Dirty secrets unearthed


Dear men,

It’s late. You are downstairs and everyone else has gone to bed. It’s dark. It’s warm. It’s cosy. You’ve have had a long day and  a few drinks. You have a remote control in your hand that links you to a cabled network of  hundreds of HDTV channels. You are bored.

You flick the channels mindlessly.  Not ‘searching for‘ necessarily, but ‘being aware of‘. When you actually ‘come across‘ you flick past. Initially.  You flick past though after hovering your finger over the up/down button on the remote for longer than you did on the previous 36 channels or so.  You hover for just long enough to make sure that it is what you think it is. But not long enough to be actually watching. And then you flick on.

But it is already too late. The dye has already been cast. And whilst you continue the charade of flicking on, you have already, deep down, made your decision.  You have selected the channel, the program and the end to your evening. You know it is wrong. But that’s what makes it so right.

Dear Women,

You have said goodnight and you’ve gone upstairs.  You have done God knows what in the bathroom for God knows how long, culminating in a toilet flushing and a light switch being clicked.  You have tiptoed across the landing like a  baby elephant learning to walk and you have made settling down noises in the bed.

And then you have done nothing. You have not made a sound.  You have laid there for more than enough time for a person to consider you to be asleep. Not that anyone is listening particularly. To any of this. More that the sounds you make and the signals you give penetrate a person’s subconscious and gently lull them in to believing that you will no longer be seen until breakfast.

Dear God,

Why do you hate me so? Have I been forsaken? Is it because I don’t pray?  Or is it because I am doing an on-line Buddhist meditation course? Either way, I thought you were an understanding God? A forgiving fellow? Not one to embarrass and humiliate one of your own by creating him imperfect. Subject to wants and desires. Susceptible to temptation.

I am only human after all.  I like a drink. I like TV.  I like to be alone. Maybe it’s the case that I don’t like myself enough (or maybe too much huh?) but still.  I pay my taxes. I work hard. I try to be the best husband and father I can be. But I have my weaknesses. Of course I do. Everyone does. Everyone has their secrets for heavens sake. And I have mine. Things that I don’t particularly want to share with my wife. You know? YOU of all people know this

Dear Time Team,

I do not know WHAT it is about your program, but I can NOT stop watching it. Just the other evening my wife came downstairs unexpectedly and in an unfortunate turn of events found me sitting naked in our living room, drinking whisky and wearing a bobble hat.

I hasten to add that my nudity was coincidental and was not as a result of anything that you had exposed in that farmer’s field in Gloucestershire. As exciting as that medieval wall and fragment of the lip of an 18th Century pouring jug were, I am pleased to report that I was entirely flaccid throughout. I am not, in anyway, sexually aroused by groups of individuals dressed in corduroy, scrapping top spoil on their hands and knees.

However your program does push a button somewhere.  A button that I did not know I even had. This concerns me. It concerns me a whole bunch.

I don’t know if it is Baldrick’s wizened old face and sad, baggy eyes or the ridiculous accents and prehistoric teeth of your experts. Or is it the scenary and Big Yellow? Who knows? However the interchange on Dinmore Hill between Stewart the landscape investigator and the geophysicist who’s name alas escapes me, was electric. ELECTRIC and had me literally on the edge of my seat.

This is literally where my wife unearthed me. Sat on the edge of my seat, nude and clutching my exposed artefacts for comfort.  I can not in mere words adequately convey to you the look on my wife’s face as she found me thus.  Her reaction as I relayed to her that what she was actually looking at was the remains of an 8th Century cross carved from stone, will haunt me for years to come.  The pity was palpable.  The shake of her head as she kissed me on the cheek, flicked my bobble and returned from whence she came, left me in no doubt that I am, to her, an asexual being.  An oddity.  A skinny, grumpy oddity that seems to make less and less sense.

Dear Television X.

I do not know if you take requests? If you do, please can we have a selection of buxom and beautiful nudes exposing their medieval pottery and 18th Century post holes?

I implore you.  Good old fashioned pornography may just save my marriage and make me normal again in the eyes of my wife.


The Man in his pyjamas

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