The Steamie

One of these days I’ll do something other than just copy and paste a weekly newspaper article in this space.

Could be I’ll explain to you why last week’s ‘ER’ was stunning television in every way. So, for that matter, was 9/11 documentary ‘The Falling Man’.

Perhaps I’ll finally get round to replying to an email asking my glib opinion on a range of comparative and fascinating subject matters – ‘Swap Shop’ or ‘Tiswas’? Cats or dogs? Shampoo AND conditioner?

I might just scribble a few words on a postcard after giving in to the urge to just jump on a plane on a whim for a weekend of tapas and San Miguel.

Or maybe I’ll reveal the secret source who supplies me with not-entirely-legal dvds of ‘Capote’ and ‘Syriana’ and the second season of ‘Lost’ (plot spoiler alert – the hobbit’s a drug addict!) while simultaneously denouncing such practices as neither big nor clever and you should really know better Andy. Seriously kids, don’t try it at home… if you ever COME home that is… I mean, how hard is it to pick up a phone and tell us where you are Neil… do you think this place is a hotel?… eh?... well, do you?

Until then, this is all I got…


As regular readers of this column will testify, I know everything there is to know about women. For example, I know that they like to decorate their homes with candles and pine cones and tiny little boxes too small and impractical to contain anything more than a stamp. I also know that they like shopping and cooking and having babies and because of their superior development in the field of multi-tasking, can often perform all three simultaneously. I even know that they have a strong preference as to how the toilet seat should be positioned after use. If I’m not mistaken, the correct answer is up, presumably because it makes it easier to clean.

Apart from a thriving consultancy business where I dish out this vital information to less fortunate pals – “Should you get her a cactus for Valentine’s Day? Sure mate, she’ll love it.” – I’ve had few opportunities of late to utilise my encyclopaedic knowledge for personal gain. However last week, all the long hours spent researching magazines and websites paid dividends as my knowledge of women turned potential disaster into glorious triumph.

The week began, quite literally, with a bang when my washing machine did a passable impression of a machine gun during an energetic spin cycle and ground to a halt. I stared at it for a while expecting it to just fix itself but the wisps of smoke emanating from the filter suggested something serious had happened. I even tried pressing various combinations of the complicated looking buttons on the front (I only ever use one setting) but nothing seemed to work.

My first instinct, of course, was to summon my mother to make a 100-mile round trip to collect the laundry and sort things out but since that strategy hasn’t worked for over twenty years, I decided to go with plan B. As luck would have it, I had a date fixed up for Saturday night and in an instant the solution presented itself. My date is a woman. Women like washing. Save up laundry and take to woman. Easy.

Sure enough, I turned up on Saturday two hours early (ever the thoughtful companion) with the laundry sack slung over my shoulder and immediately turned on the charm.

“Hi there. Great to see you. How're you doing? Any chance of using your washing machine? Your hair looks lovely. Oh, you haven’t washed it yet? Never mind, plenty time.”

My date’s speechless manner and curious smile was enough to tell me that the witty repartee was working its magic and her reaction couldn’t have been happier if I’d produced two tickets for a Star Trek convention.

“How would you like me to wash your delicates?” she asked as she directed me through to the utility room. I was about to reply that it seemed a bit early in the date to be discussing communal showering rituals when she qualified her question with, “Because I usually separate underwear from shirts before they go in the machine.”

I had no idea what the hell she was talking about so assured her that whatever she felt was best would be fine.

“And is this all you’ve got?” she exclaimed looking at my four shirts and two pairs of boxers.

Keen to impress her further with tales from my backpacking experiences I explained that in an emergency, underwear can be worn four times, front and back and inside and out.

Two hours later the laundry was done and I had enough clothes for the next month or so. Being the perfect gentleman, I decided not to ask her to do the ironing – but of course my extensive knowledge of women tells me she would really have loved to.