This fortnight, Fadora McSexypants deals with her favourite predicament – a woman in distress
Fadora, your Highness,
I write you a troubled woman. What should be a joyous celebration has cast a terrifying cloud of grey over my day and me.
Wednesday gone, I accompanied my other half to our local Tesco for the big shop. As I innocently perused the shelves, I was shocked to turn around to find himself – down on one knee, an engagement ring in one hand, a bottle of ketchup in the other. Amidst all the shock, old people and crisps, I somehow agreed to this Tesco Value proposal. This is most confusing, as until the incident, I thought he was my gay best friend.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but can I really marry a man from the frozen meat aisle?
P.S. He is not affluent.
Confused in Kilmacud
Good Evening ‘Confused’,
Love is a tricky business, particularly if you’re selling wholesale. One can never anticipate what form it will take, or how it will manifest itself. For many, particularly the ugly and/or fat, true love will never truly grasp their lives by their Tesco’s Finest, and give them a ruddy good shake. From a certain perspective, I might argue that you are truly blessed that a man so adores you that he’s ready to get down in front of God and the spotty weekend floor manager, and profess his undying love.
I could argue that, but somewhat predictably, I won’t. There is a right way and a wrong way to do things, and as a woman who’s seen more partners than the combined cast of every season of Dancing With The Stars, I can say with confidence that a proposal is something that must be done correctly.
I get a lot of mail, both electronic and snail, criticising me for what people perceive as “antiquated sexual politics” or “a positively antediluvian perception of gender equality”. Well to that particular correspondent, I say ‘fuck you Germaine Greer’. I treat both genders equally unfairly, as to which the following will attest.
Men of the current generation; it’s time to get the finger out, preferably with the intention of placing it somewhere more suitable. A battered sausage after a sweaty night in ‘XXIs’ is not sufficient wooing to deem you worthy of copulation. Flowers, chocolates, even a weekend jaunt to a cosy bed and breakfast – these are all readily available, and will remind your comely lady-type that she is worth spending time on. Perhaps you yourself need reminding.
Part of the issue is lowered expectations on the part of the Y-chromosomally challenged. Girls, remember when you had expectations, even dreams about a Prince Charming who would place you on the pedestal you so richly deserve? No, of course you don’t, because since fourth year, you’ve spent most late Wednesdays getting finger-blasted behind that pedestal. What is wrong with holding out for a special someone? Hell, even an average someone would do, as long as he puts the effort in.
So there we have it, and once again, Fadora McSexypants has changed the face of modern sexual politics. Ladies, allow a gentleman to woo you, because if he’s willing to woo you in the first place, he probably won’t ‘shockingly’ turn out to be an absolute bastard four months down the line.
Gentleman put the effort in. Wear a suit, put pomade in your hair, and shine your shoes. If you can’t afford flowers, nip down to your local cemetery, where dead people are just leaving perfectly serviceable bouquets around willy-nilly. And never, ever propose to a woman in a Tescos. Try at the top of a Ferris wheel, the place where you first met, or failing that, an M&S.
Love and Cuddles,
MD, PHD, Nokia 3310.
Next week, Fadora writes a frank yet half-hearted apology to Germaine Greer.