The six traumas of living in an all-female household

ARE you the only man in a house ruled by your wife and your daughters? Are you humiliated daily by a domestic matriarchy? This is the catalogue of your shame: 

Televisual

The days of Dad entering the room, commandeering the remote and putting Middlesbrough-Watford on are gone. Unfathomably, no-one else in the household cares who’ll reach the play-off. Instead everyone’s binging the classic 2019 Love Island with Molly-Mae and Tommy Fury, and you can watch the game on your phone if you like.

Receiving deliveries

Nobody else can hear the knocks at the door, so it’s your job to collect eight Evri boxes from Vinted, Depop and Boohoo each day. Never dare question if Lucy really needs a 15th pair of jeans or how much this bloody face cream costs will unite the whole family against you. Meanwhile all your hip-hop 12-inches have been moved to the garage.

Bathroom access

To get 90 seconds in the bathroom to urinate, brush your teeth, wash your face and leave still wet requires hours of alertness and bargaining while women work in shifts to stop you. Make-up application, eye and night cream application, brushing hair, facemasks, plucking, steaming, and defecation all must take place. You shower at 5.45am or not at all.

Continual bitching

There are so many people you’ve never met you’re meant to hate. Sarah at hot yoga is a cow. Holly at college is a spiteful slag. The Spanish teacher is a fat whore. And somehow you’re meant to be interested, and remember them, and you’re castigated when you don’t. Then you call your mother and hear about everyone she hates that you don’t know.

Being disgusting

When you fart, burp, eat, scratch, yawn, sneeze, sweat or swear you’re disgusting. ‘Dad stinks’ is a frequently heard phrase. And the thing is, they’re sort of right: they are all lovely and fragrant and cleansed and you are the one drunk watching Trailer Park Boys in your underpants.

Synchronised periods

One week in four, it gets even worse. During that week, even if you became silent, incorporeal and invisible, you’d still get on every member of your household’s tits. This is why man invented the shed and hid beer in there.

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We ask you: What twat outfit are you dressing in for the London Marathon?

THE London Marathon takes place on Sunday, and every Briton who is not lazy and worthless is running it in costume. What are you wearing? 

Grace Wood-Morris, handbag rentier: “I’m dressing as a two-bedroom flat in Dalston available for only £1,685 a month, in the hope the crazed hordes chasing me will spur me on and improve my time.”

Emma Bradford, industrial cleaner: “Sexy Sir Olly Robbins. What? Well nobody told me the rules are different from Halloween.”

Jim Bates, dog trainer: “I’m raising £7,500 for motor neurone disease dressed as the late Professor Stephen Hawking and there’s nothing you or anyone else can do about it.”

Donna Sheridan, flare tester: “My costume is of a woman who loves her husband and children but needed to train for six months to prove something obscure to herself, not to avoid them or anything. It’s my running clothes.”

Will McKay, inker: “Where are we on blackface for this one? Still no?”