| tim relf |
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| journalism... This article, called ‘Hope you like the stapler, darling’, was first published in the Daily Express The worst Christmas present I ever bought a girlfriend was a stapler. I was 12 at the time and we’d only been going out for three days so I didn’t have a clue what she really wanted. I saw the stapler in WH Smith and figured there was a fair chance she wouldn’t already have one of her own. She dumped me the day after Boxing Day - an act which wasn’t, I fear, entirely unconnected with my choice of present. I’d like to say I’ve never got it wrong since but, like most men, I’ve made me fair share of howlers when it comes to the annual lottery that is Christmas and birthday presents for wives or girlfriends. Women say men are hard to buy for - but get us something we can play with, wear or eat and you won’t go far wrong. Besides, we’re such rubbish buyers, we’re easily impressed. Guys face a nightmare when it comes to choosing presents, with the festive season heralding weeks of worry, set against the knowledge that making the wrong call can, in extreme cases, get you dumped. Men often claim Christmas is too commercial, but that’s just a cry for help. All that means is: I haven’t got a clue what to buy. It’s so hard to pick a winner. Cds, dvds and books are fine, but they’re boring. You can get those any time. Jewellery’s OK but, like perfume, it’s a minefield. We know what we like - but we’re not the ones who are going to have to wear it. Even clothes are fraught with problems and choosing sizes can, in itself, make or break a relationship. Buy big, and the reaction could be: “Is that how I look?” Buy small, and the reaction might well be: “You’d like it if I was that size, wouldn’t you!” There’s underwear, of course, but a lot of guys positively dread their annual trip to the lingerie shop. It’s a strange place we don’t understand and, worse still, we might be spotted. Forget Narnia, the only foreign and mysterious land a lot of men are going to see this Christmas is the underwear department. We’re told women like surprises but the trouble with surprises is the reaction to them is often just that: surprising. People only like them if you get them right. And blokes often don’t. Our attempts at research are always either ineffective or obvious. “What do you think of that?” we’ll ask nonchalantly about a passer-by’s handbag or scarf. We’re either rumbled immediately and spoil the surprise or, worse still, asked: “Why? Do you fancy her or something?” Beware stuff for the home, too. Some women like to be bought gadgets for the kitchen; others find it insulting. Ultimately, I guess it depends on whether it’s a luxury or an essential. A food mixer might be good; a washing machine probably wouldn’t. Presents you can share are a bit of a banker, assuming you can actually share them. A weekend away somewhere romantic will probably go do well (as long as it doesn’t happen to be where your football team are playing). Similarly, concert tickets are usually well received (assuming it’s Will Young not Motorhead). Ditto dvds: go for Bridget Jones not Mean Streets. Then there’s the thorny issue of how much to spend. That’s particularly tricky if you’re with a new partner. You either pitch it too low (a £5 gift voucher) in which case you’re understandable dubbed a miser, or too high (since we’ve been going out a week, I thought I’d treat you to a new car) in which case you’re a potential psychopath. People say it’s the thought that counts but when it comes to Christmas presents, the sad truth is, it’s a bit about price, too. What I’ve learnt is that you’ve got to spend enough. While waiting for the sales might make sense in theory, men often make the mistake of actually believing it when their girlfriends or wives tell them to. Fine, if we buy something else - or better still a few other things - for that special person to open on Christmas Day, but no one likes having to wait until January for Santa, especially when you could have the same thing in December if you’d been prepared to fork out £20 more. Ultimately, there’s a lot of luck involved. One of the oddest hits I’ve ever had was a torch. One of my friends laughed hysterically when I told him what I’d opted for - he said I’d need it to find my way home early on Christmas morning when my girlfriend booted me out. But she loved it. She said it was individual and special. I smiled, breathed a sigh of relief and replied: “I knew you’d like it.” As for my girlfriend this year, I’m struggling to know what to buy. That said, there are some pretty nice staples in WH Smith again… This article was first published in Loaded. It was one of the magazine‘s ‘Great Moments in Life’ series, which took a wry look at our defining moments Like no other rite-of-passage, losing your virginity defines the end of childhood and the start of adulthood. It’s the big one. Or you certainly hope it will be anyway. For me, it marked the culmination of months of persuasion and pleading - my favourite line to my then-girlfriend Lauren being: ‘It will be the physical expression of how much I love and respect you.’ In the end, we did it in my mum’s Ford Fiesta in a lay-by off the A2. Lauren probably had notions of candlelit meals and romantic foreplay, but I couldn’t afford any of that shit and, to be honest, didn’t have time - I had to get the car back by 10. Truth is, I just wanted to get it over with, too. I was terrified. Here I was, confronted with a real woman. Years of intensive wanking hadn’t prepared me for this. OK, so I’d watched plenty of porn films, tried snogging my own hand, I’d even practised my caresses on the dog’s back - but I was on my own here. I was like a kid looking down from the 10 metre diving board for the first time. I flicked on late-night love songs and kissed Lauren’s neck. She groaned. This, I thought, is a piece of piss. I slipped my hand inside her top. She groaned again. It was all going rather well. Moved my hand down. More groaning. I was a natural. Then we hit a few technical problems. A bloke walked past with a dog. A wasp flew in the car. Something unsavoury - and possibly illegal - almost happened with the seatbelt. I needed to turn this around. I caressed her a bit more firmly (how the dog seemed to like it) but that didn’t go down too well. I tried talking dirty, but she laughed. My ad-libbing unsuccessful, I tried repeating one of the lines I’d heard on a porn film, but she didn’t seem to appreciate that, either. We reclined the seat and I climbed across onto her side, nervously clutching a condom. This was the first time I’d ever used one in anger (putting one on a banana during ‘personal development’ sessions at school presumably doesn’t count, unless of course you’re blessed with a knob the shape of a banana). Lauren, no doubt, was expecting a sensitive, gentle and respectful lover. I went at it like a man who hadn’t eaten for a week and had been shown a KFC Bargain Bucket. We didn’t exactly work our way through the Kama Sutra. We had sex once, virtually fully clothed, and I went off like a spud gun. But never mind that. Between 9.41 and 9.44pm I was in love. All those worries and phobias disappeared. They simply evaporated. However crap I might have been, it felt fucking magic. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off me. Lauren had come along just in time. I mean, I’d been 17 and still hadn’t shagged anyone. And there were only so many girls I could have down as lesbians or frigid. Afterwards, we sat in the car for a few minutes, trying to ignore the smell of rubber. I felt different. Older. Adult. Mature. I was also a bit worried about the mess on the seat. Lauren said something about what had happened being a uniquely personal private memory we’d treasure even when we were old. So I went into school on Monday and promptly told all my mates. Yes, course I shagged her, I said, shagged her senseless, but it’s no big deal. It’s nothing serious. Lauren chucked me a few days after our visit to that lay-by - two events that, I fear, may not have been entirely unconnected. Not that I cared. I was a love machine. I was a stud. I was a man. And, most importantly of all, I wasn’t a virgin any more. This article, called ‘Doctor Doctor’, was first published in the Daily Express. There’s one sure-fire way of terrifying a man – mention the word ‘doctor’. Nowhere is the gender difference so pronounced as when it comes to medical matters. Women are proactive and responsible. Men bury their heads in the sand. The first hint of trouble and women are doing their research on the internet, cross-checking symptoms and exploring the best course of options, having discussed the matter with their family and friends. Men are down the pub, drowning their sorrows and telling anyone who’ll listen in vague – annoyingly unspecific – terms that they’re not long for this world. Women book doctor’s appointments like they’re planning an evening out or ordering a takeaway. Men, petrified of the prospect, take a don’t-think-about-it-and-it-won’t-happen approach. The excuse we’ll typically give is that there are iller and more needy people out there, so we don’t want to waste the doctor’s time. It’s rubbish, we’re terrified. Deep down, whatever it is, we’ll have convinced ourselves that it’s bound to be bad - and quite possibly terminal - in which case we don’t want to know. We know the theory. That more often than not, you’ll have nothing to worry about. That prevention is better than cure. That, whether it’s a common cold or something serious, early diagnosis is better than later. But just getting most guys to a GP is like getting most women to have a kickaround with a football in the park on a rainy Saturday afternoon: it simply isn’t going to happen. Just something about the word ‘doctor’ strikes fear into us. We immediately visualize stethoscopes and stern-looking health professional shaking their head disapprovingly. They’ll ask us questions about our lifestyle – about how much we do of some things (eat and drink and smoke) and how little we do of others (exercise). And the problem with this is that it means we’ll have to face up to such things ourselves, which is rarely our strong point. Of course, we all lie - but doctors are wise to this and factor this in. The mere prospect of a trip to the surgery can make grown men revert to childhood. I know blokes who won’t go unless their girlfriends or wives accompany them. They’re simply too scared. You can almost imagine the doctor ignoring the patient and asking said girlfriend or wife: So, what’s the matter with poor Little Jonny today? We’re not entirely to blame, though. Guys are taught as children that we should soldier on. We should be strong; we shouldn’t make a fuss. What do we remember from childhood: it’s that life is all about survival of the fittest. And the fittest don’t get ill. Men aren’t fed the same diet of health information that women are, either. Women’s magazines are full of articles on such matters so there’s no embarrassment or stigma in talking about it. This isn’t this same for us. Our magazines are full of lots of things but they avoid health matters like, if you’ll excuse the pun, the plague. When anything even vaguely health-related comes up in conversation, we get embarrassed and change the subject. It’s a vicious circle. Guys often don’t understand health issues so it’s hard to keep things in perspective. We know one thing though: whatever it is, it’s serious. Doctor’s waiting rooms are full of men with slightly strained muscles or ear infections convinced their time is up. Plus, while we know doctors do an incredible job and have nothing but admiration for them, we certainly don’t trust them. We haven’t had enough experience of them to. We’re suspicious of what they say, whether it’s good or bad. If they’re old, we can’t help thinking they’re past it and unaware of modern medical methods; if they’re young, they can’t be properly qualified or experienced. And when it comes to their manner, they certainly can’t win. If they look calm and untroubled, it just makes us more convinced we’re ill - because that’s precisely how they’re trained to behave when something terrible is wrong. Nowadays, I can’t even hear someone say the word ‘doctor’ without breaking out in a cold sweat. Sitting in a waiting room is like Chinese water torture. Last time I was in one, I was so desperate to take my mind of my (as I then imagined) imminent demise, I resorted to reading every women’s magazine in the waiting room. Trouble was, they were full of articles about health, which simply worried me more. As it happened, I didn’t have anything life-threatening. It was a stomach bug. Unless I was misdiagnosed, of course!
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