A lot has been written about sheds and shedism in the blogging sphere over recent weeks, and it is time to put the record straight, especially in the face of ignorant comments made - let's face it - by women who wouldn't know a shed from a summer house.
Sheds are for blokes. Full stop. A woman in a shed is nothing but bad luck and could result in no end of horrific injuries, drownings, etc caused, in the main, by ignorance of the Way of the Shed. No female is ever privy to the complexities of shed design, construction, upkeep and use, for such activities are beyond their limited mental capacities.
A man's shed is his castle. It is sacred. A place for retreat from the strains of domestic living, where man, lawnmower and selection of slighlty damaged tools can live in perfect harmony. A man may customise his shed as he wishes, though any carpet must be either an offcut or a rug of at least thirty years old, left in a will by a disliked aunt. Any household object may be used in customisation, and it is the man's prerogative not to ask his significant other for its use. The line should be drawn at frilly curtains or any device which may be used to clean the shed.
Additionally, a man may construct secret compartments, or install a hard-to-open container, in which he may store pornography, womens' clothing, rashly purchased electrical goods or a lightly-oiled Sarah Beeny in the knowledge that the significant other will make no attempt to open or remove said container and throw it on a bonfire in a fit of pique.
The only activities allowed in sheds are those which can be desribed as "blokey" by the National Bloke Council Executive Committee. These include: woodwork, metalwork, loafing, reading pornography, listening to Test Match Special on Radio 4, devising plans to take over the world. Activities not approved by the NBCEC include needlework, listening to Women's Hour on Radio 4, reading any literature that does not include an act of sexual congress, amatuer radio (unless operating a pirate radio station named, for example, La Voz del Cabina - the voice of Shed Liberation).
This set of guidelines may, at first glance, appear to be nothing but a sexist diatribe aimed at the exclusion of femininity from a man's sheddish empire. Which they are, come to think of it.But where would you rather your man was? Down the pub eyeing up the barmaid and turning up sloshed at closing time trying to grab your norks, or safely in his shed mincing up and down in a lovely Laura Ashley frock? Come to think of it...
Women! Know your place!
On ID Cards
Zoe at My Boyfriend is a Twat hits the nail on the head about Blunkett's proposed ID cards. You can have as many made-up opinion polls as you like, the try to get us to accept the inevitable, but no bugger wants one.
My first act with my David Blunkett-o-matic ID card: thirty seconds on high in the microwave followed by the swift insertion of a picture of Kermit the Frog. What biometric data?
More evidence, if it were needed, of my hellish descent into geekery and old gitism:
1. I travelled home on my favouritest train in the whole world last week - 2412 "Special Olympics". I bet its got the cleanest windows on the network.
2. I've taken to listening to Steve Wright in the Afternoon on Radio 2 and (here's the terrifying bit - I'd stop reading here if I were you) quite enjoy it. I still have the burning urge to ring in with fake traffic reports, you'll be pleased to hear. "Yeah, Wrighty - lorry full of gay porn shed it's load on the M2. Six mile tailbacks. Dreadful."
As a matter of fact, I'm quite looking forward to being an old git. It's the complaining and being unspeakably rude that appeals to me for some reason, and I had a good moan at the garage that hasn't fixed my car last Friday and felt loads better for it. At last, I think I may have found my vocation.