Yet she sits, in the microwave, festering in her own tandoori bacteria, like a spicy seductress, capable of giving you irritable bowel syndrome, the assholes version of a boner.

Half a saag aloo, a keema rice and a keema naan…. cold, and un-loving, but appealing like a fat girls ass on a winter’s morning.

I have to have it, I’m going for it.

I have been sick. With joy. And sick,

… the eldest turns to us all, eyes forlorn with responsibility…. “I can’t go lads, I’m saving up to buy a new kitchen’”.

Now instead of the response I expected, which would have been vitriolic condemnation… Instead, we all turned to him… his face clearly expecting a barrage… we all turned, and one of my other chums bravely asked…. “what kind of taps are you thinking of getting”.

Where did the years go? If you’re interested, a granite worktop with silver taps. Very nice indeed.

So from now on, I’m not paying women compliments. Which they don’t understand either. They think ‘why hasn’t Tom said I look nice? ‘What’s wrong with me?’, ‘that bald bastard’s got a cheek’.

And FYI…. if they say ‘what’s wrong with me?’ don’t give a full and frank answer. They don’t like that. Especially on their wedding day.