Tag Archives: men

Bloke Depot…


‘Bloke Depot. How may we assist?’

‘Hello, this is Henry…my wife dropped me off with you a few hours ago whilst she did the weekly shop and hasn’t come back…yes again…because it’s getting dark, I’m scared and I don’t know where I live.’


(234 Characters)

Written for: Twittering Tales


Filed under Flash fiction

Twittering Tales: When Women Rule The Earth…


I call this one: ‘Men argue over who has the best camera whilst woman takes epic photo.’ And this one’s: ‘Men miss Bigfoot flying UFO…and…’


140 Characters

Written for: Twittering Tales


Filed under Flash fiction

El Stake-Out…

In Reading there are four Peruvians. I mean, there may be more – come to think of it, there are almost certainly more, but for the sake of argument there are four – two women, two men – none of them taller than five foot. The women walk twice as fast as the men and are always doubling back on themselves to chastise their male counterparts who subsequently never speed up. Hand on heart I couldn’t swear they’re Peruvian. I went to Peru once and can attest that they dress like Peruvians – all multi-coloured woolen clothes and lace bonnets / bobble hats respectively, they speak Spanish and have reddy brown Peruvian skin, but I couldn’t say for certain. Could be Bolivian or Venezuelan…

Anyway, I see them everywhere. It’s like dead people – The Six Sense (or El Seis Senso). They come careering past me in the park on the way to work (at least the women do – the man are waaay back), they pass me again on the way home, I see them at the weekend in town, crossing duel carriageways, weaving through traffic, late at night shuffling under lampposts, everywhere. I believe the word is ‘ubiquitous’ (or possibly ‘omnipresent’).

I’m not being racist. It’s not like I can’t tell Peruvians apart. It’s definitely the same four people.

This last weekend I had friends over and needed to stock up on supplies. I went into town where I encountered my Peruvians friends on no fewer than six separate occasions. As I had seen them twice the day before I deduced that something suspicious was afoot and decided in the heat of the moment to follow them around and unearth their nefarious endeavours.

I recognised from the outset the lunacy of my actions, but this was quickly overridden by the boundless self-confidence that imbeciles have in abundance. I only planned on a five-minute detour, but quickly ascertained that they had no destination – they just moved around in circles looking at stuff – up the high street, round the back, over to the band stand, back up the high street, back round the back, back to the bandstand. I started thinking of computer programs and The Truman Show. Then I thought about solipsism and reasoned that it (and everything else in the universe) was merely a figment of my imagination – itself residing in a jar someplace. As they started their third lap I broke off the pursuit and went to a supermarket.

They were waiting for me at the exit.

I went to a cafe

The same.

On the way home I looked over my shoulder and saw that they were following me. I’d obviously been rumbled. At the final corner I quickened the pace and made a dash for the car. As I pulled away there they were – the women (the men were waaay back) in the rear view mirror, memorising my number-plate (probably), with a view to…

Anyway, should anything happen to me…


Filed under Uncategorized

Rabbit Stew

A man and a woman get set up on a date by a mutual friend. The man isn’t me, nor have I ever met him. The woman and I know each other well. They are each given the other’s phone number and, in the week leading up to the date, an impressive level of banter & flirtation is reached. The date is a roaring success – both say as much, and they continue to flirt solidly for a further thirty-six hours.
But then…radio silence.
I join the story 24-hours into this silence.
The woman asks: ‘As a man, why hasn’t he written back?’
‘Could be any number of reasons,’ I reply, ‘Maybe he’s playing it cool, maybe he’s giving you space, perhaps it’s that work deadline he was telling you about.’
‘Or maybe he’s not interested?’
‘Possibly, but probably too early to say – Why don’t you text him?’
‘I texted him last.’
A few hours later she’s climbing the walls – Why hasn’t he replied? – He seemed interested – I guess not – Maybe I’ll text him? No, there’s a principle at stake – Why hasn’t he replied…
I figure she needs her mind occupying so I say, ‘I’m driving up to the midlands tomorrow to see my dad. Fancy joining me?’
She does.
During the two hour drive north she phones / texts [EXAGGERATED NUMBER OF PEOPLE] to ask for their advice, and is rewarded with comments like ‘Let him go – he doesn’t deserve you,’ and ‘move on’ and ‘that’s out of order.’ Meanwhile I’m saying ‘just text him,’ and she’s like ‘No,’ and I’m like ‘Why not?’ and she’s like ‘Because then he’ll know I like him,’ and I’m like ‘Isn’t that the idea?’
Next she calls the women who set them up in the first place (who we’ll sinisterly call The Instigator). The instigator starts apologising for matching her with such a douche-bag and saying how he seemed like such a good guy and what the hell’s wrong with men and why aren’t they straight forward like women are, and I’m driving and nodding sympathetically and saying ‘Alternatively you could just text him?’ and she’s saying ‘NO, IT’S HIS TURN!’
We get to the midlands and she asks my dad his opinion which (as I’ve warned beforehand) is an epic mistake.
‘Yep, definitely not interested,’ he says with his customary diplomacy, ‘time to move on, next.’
We have a great day walking in the forest, visiting a stately home etc, and all the while her phone’s buzzing and a sense a cyber-outrage is building in the online community that this man has dared to pretend that he enjoyed a date when all the while he was planning on not texting back.
It’s getting dark when we begin the journey south. It’s been 48-hours without a reply and even I’m starting to think that maybe the man’s not interested when suddenly the woman declares ‘My mobile data is switched off!’
She switches it on and instantly gets a day-old text from the man that begins ‘Hey beautiful – about that second date?…’
Now she’s ecstatic and waving her arms around, and I’m thinking: Maybe I should surreptitiously get this guy’s number and warn him?
I asked permission before writing any of this. When I mentioned the proposed title it was relayed to me that ‘I AM NOT A BUNNY BOILER!’
This blog might alternatively have been condensed to: Man goes on date with woman, likes woman, asks woman on second date, blissfully unaware of insidious support network, wonders why woman hasn’t replied…

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