I’m a bloke. And we’re simple beings.
For whatever reason, there are few things in the world that excite us more than an evening with mates at the pub.
No girls allowed, of course.
If anyone tries to bring their female partner, they’re SHUNNED.
“WHIPPED. WHIIIIIPPPPED. GARY’S WHIPPED.”
Except when we say it, we make a stupid low voice. Like a groaning seal. You can’t hear any of the words. Then we high-five.
‘Whipped’ is the word we men use when a mate’s girlfriend wears the pants in the relationship, because most of our humour relies on inherent sexism.
Now. When your partner arrives home from a night at the pub, you probably ask him, “how was it?”
“That’s good. How was Tim?”
“Has his wife had the baby yet?”
“I’m not sure.”
What the fu*k. How can you spend three-and-a-half hours with a group of people and have no information whatsoever about them, their families or their children?
I’m glad you asked.