Goywonder

Tanya Gold is one of my favourite journalists. If you only read one article about Glastonbury, make sure it’s hers.

There’s a great passage in The Rules of Attraction, where Lauren – a waspish and affluent co-ed with a liking for prescription drugs* – is struggling with her recent pledge of chastity.

Lauren fights temptation by thumbing through a tattered scrapbook of photos of genital infections. Once the warts and sores have done their trick, she heads out to join the rest of her peers.

It’s thanks to this DIY hynotherapy that my ‘no booze’ pledge has survived all the way to day 32.

Whenever I feel the urge to pour myself a Scotch, I line my stomach with a helping of Sky Three’s Street Crime UK, a macho police-documentary filmed on Britain’s booziest high-streets.

There’s nothing like watching sozzled of Tunbridge Wells bellowing existential dilemmas into an upturned road cone – or drop-kicking the glass from a public phone-box – to convince you to stay off the sauce for the evening.

Within seconds of tuning in, the suave imagery of liquer advents is instantly debunked. The seductive offer of  “Disaronno on the rocks” now sounds like a preface to an evening of public order charges and televised humiliation.

So thank you, Street Crime UK. And see you on day 33.

* Really? In a Bret Easton Ellis novel?

Here’s a quick clipping from Toby Young’s best-selling memoir How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.

Here the author takes time from reeling off his A-list faux pas to recall his frustrations at the hands of Harvard’s brigade of conservative feminists:    

“I’d elected to live in a ‘smoking dorm’ even though I wasn’t a smoker myself on the assumption that women who smoked would be more likely to ‘put out’.

This wasn’t the case. On the contrary, they were a bunch of femi-nazis who spent their entire time policing the behaviour of the male residents of the dorm for signs of sexism.

Anyone wanting to have sex with these Witchfinder Generals had to follow a Byzantine code called ‘the Antioch Rules’ whereby you had to seek the woman’s formal permission at every stage of the seduction process.

“Would it be okay to feel your left breast or would you prefer it if my hands remained on your waits?”

The Antioch rules probably did more to curb promiscuity on America’s campuses in the eighties than the AIDS epidemic.”

Carrying on from Thursday’s post, Goy Wonder brings you two more catchphrases of neurotic females.

Next time a girl drops one of these phrases into conversation, treat it like a liability waiver. You’ve had your warning; stick around if you must, but remember any loss of sanity, liberty or money from hereon in is your own damn fault.

“So what about you? Are you seeing anyone?”

In my experience, this is the mating call of alpha females. These girls aren’t a complete disaster-zone – you just have to remember what you’re dealing with.

Alpha females thrive on competition. They are competitive in all arenas of life – in academia, in the workplace and in relationships. They’re also independently minded. Angrily so.

The most important thing is never to answer ‘no’. Remember, alphas live for a challenge. Answer ‘no’ and she’ll think she’s already won. All her adrenaline will subside and her interest will flicker away.

Instead, try a content laugh and a dismissive ‘maybe’. The idea that she has a female rival will send her into saucer-eyed overdrive.

Or maybe dismiss the whole thing. “Oh, I used to see a few people but I got bored of it.” If you catch an extra whiff of testosterone in the air, you know it’s done the trick.

“I’ve been messed around before.”

Take a long look at this girl. Do you recognise her? Look carefully now. Ah, now you see it. Yes, she’s Little Miss Matrimony from Thursday’s post – only a little bit older.

What? Something’s missing? Oh, that will be the sparkle in her eyes. It left the town the day he did. The day she found out his secret trips across town weren’t to look at engagement rings after all.

Remember: this girl grew up with dolls’ houses and fairytales. In her teens, she was addicted to The Sims. After two dozen years on this earth, she believes her personal Prince Charming is well overdue.

If you think you are Mr. Right, then apologise for your tardiness and go right ahead. If you’re not, clear the area quickly. Either that or be buried under an avalanche of bitter female resentment.

When I was a child, my parents and teachers told me about a man who was very strong.

They told me he could destroy the world.  They told me he could lift mountains. They told me he could part the sea. It was important to keep the man happy.

When we obeyed what the man had commanded, the man liked us. He liked so much that he killed anyone who didn’t like us.

But when we didn’t obey what he had commanded, he didn’t like us. He hated us. Some days he hated us so much, he killed us; other days he let other people kill us. We call these days “holidays”.

On Purim, we remembered how the Persians tried to kill us. On Pesach, we remembered how the Egyptians tried to kill us. On Chanukah, we remembered how the Greens tried to kill us.

Shalom Auslander - Foreskin’s Lament

It’s 30 days since I quit drinking. It was nothing major: I just got tired of it. Tired of hangovers; tired of red-wine blotches on pastel shirts; and tired of bank-statements that read like a pub-goers’ A-Z.

I was sitting in a pub when I decided to quit. I sat there, sipping pensively at my drink, as I watched Manchester United crash out of the Champions’ League.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as the tired-looking barmaid reached over the bar to ring the bell. “Last orders,” she rasped, sending the veins pulsing in her jaundiced neck.

“In more ways than one”, I thought, as I trudged towards the bar. I pointed to a select-looking vintage whisky perched on a shelf behind her. If this was to be my last drink, I was going to make it a good one.

So thirty days later and I’m feeling fantastic. My energy levels are through the roof; my bank-balance is positively gleaming; and my abs are flatter than a leftover lager.

However, there’s one thing that’s really bugging me – and that’s the stigma of sobriety. Or more precisely: why is it when you tell a British girl you don’t drink, she assumes you’re a church-going, temptation-ducking prude?

Maybe it’s my wispy eyelashes and boyish curls – or maybe it’s those inevitable blips of middle class awkwardness. Either way, something about the sober me screams way too innocent.

I need a way to get my edge back. And quickly.

Are you a terrible judge of character when it comes to girls? Do their sugary scents clog your judgement and leave you clamouring after unsuitable partners?

Well, over the next few days, Goy Wonder will be providing a list of easy-to-spot warning signs. Armed with this list, you’ll have no problem distinguishing between genuine flirty patter and coded signs of impending disaster. So, to start things off, here’s warning sign number one: 

“I get on better with boys than girls.”

Here’s a sentence that should always set alarm bells ringing. What’s she telling you here? That she’s independent and relaxed – the perfect girl to join your band of brothers for Friday night’s boozy blitz against sobriety itself? Wrong.

It’s well known that females are better tuned to the character flaws of others. Whenever I want the full lowdown on someone, I always ask my intelligent female friends. So why aren’t there any female names in her phonebook? Because they sussed this psycho moons ago.

Whatever it is, this girl is bad news. Maybe she’s a deluded narcissist; maybe she’s on an emotional warpath – who knows. Rather than sticking around to find out, I’d advise you join the oestrogen exodus and run like the wind.

“I guess I’m just looking for a bit of fun; nothing too serious.”

So you’ve bought her a steady supply of Bacardi Breezers; you’ve listened intently to her family history; hell, you’ve even politely nodded along to her ridiculous take on current affairs.

You’re starting to get a little nervous, when, finally, she leans in and assures you she’s not looking for anything serious. Phew. That’s a relief. Isn’t it?

Absolutely not. Why did she feel need to point out that she’s not a ring-seeking traditionalist? Precisely the same reason Richard Littlejohn constantly reminds us that he’s “not a racist”. Because the evidence screams otherwise.

Once you’ve sussed this, you’ll see the warning signs everywhere. You see that why she looks a little distracted when you begin a sentence? She’s probably imagining how her name fits with your surname.

Stayed tuned: more to come tomorrow.