Nice Guys Finish Last… Yeah, And You’re An Asshole

“Nice guys finish last” is a phrase that I’d like to grab by the neck and jam down the throat of any guy who dares to use it. We all like to find excuses for our own ineptitude in love. But to say that our failings are ever the result of being too nice is a screaming alarm bell that you’re overlooking the real problem.

Besides the cliche, my biggest problem with “nice guys finish last” is that you’d have to be a complete and utter moron to think that somebody is more likely to fall for your charms based on what YOU see in your bathroom mirror.

In fact, it’s usually the case that the self-righteous nice guys are the biggest pricks of all. If you have to resort to assumptions that you’re a good person and deserve to be loved, you haven’t grasped the point of the damn feeling. So instead of blaming singledom on an entire gender’s failure to appreciate your niceties, it’s time to start questioning where you’re really going wrong.

Do girls like bad boys? Is that really what it is?

Do I have to put my cap on backwards, grab a leather jacket and slap her in the face before I ask for a date?

No, you don’t. You just have to act like a NORMAL respectable guy with enough wit and self-awareness to let her feelings take their own course. And here’s the catch. More often than not, those feelings will fail to materialize in to unbridled passion for your loins. If you assume that as a nice guy you’re entitled to her affection, your once supreme confidence is going to resemble the ruins of Rome by the time she’s through with you.

“Nice guys finish last” is a myth created to make losers feel better about themselves. Or to find meaning where there truly is none. Let’s face it, if you were actually a nice guy, you wouldn’t be so bitter in the face of rejection.

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Burqas On The Beach, Let Your Hair Out!

It’s kinda strange to watch Muslim couples at beach resorts. Especially when the wife is wearing a burqa while the husband walks several steps ahead in brightly flared beach shorts. It’s like he has an invitation to a party with Plus None on the ticket.

I’ve just returned from a very uneventful 5 day break in Malaysia. And by uneventful, I obviously mean I spent the entire holiday flat on my back turning crimson red under the scorching sun.

Penang is a strange island. My choice of hotel was a bizarre clusterfuck of every different nationality under the sun. But by far the most noticeable guests were those floating around the pool in burqas. Of course, I’m not talking literally. And that’s why they were the strangest.

It’s hard not to feel sorry for the Muslim wife whose fashion choices, voluntary or otherwise, have restricted her to the world’s worst Panda tanlines. But why would a Muslim couple decide to go on a BEACH holiday when it’s fairly obviously that much of the appeal is going to be numbed by your wife’s inability to actually engage in any of the shit that makes beach holidays…you know…fun?

• Hanging arse-first out of the Jacuzzi bar.

• Laying spreadeagled in the sand and challenging the sun to do it’s worst.

• Propping up the deep-end on a plastic float.

None of this is possible for Burqa Jean.

My stay in Penang was scattered with sightings of one particular couple who spent their days wandering around the hotel resort, sitting somewhere for five minutes, before meandering off again and repeating elsewhere. Let’s be honest, that’s what most couples do. It’s no worse than sitting by the pool and vegetating with a book. But I can at least understand that the old fogies get a kick out of this relaxing wind-down.

This Muslim couple never talked to each other. The Burqa-clad wifey would trail several meters behind and follow her husband like a puppy on a string. It was surreal. But then, what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t sunbathe, nor venture in to the sea, nor let her hair down out in the pool.

If her purpose was to look discrete and not draw attention in the sweeping veil, it backfired spectacularly. People spend MORE time staring if you place yourself in a black sheet and ghost around the pool like a Dementor that took a wrong turning.

I’m sure her religious choices are far more important than a bastard like me people-watching from my high horse, but I can’t even begin to imagine the sacrifices that must come with committing to a life under the burqa.

I find the clothing to be very pretentious. It’s designed to keep out the luring stares of men and any sordid soul who dares to feel the pinch in his loins. But as a fairly red blooded guy laying there in the sand, I’m thinking to myself…”Christ, love. Go and enjoy yourself in the sea. I’ll cover up my face if you’re that antsy about anybody watching.”

Respecting various religions on my travels is something I’m always keen to abide by, which is why I’m committing these thoughts to a blog rather than the hotel lobby. But I can never, and will never, agree with the burqa as a traditional, religious or personal statement.

Besides, those panda tanlines…

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Are You Feeling The Valentines Day Heat?

I found an odd parcel in my mailbox yesterday. It was addressed to my girlfriend and it was marked on customs as “Valentines gift”.

I would remember if I’d shipped something in for her internationally so my first instinct was “Eh? Who’s this from?”.

She took one look at the parcel and sighed with a combination of embarrassment and presumably regret that it wasn’t from me. Hey, it’s the 13th of February and I still haven’t bought her anything. I’m pretty sure regret will make way for a fist in the balls if I don’t get my game together sharpish.

Alas, she eventually opened the parcel. But not before turning a slight shade of pink, muttering “It’s from my mum” and trying to divert the attention to the contents of the highly uninteresting HSBC statement in my hand.

Fuck up Valentines Day at your peril, gentleman.

I’m sorry, but there’s no way I was going to let this go. A Valentines Day gift from your MOTHER…at 21 years old? What the hell is this? The confusion clouded over to such a point that I was starting to feel reminiscent of the high school love life I never had.

It was news to me, but apparently in America, receiving a Valentines Day gift from your parents isn’t such a big deal. In fact, it’s practically to be expected.

I noticed one of my female friends tweeting last week that her mum had bought her lingerie as a Valentines gift. It seems a little bit crazy to me. What does she expect her daughter to do with that lingerie? Get laid faster and bring home a grandchild? Okay, over-exaggerating there, but surely lingerie is something the boyfriend should be splashing out on before Mother opens her purse?

She doesn’t even have a boyfriend, which makes the gift seem all the more bizarre. I know, I know. A girl doesn’t need a boyfriend to enjoy lingerie. Feminists need not bombard my email with spiteful scorn! The appeal of feeling sexy is liberating enough without needing a love interest to justify it. I get that. But on Valentines Day, the connotations of buying your daughter lingerie scream a little morbid to my…well, admittedly morbid way of looking at life.

To be honest, I’m just resentful that my girlfriend’s mum chose to send a heart shaped box of chocolates instead of a bunch of bras and shit. And also that I now have to track down a present – at the final hour no less – just to avoid being the boyfriend who put less thought in to the big V-Day than his lover’s own parents.

Jesus Christ, who needs pressure like this? It sucks to be a man on the 14th of February.

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The Richard Keys & Andy Gray Sexism Saga

This past week, the British tabloids devoured Sky Sports’ popular football presenting duo, Richard Keys and Andy Gray. They were thrown to the dogs over controversial remarks made off-screen that were later “leaked” in to the public, presumably by “dark forces” at Sky.

Keys was taped urging Jamie Redknapp to admit “smashing” an ex-girlfriend, while suggesting that a peek through the bedroom keyhole would find Jamo “hanging out the back of it any night”. Lurid sexism aside, I’m not quite sure why Keys is admitting to playing the voyeur through cracks in bedroom doors.

Andy Gray copped a fatal blow to his reputation after asking a female stagehand to shove a microphone down his trousers. What a lovely thought that is.

The argument against the two presenters is quite clear. Football has no place for sexism, the duo are a pair of old codgers, the women felt morally degraded, and so on…

I don’t think anybody can deny that the media cyclone was only ever going to produce one result, a red card for both men. But having been around my fair share of pub tables after Last Orders, I can say that whether society wants to admit it or not – this offensively sexist attitude is as deeply engraved in lads’ culture as the game of football itself. But I would argue that it doesn’t necessarily make the culprits sexist.

It just gives them an awful sense of timing in being caught under a microphone.

Come on, we all say things in private company that would ruin our reputations if they ever reached the public domain. While nobody can condone Keys and Gray for their actions, we should at least have the sense to admit that whether they were caught in the act or not, that particularly attitude isn’t going to go away any time soon.

“Smashing” is a term that I’ve heard many times while queuing at the bar. Distasteful? Yes, absolutely. A tattoo of sexism? Nah, come on, get over it. That’s just guys being guys, saying things they’d blush beetroot over if a member of the fairer sex called them out on it.

If you want to look for a genuine reason for dismissal, look no further than Top Gear this past week:

The comments came during a discussion about a Mexican-built sports car:

Hammond (left): …Cars reflect national characteristics, don’t they, so German cars are very well built and ruthlessly efficient, Italian cars are a bit flamboyant and quick, a Mexican car’s just going to be lazy, feckless, flatulent, overweight… (laughter) leaning against a fence asleep, looking at a cactus, with a blanket with a hole in the middle as a coat.

May: It is interesting, isn’t it, because they can’t do food, the Mexicans, can they? Because it’s all like sick with cheese on it, I mean… (laughter)

Hammond: Refried sick!

May: Yeah, refried sick.

Hammond: I’m sorry, but just imagine waking up and remembering you’re Mexican: ‘awww, no’. (laughter)

Clarkson: No, it’d be brilliant… because you could just go straight back to sleep again.

Considering this was discussed on-air, with the camera knowingly turned on, I don’t see how it can be any better received than the poorly timed banter from Gray and Keys.

Where is the line drawn between harmless jesting and stinging discrimination?

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Thai Women And Skin Whitening

One of the strangest things about Thai women is the obsession many of them seem to have with aligning themselves to western culture. I was aware of this before I moved to Bangkok, but it only really dawns on you once you’re walking the streets and seeing the influence of the west with your own eyes.

Thai women have an obsession with whitening their skin. In contrast to my girlfriend who likes to lay out in the sun like a lounge kitten and soak up any rays she can grab, the Thai women attach no such beauty to being tanned or dark skinned. Nearly all of the billboards are plastered with whiter than white models, but the real insanity is evident when you walk in to Boots.

Nearly every skin product in the pharmacy is loaded with whitening serum to the point where my girlfriend has trouble raiding her stash without compromising her tan. And believe me, she kicks up a fuss about it. We’re not talking about a small niche in the skincare aisle. Literally, EVERYTHING comes with whitening serum.

It’s like walking in to Superdrug and finding every skin lotion bursting at the brim with the ingredients to give you that You’ve Been Tango’d shine. So much social rank is placed on skin colour over here. The women will go to crazy extremes to give themselves lighter tones of skin. It’s bordering on the absurd. Especially considering the natural beauty of many Thai girls.

But I guess it’s no different to our own skin tone fantasies. How many British tourists do you find laying on the beach for hours on end, slowly grilling under the sun, all in the name of a bronzed tan? Practically all of them if my beach trip to Rayong is anything to go by. While we like to appear olive skinned, the Thais adore milky white faces and limbs. Unfortunately for us, our best efforts to get tanned are usually dented by the world’s least sexy look – the dreaded tanlines from hell.

In Rayong, I saw British women limping around the pool with tanlines scrawled across their backs that I could have played noughts and crosses on. Seriously, why wear straps in 35 degree heat!

Another freaky beauty craze in Thailand is to wear giant contact lenses to make your eyes look bigger. I guess this is result of copying yet more western beauty ideals, but it can actually look pretty freaky.

I have an eye condition where my pupils look dilated most of the time. I get a ton of comments about it from people who assume I’m drugged up or cakebaked off my face. I can’t imagine why any girl would choose to give herself that complex, but many of them do.

It’s definitely interesting to see the values that Thai women place in beauty and what they believe to be attractive traits, presumably with the help of our fucked up western stereotypes. I just wish I could get some sun tan lotion that didn’t harm my efforts to get rid of the London tan!

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