do you flirt?

I ain’t never gonna Heaven..

I ain’t never gonna Heaven…

In my Teacher’s bra…

Yes, you’ve guessed it – my boys have just come back from Scout camp. It seems they’ve learned some new songs.

At least this time it wasn't family camp – I still haven’t fully recovered from that ordeal.

This time the Scouts (Daniel) were away for three nights and the Beavers joined them for one night on Saturday (Jamie).

So our house has been lovely and quiet. Daniel gone for three nights was nice enough. It is surprising how easy life is when you halve the number of children that usually complicate it. Then on Saturday 

night we found ourselves back in time.

Pre-kids.

We had a night off – completely. No babysitters needed, we were back to being young DINKs like we once were – so very long ago.

This presented us with a problem.

Just what is it that we used to do?

In the end, Jo vetoed my plan of going to bed really early and trying for ‘number three’ because, as she put it, “You really are an arse, Glen.” So we went out instead.

To Oxford, for a lovely meal at The Living Room – by the castle.

And it was nice, very nice.

I resisted the urge to “Check-In” on Facebook and leave a really long message about how I was having a romantic meal with my wife and go into laborious detail about how it was going and what we were eating. The irony of bragging about romance while clearly spending all your time nose-deep on Facebook made me laugh. I didn’t bother because I just wasn’t sure anyone else would get it – and besides, Jo was banging on about something and I couldn’t concentrate long enough to write it.

Wine flowed and Jo flirted a little, I flirted back, Jo stopped flirting and asked if I was feeling okay? Apparently I’ve forgotten how to flirt and looked more like I had a chicken bone lodged in my throat.

How exactly do you flirt anyway?

Can anyone remember?

Still – it was a lovey night.

And then we had to get up early and fetch the boys.

I enjoyed being young and childless for a night but I’m happy to have them back. I reckon after a couple of years I’d start to miss the little buggers.

Anyway – must go, I need to find out what’s wrong with my Son’s teacher’s bra?

Reflections of man

Over at In The Powder Room today I’m working alongside the formidable Iris Beard to look at myself.

Specifically I’m looking at how all us men look at ourselves in contrast to how you ladies do it.

What Heaven or hell does a mirror pose for you?

Find out what I see in the glass reflected at me and then please go read Iris’ post to hear another side on the same subject. Iris is always worth reading – she just is.

Glen's 10K for Cystic Fibrosis - I only gone and run it!

Paul - Glen - Darren and Craig - Adrian behind the lens

I did it!

Oh yeah!

Only three months after announcing, right here at Glen’s Life, that I would run ten Kilometres (6.2 miles) in aid of Cystic Fibrosis and to support my Brother-In-Law, Paul in his attempt to run the London Marathon next week, I am ecstatic to announce that I completed the course in 1 hour and eight minutes.

Glen and Craig half way point

1 hour 8! Brilliant. My running app, which produced this map, says we went 13K. I think I will be deleting that app as it is clearly an idiot. www.mapmyrun.com says we did 10.2K and Craig’s watch said we did it in 1 hour 8 so that’s what I’m going with.

I was joined on the run by Paul, the guy whose marathon attempt I linked up with, Adrian, Darren and Craig. All of them are ‘gym types’ and runners and all gave up their time to help a fat boy like me make an easy jog for them look difficult. In the pub, waiting for us, were my mates, Mike and James. All of these guys are brilliant for doing that – let’s hear a massive round of applause for the boys!

Meanwhile, a big thanks also to Leanne who came all the way from Cambridge to hang  out in the pub with us. She had intended to run as well but was unable to due to an injury – she came anyway. So let’s also hear a big shout out for the girl and her friend Ash who also came along.

It was hard. Really hard. I chose running along the canal because it would be flat so I was more than a little vexed to discover a lock half way along that meant we had to go up a hill and a section under a bridge that was closed, meaning we had to go up and over – killing my legs in the process. You can see the video of my half-distance interview and decide for yourself how knackered I was.

Glen and Darren fail to impress at the finish line

With just over a kilometre to go I mentally kicked into gear and instructed my legs to pick up the pace – I was after a big finish. However my legs told my brain to sod off and refused to go any faster than they already were, thank you very much. What that meant is that my arms (goody two-shoes arms) did as they were told and started swinging at a much faster pace than my legs were going. I looked like the Duracell Rabbit as I hobbled along the streets at 10 strides a minute but banging an imaginary drum at 100 beats per minute. Nothing my head could do mae any difference – my legs were absolutely adamant.

Only one us looks like he ran 10K - guess which one?

Until we rounded the last corner before the end and I knew I was there.

Then my legs chimed in and decided they would try and get all the glory with a sprint finish.

I was a blur.

I sprinted. My arms and legs were back in sync and I looked like an athlete for the first time in my life.

Right up until we reached the very last corner and discovered that instead of turning easily to the finish, right in front of the pub, I actually found a temporary wall. Building works were going on. Access to the road was blocked!

Leanne - Mike - James and Ash doing the hard work

We had to run around the wooden fence and I just crumbled. I’d done my big sprint finish and that was all I had left, I had nothing. Running around the fence added on perhaps 50 metres at the very most – but that was enough. I had no fuel in the tank and all I could do was slowly limp around it before finally reaching the waiting crowd (Mike and James) looking flustered and sweaty and ill, like I usually do when I have to walk past Greggs the Bakers because my wife is looking.

It wasn’t the dream finish I’d hoped for but it didn’t matter.

I did it – thanks to a lot of support from the guys and a whole load of people who supported Cystic Fibrosis by giving up their hard earned cash for the cause. Thank you everyone.

Now I need a pie.

Glen's 10K for Cystic Fibrosis - The time is nigh

The time has come for one last plea for support.

Tomorrow (Thursday 12^th April), I take on the challenge that I announced only three months ago, right here at Glen’s Life.

Glen’s 10K run for Cystic Fibrosis is very much on.

My Asics and I have pounded the streets in preparation for this. I’m ready. I could actually be mistaken for an athlete the way I’ve been speeding along. and I mean a proper athlete - not just a darts player.

Well I say athlete…

Sumo wrestlers are athletes, right?

If you are at all interested, please go to my 10K page above to read all about the challenge and to find out how you could make a difference to the lives of those who suffer with Cystic Fibrosis. Or please click here to donate - thanks. The money does not come to me at all, it is an official “giving” website and the money goes direct to the CF Trust through the portal set up by my marathon running Brother-in-law.

So how far is 10Km in real measurements? 6.2 miles, this is a very long way, in my opinion. Maybe not a marathon – like my Brother-In-Law is running (the fool) - but still a bloody long way to be pushing a finely tuned body like mine along without a pie-stop or sleep.

So at the very least wish me luck and if you are London based then I should mention that if I don’t die en-route then I should be reaching the Railway Tavern by Liverpool Street Station at about 7:30 pm. Any folk loitering about showing any kind of support are likely to be fleeced for either cash for the CF trust or beer for me, but don’t let that put you off – I’m very easily distracted. The old “look over there, Kylie Minogue is trying on new hotpants” line works every time!

Okay folks, I’m stretching now – here we go…

A weighty loss of humour

Why don’t women have much of a sense of humour when it comes to their weight? Why don’t men take their lady’s concerns more seriously?

Stuffed if I know.

However, I know a man who does…

A weighty loss of humour – by The Regular Guy UK.

The answer is out there…

Or then again, maybe it isn’t! 

Surviving the School Dico

If there is one thing that frightens the pants off me, it’s when the boys bring the letter home that says there is a school disco coming up.

I'm not saying I’m old but…

I hate it.

Lots of schools do discos and many have their own way of doing things. In our case it’s a major event. The kids aren’t allowed to be left unsupervised so we adults have to go too. And for me, it’s a very special type of hell.

I don’t do crowds.

I don’t do noise.

I don’t do over-excited sugar-induced kids.

What I’m saying is I dread it.

And my cunning wife, Jo is always busy. She cheats. She reads things. When the boys bring home these letters she actually reads them! So by the time I find out about the disco she already has something else written on the calendar.

And as you know – if it’s on the calendar it’s safe.

It really does get crowded in there. The mixture of heat infused body odour and Disco Dave’s smoke machine only adds to the joy.

And then I get dragged to the sweet stall.

It is after all a treat for the kids, and it doesn’t happen often, and the proceeds all go to the school…

Oh God – I’m going to have to take Jamie to the sweet stall.

Thankfully, I reckon by the next disco he’ll be able to go buy his own bloody chocolate. The thing is the queue gets mixed with the beer stall, which I’ll come back to, and so you wait forever.

Eventually, you get to the front and that’s when war breaks out. Ten children lie in wait and swamp you as you finally push your youngest properly through the queue and he spends approximately a month studying the array of treats. How much can he spend? How much are these? How much are these? How much are these? This goes on for a week.

The lady behind the counter is basically surviving on gin as the crowd of children rub their sweaty hands over her stock but never actually come to a decision.

I crack and throw the whole box of Fruit Pastilles packets into the air. I shove a note in the gin lady’s hand and drag Jamie away. We have sugar.

Back to the beer stall.

As I said, adults have to stay so they put on a beer stall. Result – I guess. And the beer is cheap. Even better result – I hear you say. In practise, this means that five million pikeys spend all night buying warm tins of Fosters and bottles of Cuban Chardonnay. The queue never dies down.

I have no doubts that there are some parents who see this as the best night out of the year. A chance to sit in their school-gate cliques and get plastered on cheap booze while slagging off anyone at a different table is just too great an opportunity to miss. They get dressed up in their absolute best – honest! Some of the mums came in the most unbelievable outfits – my flabber was well and truly ghasted. Boobs were hanging out everywhere I looked, and still were on the second and third times that I checked. And fourth.

At a kid’s disco!

It’s all too desperate for me. I wore my grumpiest frown and just stood watching the clock until I could get away with taking the boys home.

Meanwhile, the boys had a blast. Especially Daniel whose name I heard being called out by Disco Dave as a winner but I’d missed what it was he’d won. I was really proud – what a chip off the old block he is? 

Clearly my ten year old had just completely out-danced his peers. His body-popping moves had clearly outshone everyone else’s. Or was it the Robot dance I’dtaught him that had put him ahead?

I was looking forward to finding out.

Musical bumps.

Musical – bloody – bumps.

My ten year old had managed to take on a bunch of seven year olds and beat them at sitting down. Three tables of angry mums had disregarded their school-gate politic and joined forces to cast their hatred our way. It’s safe to assume Daniel will not be receiving any birthday party invites for a while!

I'm determined to find out the date of the next disco first – there has to be a way of beating Jo at her own game!

when you don't have to fake it

You know your kids are getting older when you stop having to ‘let’ them beat you at football in the garden.

Little whippets – Long gone are the days when I have to pretend to not be able to save the goal.

I’ve had to resort to fouling the little buggers just to get a kick of the ball.

It’s not easy being a dad.