The 'Mediterranean Diet'

I started the Mediterranean diet years ago but I never actually new I was on it, until recently.

This wonderful diet can help treat the onslaught of midlife crisis disease. In fact for a while, usually for a few hours each evening it can dispel all symptoms completely. Most importantly, the so-called ‘Mediterranean Diet’ includes a large intake of red wine, and has been credited with lower rates of heart disease in those countries that drink tons of it.

So, this is not only good news overall, but apart from the odd Bordeaux drinking tramp, I must have the smoothest free flowing arteries in the Kingdom.

I’ve always loved red wine and it’s great to know that the more I drink the healthier I get. The boffins at some small Midlands University, no doubt funded by a California grape-growing consortium, say it appears to interfere with the production of a body chemical, which clogs up arteries and increases the risk of a heart attack. Phew!

Now having entered my forties, this information is very important to me and I’m not about to take any chances with this ‘moderation crap’. Let’s get stuck in and free up those veins.

For me, the benefits of red wine out-way the risks completely. The first glass tastes great and makes my wife bearable and my kids tolerable. By the second glass, the kids are in bed and my midlife crisis disease symptoms are easing away nicely.

The third glass, my veins are almost cholesterol free, my wife is marginally attractive to me and I’m starting to think maybe my boss does have a personality and I should try harder tomorrow.

If there is a fourth glass, and there usually is, it can go either way. I could start chatting happily away to my wife about the day’s tribulations like we were happily married (she needs to be pissed too). Alternatively, and more often, my wife becomes the most annoying creature on the planet (it’s not a huge metamorphosis), I’m suddenly paying for a black sports car by credit card on Autotrader, trying to re-live a time in youth when I couldn’t have afforded one but would have looked a lot less stupid sat in one, and I’m struggling to spell mid-life crisis.

I love drinking red wine and I’m only prepared to stop when the experts say it’s bad for me or I tell a complete stranger that I love them and start crying.

The Aliens Have Landed!

The village where I live is pleasant, quiet, and low in traffic pollution. Five miles away is the nearest town. It is not pleasant, quiet, and low in traffic pollution. On a recent visit I noticed something peculiar. Aliens had taken over the town. Yes aliens!

The first wave started early in the morning with a few human looking types wearing reflective jackets operating under the guise of council workmen. They were digging dubious holes by the side of the road and this was without doubt the preparatory hideouts or lairs for the incoming invaders. These ‘workmen impostors', were so convincing that they even had lunch breaks spanning hours and left there cones unattended for days under the pretence of ‘men at work’.

Weeks later when their job was finally done, across the town, the aliens arrived, as predicted. Not exactly as advanced as I was hoping and the provisions I had made at home of six months supply of bottled water and canned baked beans may not have been necessary.

With a large yellow square head, one evil eye staring unflinchingly and standing awkwardly on a single leg, the aliens slowly and clandestinely came to life zapping all in their path. They were just like my 'legal eagle' wife, cold and calculated and picked on the vulnerable, those that had money in their pockets but would not bother defending themselves. It was, “the invasion of the speed cameras”.

My local town had surcome to their seductive powers of extracting cash from the middle classes while driving down a dual carriageway, coincidently and without prior warning, re-classed as a 40 mph limit.

The aliens had been strategically placed, not outside a school or a busy pedestrianised side street, but on a main un-urbanised, non-pedestrian thoroughfare into town, on the basis that there was once an accident on that very road involving a horse-drawn carriage and a rabbit in 1876.

Now why would one place a speed camera on a dual carriageway going into town ‘immediately after’ the speed limit reduces from 70mph to 40mph and not in the place where the alleged carriage/rabbit incident occurred? Let me guess!

More bizarrely, one of the other cameras is positioned on the opposite carriageway located just a yard or two before the 40mph increases to 70mph. They are so obviously and unashamedly placed in such a way as to generate revenue-on the pretence of road safety-that it would have been just as easy to place a Council ‘highwayman’ on the side of the road demanding, “your money or you licence”.

Being in the throws of a deep and invigorating midlife crisis I have decided to buy a chainsaw and rubber lined boots.

What a Lovely Boating Holiday!

Due partly to the recession and partly for the misguided need to be seen to do the right thing, I decided to holiday in the UK. My wife was not impressed. Nor was I when I looked at the choices on offer. Warner, Butlins, Hoseasons. God, we need to move on.

Well, a boating holiday seemed novel, but it is not possible to call a boating holiday a ‘boating holiday’ when you see the abomination that the Norfolk Broads call leisure craft. Built from pieces of old timber picked up from a local farm and built by a Norfolk infant school as a half-term research project.

Only the bow gave it away, the rest was simply a garden shed with double-glazing that floats - just. The broads has a top speed of 5mph but frankly, if you could get one of these floating 60s box-rooms to go that fast, I would happily give you my life’s savings.

I was enticed by the front page of the brochure showing an Ambramovich style super-yacht in gleaming white and black. On inspection of the following pages, my wife, a Solicitor, was drawing up the ‘misrepresentation’ lawsuit papers.

So, we sifted through the brochure and finally chose a suitable Royal blue and white 1950’s reject called ‘Sampson of the seas’ or something. The only ‘few’ boats that somewhat resembled a real leisure craft were booked up until 2025.

The consolation prize was that our boat had a ‘full sliding canopy’ over the ‘saloon’. What is a saloon exactly? Am I boating or in a Western.

The advantage of having a full sliding canopy seemed to be, that while you are eating your dinner, you could completely expose yourself to the unpredictable British elements and hordes of other ‘boaters’ who will mock your choice of shed. Furthermore, the thought of having dinner while being ogled and shot at with water pistols by Trevor and Lisa and six smelly kids from a run down council estate, did not enthral me.

The rocking of the boat constantly annoyed my wife, in particular at night. Maybe she thought we would be in dry dock, I don’t know? The overwhelming benefit to this was that while she felt a little sea sick it stopped her talking (or nagging depending on your perspective).

On one occasion I was sent out to try to find some seasick tablets from a local shop. Having found them, it seemed a terrible shame to upset the peace by getting her talking again, so I calmly placed them back on the shelf and returned. “You would have thought a shop next to the river would have sold them” I said apologetically and empty-handed.

What a lovely holiday it turned out to be.

My Wife is a Prostitute....

I’ve been offered sex!

It was my wife. So, that’s puts some perspective on it. What’s the big deal. How does that make my wife a prostitute?

You see. If you are married and you have been for a while. Lets say, over a month or so, sex becomes a novelty, a treat, £10 found behind the sofa. A hidden treasure chest buried deep underground on a remote desert island only to be discovered after weeks of digging, planning and considerable manipulation i.e. you do the washing up a few times, clean her car and say she looks great for no apparent reason.

So, there you have it-married sex in a nutshell. Hang on a minute! Marital sex is no hidden treasure. It’s a treasure chest alright but, it will only open up and let you touch its little gems when its good and ready and no matter how much planning, scheming and half-hearted compliments (her arse is big after all), that chest will only open up when she wants it to.

I have a view on married sex, it may be warped, but many agree and its based on fact or experience, whichever takes your fancy.

Here goes. Let’s suppose, for a minute, the first scenario:

• You get home from work and you’re in the mood for some xxx action. Maybe you’ve been talking to the new sandwich girl at work and you got yourself worked up. (In my experience most sandwich girls I’ve met look like Russian shot-putters, but it’s only a scenario, right). Pack the kids off to her Mothers. A little peck on the cheek. A little make or break compliment, usually about what a great cottage pie she made for dinner, it’s a lie but go with the flow. Agree with everything she says. Pour some wine and BINGO. Nope! She’s not really in the mood tonight. Thanks all the same.

Ok. Let’s take a look at this. Same evening. Same time. Same place. Different scenario:

• Pack the kids off to her Mothers. (So good so far). Take her for a nice meal. Her favourite restaurant, she can have whatever she wants. Tell her she looks great at least three times, but not all within 5 minutes, you’re not so sure about the hair, but keep it to yourself. Buy more wine (but don’t get her pissed, nothing worse than having sex with a dead weight!). Order desert. I recommend profiteroles-it works for me. Champagne? Hell why not, you’re on a roll-go for Asti Spumante, she’ll never know. Get a taxi home. Don’t walk–she’ll be knackered when you get in. Another glass of wine when you get back. Another compliment for the road, definitely something about how great she looks and how lucky you are, who knows it might actually be true. Foreplay? That should only take a minute. Off to bed and BINGO. Yes BINGO. Double bingo, if you were twenty years younger.

So, lets look at the facts.

Scenario No1: Spend nothing – get nothing.

Scenario No2: Lets see, meal, wine, profiteroles, Asti, taxi and more wine (the compliments came free of charge). Well, that little lot would have set you back £100.

Conclusion: Would have only cost £50 in the right part of town and you would have still been home in time for the football!