Wives stop being so selfish

Another day another political sex scandal. As the baying crowds rip and tear I crave a moment of our collective valuable time to reflect on the real victim in all of these brouhahas, or as I will abbreviate for expediency, bras,

“Who is it” I hear you ask. Well obviously it’s the man. And I’ll tell you for why.

Men are beasts. As they drift through their lives from callow youth to hairy chested hunter-gatherers, these poor souls are at the mercy of one over riding force.

Front bottom urgings.

As the hairy chested hunter-gatherer phase wanes and they achieve silver haired wisdom, do their urgings diminish?

 NOT ONE JOT.

As they travel through the years their companion, or companions must keep up. It is a well-known fact that a rich old white man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a younger wife, slash wives. Who, of course negates their advancing years and is never mistaken in public for their daughter or granddaughter.

These are the facts.

It is not the fault of the octogenarian millionaire that his wife has selfishly given into the ravaging of ageing. There is nothing so demeaning to a man of wealth and taste than the fact that his wife can remember him when the height of his culinary tastes ran to and not exceeding, a large bag of chips and a tub of curry sauce.

Ladies reading, who may have been smeared with the feminazi brush, I will put this analogy to you in a way that you will no doubt understand.

No matter how good our old, old washing machine has been, once it’s reached the end of it’s usefulness, one simply replaces it, with a newer and therefore, better one. One does not stand over it remembering it’s loyalty and devotion and refusing to move on, does one?

No, one most certainly does not.

If a red-blooded man feels these stirrings, consider for a moment how very, very hard it gets for him. As he hides himself away night after night in his locked study scouring the Internet for information, he compares his needs to his reality, devoted Doreen or Daphne, who has the arrogance to acquire wrinkles and who selfishly places constant demands on his time and or support.

He is faced with a choice.

Should he bravely indulge his natural feeling to embrace his inner Viking complete with be-horned helmet and peep toe wedge sandals (for added sauce)- whilst spending thousands on Class A pharmaceuticals and professional front bottom wranglers well versed in the art of naughty boys; OR waste his time in costly counselling sessions where he confesses to his proclivities, confronts his inability to make a commitment to his life partner and recognises that no matter how many breasts he fondles, no matter how much money he has, he is getting old and will eventually die.

Well clearly the former is best as the wife has selfishly chosen to age.

Then factor in how exhausting all the lies and duplicity are for him. Frankly it is abuse being waged against the poor, poor fellow, by his battle axe partner slash partners.

Some have the good grace to be shoved aside as well they should be and there follows shameful and shocking maintenance payments, as further younger wives also fail to live up to their side of the bargain, by getting old.

This unfair financial outlay further impinges on this hard-working man’s ability to buy more drugs and sexual services, condoms and lubricant, hotel rooms and sandals and Viking helmet polish.

Some poor men can’t even afford to go private and have to settle instead for hand relief behind the office photocopier from big-breasted Sharon, the maternity leave temp, in exchange for a machine dispensed hot chocolate and a packet of Quavers.

It’s so very sad.

So let us pause in all our attacks on these men, let us remember that as a society we have a duty to care for those who are made vulnerable by nothing more than instinct, careful planning, lies, costumes, a chap with the number of a reliable dealer, a bank account the wife knows nothing about, opportunity and younger women professionally required to find them irresistibly sexy.

Never forget these men are the real victims here.

Maria

Dear hearts,

Much as it pains me to display anything approaching fickleness in one's affectations, I cannot deny, nor not confess, that one is seeing something of a sea change of late, in one's political afflictions.

What has prompted this ?

 I'll explain. It lies in the shapely form of the double breasted, truth talker in-chief, Nigel Farage.

I must express a little disquiet in the non Britishness of his name, but no matter, the man's sheer down to earthedness in expression and intent, has propelled me to near swooning on more than one occasion.

Indeed, I have gone so far as to reach for the mini fan; in a way I had not experienced since the launch of sex obsessed, equality idiots, Channel Four- and when I went through the change.

And I'll tell you for why.

It is in Nigel's fearlessness that my admiration resides. He is simply saying what every single right minded, BRITISH PERSON believes and his manly grasp of the yardstick that is European bullying, makes one emit a prolonged sigh of delight.

Will we sit back and watch as our pounds and ounces become kilos and... whatever the smaller weights are. Or sit back as our beloved pounds and pence are EUROTRASHED?

NO WE WILL NOT.

What would Winston Churchill say? He would say nothing, he would simply stick up two fingers to Fritz and Jean Claude, AND SO MUST WE.

I took my trusted tape recorder out and about and found a young person of similar frustration, loitering on my very own doorstep in the worryingly tattooed form, of scantily clad, mobility hairdresser, Maria.

A friend had recommended her but I must confess that I had my doubts.

However, as she showed me her over-inflated pricelist, and discussed my requirements, I mused with her as to her own thoughts and political leanings.

She rambled at length as trades-people tend to do, but I managed to prize victory from the jaws of bored defeat when it became clear that she shared my common sense on the charmer Farage.

It appears that straight talking can indeed build a bridge between the classes and as she spoke with admittedly little charm and lots of dropped aitches, I began to warm slightly.

She too recognizes the sense at the heart of Nigel's words and that the blustering beetroot is indeed a beacon of plain speaking.  A man of, for and by the people. There was some attempt to wrong foot the dear man by Irishly named James O'Brien, on LBC Radio however Nigel is both a silver and a clever fox and so he nimbly and ably side stepped this nonsense with ease.

"WRONG WRONG WRONG" cries Farage to the Irish taunter attempting to trick him.
The genius response required was forthcoming and hit the spot. Huzzah I thought, as I listened Huzzah sir.

As the young people say that broadcaster was porned.

Anyway here for your listening delight is the interview with Maria. As ever I warn you that she is a regional person by birth but do try and get past this.

INTERVIEW WITH MARIA

Am I simply a skilled and gifted genius of an interviewer? Well it's not really for me to say but if pushed, I'd have to say, well yes.

Stay vigilant dears,

Your Friend Mrs M. xxx

Brenda

As furtherance to my series on the great unwashed, let me introduce you to this anonymous strumpet, who I make no judgement on, except to note that Babylon is missing a whore (tinkly laugh face)

I jest dears.

Dear Brenda is simply another razor clawed, man trap and this is not her fault.

She talks at length in her regional accent, detailing her associations with a married person, HERE

A married person I might add, for whom she works.

And this is the nob of the problem.

Germaine Greer Garson may have bandied about flaming bras in the 70’s, whilst fumigating to whomsoever may be forced to listen, that ladies should abandon their husbands and WORK but this is the evil within.

And I’ll tell you for why.

She’s turned the workplace into the bedroom. This is what feminism does, it makes married men have sex with stenographers.

Well-done Germaine WELL DONE INDEED.

One didn’t work dears. One was too busy collecting Green Shield Stamps, to have time for collecting notches on one’s bedpost. 
Now one can only look on and sigh that one’s own family values are being flouted.

Cannot one.

And one doesn’t like it at all.

As I let the whole sorry shame unfold from Brenda's overly lipsticked mouth, I ruminated on her predicament. Her career future, I decided, was as flat as her vowels.

As ever I realised that this like many other facts of life are to be found betwixt the pages of my encyclopedia for life. My bedroom companion which nestles on the night stand next to the teasmaid, simply waiting for me to search it’s pages for another signpost for life.

One is referring of course to one's Bible.

Our own Lord never married. Neither did he have the daily commute, clutching a frappacino but sure enough there he was. In the workplace having a brainstorming session with all the other men disciples.

When, what does he discover, but the slippery/slappery sensation of Mary Magdalene washing his toes. Unbidden, but determined.

Glancing from the last supper table, he notices his flip-flops have been removed and female wiles are being generously applied. 

Not by a qualified biblical podiatrist, but by a Lady of the Night.

Now, one wonders, if this were any other man would he have given in? Would he have ignored his destiny? Would he have fallen prey to this foot fondling loosey Lucy? 

Who knows what may then have occurred between exfoliation and crucifixion.

But it certainly explains the degree of breast beating he deployed in The Garden of Gethsemane.

Doesn’t. 
It.

She was a cunning fox that Mary and I disagree with the words in the lovely ballad penned by Lord Andrew Lloyd Fauntleroy in his “Jesus Christ Superstar”

I think you’ll find Mary, you DID know how to love him.

A woman in the workplace is asking for trouble. Push up bras this and minutes taken that. If women would REFRAIN from trying to be men then the sanctity of home and hearth would be restored.

Point made.

Anyway aside from music penning Lords and shrieking feminists, the real truth of my carefully yet beautifully written post here, is this.

Listen, learn and be WARNED. Men have their below belt urges but ladies must not kneel to do it.

Which is to say DON'T yield men. Summon courage and turn away from the wanton flesh in our towns, villages, cities and seaside resorts.

Anyway enjoy. 

The misfortunes of others, driven by lust, ambition and front bottom urgings are at least instructional.

Your Friend, Mrs M x

(Find me @mrsmountable for more inspirational writings)

Stop Shaming Sluts

Dears, as you know I take a very dim view of feminists. If they’re not burning pound notes with Jane Austen on them, they’re demanding that they get supremacy over men. I think this is very wrong as the Lord (a man) gave up his only child (also a man) to save us all, it seems, if nothing else, rather ungrateful.

He didn’t go to all this trouble and explained it all to Moses (another man) who climbed that big hill to hear his words and transcribe them verbatim to those tablets, just to have a load of unshaven, bra-less, emasculators throw it all back in his bearded face. 

No, he did not.

However, there is one thing that I have had explained to me, by my PR team and in an effort to prove to the crucial teenage demographic, which shores up any media career these days,  that I am of course "across the issue" I have decided to prove my understanding and genuinely kind intentions.

As tiresome but necessary PR guru and skateboarding champion Ben explained to me" It's the mother fucking 'hoody hot spot/sweet spot' Mrs M. Get that and I shit you not, you're "hashtag" golden" 

That in mind here are my thoughts.

We need, on an urgent basis, to stop shaming sluts.

And I’ll tell you for why.

Sluts are present in our society admittedly. They stalk out blessed marital unions for signs of failing wives and force themselves on our innocent husbands willy nilly admittedly BUT those actions of fat calved predators aside, sluts need our love compassion and help.

Dear Mary Magdalene was a slut. But she was a good slut who, foot bathing duties aside, was, I imagine to be found of a holy evening, busying herself with shroud darning or unleavened bread baking, or listening politely while Jesus talked through yet another of his disciples meetings which had not gone as well as he had hoped and thus fevered his divine man-brow.

Modern day sluts need no less compassion and understanding as they navigate the tumultuous waters of front bottom wrangling.

Sex was, is and always will be a mystery, to decent ladies such as myself and should be ideally embarked upon for it’s intended purpose, I.E. making lovely bonny babies, rather than the recreational urgings which, sadly, seem to dominate these days.

Shaming these said sluts, serves only to demonise them further and I SAY NO MORE.

I urge you via my newly found, but richly deserved, celebrity status; to say, let the sluts alone.  I don’t know any personally of course but were I to encounter one she would have my pity, compassion and understanding.

Just not an invitation to any social gathering.

In conclusion dears this film will inspire any sluts whose lifestyle choices result in the obvious.

 It's here in case, they need to know the right thing to do.

Your Friend Mrs M.

Front bottom urges in the marital state-A cautionary Tale

Shameless, shocking and despicable adultery can strike anyone of us at anytime. 

I think of President Bill Clinton and Monica Geller (sister of famed spoon bender Uri) and other famed Philanderers and wonder, amongst many things, if the Whitehouse had had a smoking shelter whether any of that would have happened? 

I don't know but in my quest to further our understanding of the human condition I have embarked on a voyage of understanding.

I’m not one to judge people who find themselves in this situation, as those Whores of Babylon stalk our relationships and unions, blessed by the good lord, everyday. 

Those people are called men. 

And I’ll tell you for why.

 They are blameless. They are driven by front bottom urges, which we ladies know nothing about.

I myself have grappled with my dear Pier's unfortunate enamourment-ism of fat calved Kathleen. They remain ensconced in their vipers nest of a two bedroom flat of lust as we speak.  But this isn't about me.

Here speaking completely honestly and without fear of recrimination as his wife Amanda doesn’t know, Paul Donaldson from Loughborough who works for Trendy’s electrical wholesalers in the Human Resources department agreed to speak to me off the record.

Paul (anonymous)

I didn’t plan on this you never do but there were several reasons why this happened. Mainly because my wife is so cold and lazy and left me absolutely no choice.

I nod in sympathy and understanding. And allow the whole tale to unfold itself rather like a slinky travelling down the staircase of a modern detached house that is only partially carpeted in the centre with metal strips holding it in place, as per health and safety guidelines describe.

“Go on Paul” I urge. He does so.

Paul (Anonymous):

The thing is it was really an accident, very like slipping on a dropped teabag, or picking up someone else’s takeaway order. As I say we didn’t plan it no one does but I suppose I was basically stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Me: And the rock Paul? Who was the rock?

Paul (Anonymous) Well that was my wife

Me: Well that explains why you had to access your hard place…

Paul (Anonymous): Well yes it does. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I was forced by either of the women in my life and I certainly tried to protect everyone by burning all the hotel receipts and not spending money on condoms, but I was really the victim here and it’s not fashionable to say so but people forget that when you have an affair it’s much worse for the person having the affair than it is for your wife and family.

Because it’s quite tiring and having to remember all the various lies you are forced to tell is very stressful.

I mean all the sex is great and exciting but also it’s quite confusing because you have to keep doing it even when you’re a bit tired. Then there’s also all the nagging “when are you going to leave your wife” and the winging from your when you’re late home and miss parents evening etc…. Mostly you feel quite hurt that your wife doesn’t notice…. because they are so distracted with working full time and looking after the home and shopping and cooking and looking after the children so my needs are pretty much ignored, which is why I had to have the affair in the first place really.

Me: I see well thank you so much for explaining do you think you’ll tell your wife Paul (Anonymous)?

Paul (Anonymous) God no she’s so tired from supporting her mother through all the chemotherapy she’s never got 5 minutes to spare. I’ll just go solo, as usual, LOL (He actually says the word LOL which I don’t understand but I put it down to his deep distress)

Me: You really are very considerate Paul (Anonymous) and thank once again for telling us your story. It’s truly heartbreaking.

Paul (Anonymous):  Thank you.

So there we have it. Wives beware if you continue to ignore the man of your heart and hearth you too may fail him as Paul has been failed. Stay vigilant dears

Your friend Mrs. M. x

“My common sense piece, on a really popular topic, which needs addressing by at least twenty different people- across various media, apparently.”

 Additional bit below the headline and before the piece, which is make or break as to whether you bother to read on. Sometimes a quote, sometimes a bizarre interpretation of your piece which bears no relation to it, dependent on whether or not the sub-editor hates you.

I begin but you should know that I was very low down on the list. My agent has been pushing for this for a while and here it is my big break. My very first Column for The Daily Rant. If I'm any good they'll make a me permanent,  I just know it. Melanie, Liz, Jan and  dear "pretty yet hated through jealousy" Samantha, girls you are my idols and GUESS WHAT? I'm one of you now.
Budge up and let's plan a Spa day. 

Why little old me? Well, I'll tell you for why.

The favourites for this piece are all at some-or-other late season media/literary festival, (yuck) so I’ve grudgingly been asked to write this by a twelve year old editor, who hates me and everyone else now, because they couldn’t get the time off to go to the God awful thing. BUT WHO CARES I"VE ARRIVED DEARS

I must first give you an anecdote of something that happened to me once. This  makes no sense at all but will shortly become clear after I bridge the chasm between your patience and my own ego, and actually get to the point.

This is where I reiterate my first point of nonsense and when the link to the topic at hand becomes clearer. 
I add a jaunty gag of self-deprecation. 
Then I continue with my serious-faced honesty in “punchy yet heartfelt” (and understanding) sentences of wonder.

The following passage is where I finally address the topic de jour. All people of common sense understand it already, but it apparently needs thrashing to a painful and bloody death, by every media outlet under the sun.

In order to seem fair and even-handed, I will of course hold back and demonstrate how open I am to new “ideas and concepts”.

It’s PC gone mad really but my management people have suggested I “dial down the ranting” now that I’m the "Mum of the Nation", after my notorious appearances on daytime telly show "Now Then, Britain". If these hairy lay-abouts that seem to comprise the audience of "Now Then, Britain" were actually my children, I would have put them up for adoption.

I get loads of good stuff by lifting it from a some shoddy little blogger with a few followers and tinker about with the sentence structure. They'll never tell and even if they do HARD (British) CHEESE. I'll be thousands of hits in and well paid so if they're desperate enough to put it in the public domain for free, well then they get what they deserve.

Quick break while I go on Twitter just to check the status quo and to check that my own take is still the popular one. (Tick VG) Whilst on Twitter I get sidetracked by someone who isn’t anyone, so I announce that “I’m far too busy to be bothered with this” and nip over to Mail Online Sidebar of snide for a quick nosey.  I Lol my head off at all the cougar cellulite on show (girls honestly decorum please you must be thirty five if you’re a day), register shock at something exaggerated, then realise I haven’t finished my column.

I’m back for the next bit. Here I detail my total understanding of all the issues raised.  I’m going to slide in a couple of links here. I don’t like them, you don’t read them, but for some reason known only to online editors, we have to have them.  I like to call them pointless.

I’ve suddenly realized that I’m nearly at my word count and I’m only half way through making my very caring compassionate point so I’ll add another pointless link (which I now see the point of) and I also need to be a lot more caring face because otherwise I might lose the support of a group who I’m desperate to keep in with. God alone knows why but my agent says so.

I conclude by repeating the points, which could have taken half the time to make but wouldn’t have made me sound half as knowledgeable or caring faced about, and I chuck in another self-deprecating, whimsical aside.

Send. Then refuse to engage below the line. Don’t they know who I am Dears?

*This piece is reproduced here with the kind permission of The Daily Rant where it first appeared. Due to the lack of venom, spite or discernible attack, interest from our readers, the traffic it generated was too low to merit a further commission by our editors

Ban feminism and save yourselves.

Good lord so I see THIS is happening?

I was hoping that it was just more nonsense from the left winged BBC but no. I’m sad to report it’s all true.

Jane Austen writer of books and adaptor of Pride and Prejudice for the BBC is, I see, going to be added to the ten pound note.

Apart from the chocolate maker Elizabeth Fry and of course Her Majesty, this is the first time one of us girls has appeared on the currency of our glittering Isle. It’s not happening until 2017 and I for one am very glad of that and I’ll tell you for why.

I’ll need that long to get used to it.

Once again I find myself in the position of being forced to comment on public events as the 'go to girl' for sense and reason. This is why I’ve been catapulted unwillingly into the spotlight of public discourse; also I’m paying my PR company an obscene amount of money to boost my profile.

So this leads me back to my point. Feminists are evil.

They will no doubt swoop down and wave their hairy armpits at me, but girls you must cease and desist. No one will want to marry you, if you don’t calm down dears.

Emancipation? I think you mean Emasculation

Jane Austen has I’m sure many fine attributes but was she, I ask you now, a wife and a mother? No she was not. She was sadly, a career girl and as a well known celebrity upholder of family values I must tentatively raise a hand (unless there is a man being silenced by my answering the question. Feminist girls would do well to heed that basic courtesy)

This is why I offer my new course of intensive, caring (and reasonably priced) Feminism aversion therapy. “Two steps behind”

Mainly because the many men I talk to in the course of my philanthropy tell me often of their heartbreaking challenges at the hands of the ladies in their lives.

Here are some of their complaints

Brian from Maidenhead writes “Dear Mrs Mountable how do I get my wife to shut up moaning all of the time and concentrate on getting a hot dinner on the table of an evening. I’m just sick of her excuses and very stressed as I’m between jobs currently.  She works full time whilst looking after our 4 children and my elderly mother. I feel ignored. Is she just lazy?”

Paul from Plymouth writes, “Dear Mrs Mountable after my mother in law bought my wife “How to be a woman” by Caitlin Moran (ringleader of feminist cult) I keep finding them huddled in the kitchen laughing. Now she’s answering back all the time. Please help”

Neil from Inverness writes, “How big are your tits”

As you can see modern boys are finding all this rampant feminism troubling and concerning.

Modern girls have lost the ability to realise that men are always right and this is, I’m sure, the reason that divorces are at an all time high. Between that and flagrant disregard of basics such as looking pretty, staying thin and neglecting the housework and hubbies bedtime requirements, whilst bragging about how unkempt their front bottoms are; girls are losing sight of their place and role in society.

Which is of course two steps behind.

Dave had it right Britain is Broken. Shrill and vocal girls demanding “rights” and “equality” have smashed our glorious realm to smithereens. Thereby utterly robbing men of their rights and supremacy. Its just beyond, I tell you, beyond.

It must stop.

Anyway I must get on.  Dear wayward Piers has been in touch to ask me to to hunt out his passport for a porn fact finding mission abroad with his assistant and husband purloining Whore of Babylon, Kathleen. Dear man can’t quite let me go.

I know I will triumph in the end dears.

Your friend Mrs M. x