A bit cheeky this, but I’m weary after my holidays and at the same time come upon this thing I wrote five or so years ago and decided to make changes (edit it) and repost it here. It was, I think, originally on (spit) MySpace).
THEY NEVER DID MAKE DIAMONDS AS BIG AS BRICKS.
Dorothy, my wife.
I was sitting next to Dorothy, and she’d mortally wounded her leg and consequently it was bleeding, so I lifted it up to kiss it better but the cup of coffee she was holding assumed a totally unnatural slant as a consequence of being at a different angle to the room, and now she needs to wash her dress. I tried to tell her it would dry, but she said it was the sort of stuff that goes all wrinkly when it’s wet, though it should dry eventually. I felt like telling her that everything dries eventually, but thought that in her present state of bleeding-leg shock she might not see the funny side.
What, you might ask, has this got to do with diamonds or bricks or anything connected with such articles? Well, think of the humble brick. It’s akin to a bleeding leg in that it probably has a strong desire to be kissed. No – strike that – it’s wrong. You build houses out of bricks and you kiss houses. Sometimes, if you love them, that is. We all sometimes feel affection for inanimate objects. There’s no rationale or logic to it, but, you see, they’re useful to us and we love things being useful to us.
Diamonds, on the other hand, though they’re sparkly and twinkly and harder than any other known substance are usually pretty useless and don’t deserve to be kissed, though I dared say the odd over-remunerated film star purses her collagen-inflated lips over the odd precious sparkler. You wouldn’t make a house out of diamonds, surely? And if you did, would you trust it to be weather-proof? May not the occasional magpie spy your chimney and steal it? Then again, diamonds are absurdly small and you’d need a lot of cement to bind enough together in order to build your nice little terraced house down Coronation Street, wouldn’t you?
Bricks are nice and big and manly and trustworthy. But, ladies, what about other things that might be big and manly and trustworthy? I’m not the sort of person to use a euphemism when the word willy will do, so willy.
There has been a great argument raging on planet earth, since Ugg the Cro-Magnon bearded Casanova first exposed himself to his dolly-bird down Cave Row and she said “Ugh! That’s small!” in whatever language Cro-Magnons used instead of decent modern English. Men of all periods of history, from the murky dawn of time when Adam first crawled out of the primeval swamps or something or other right down to the present when butch actors parade themselves in porn films (which I’ve never seen but been told about) have contemplated that weird extrusion on the front of their bodies and dreamed of enlargement. And they fondly believe that their sperm-count might be greatly enhanced if they can double the various dimensions of that weird and wonderful organ. Their whole manliness is based on their fertility, and their perceived fertility increases a zillionfold if they increase their genitalia by as much as an extra inch. So substances are sold, pills and potions (that can’t in actual reality enhance anything) are purchased by the truckload by men who already have quite enough equipment without it.
Now, before you get the idea that I’m too fond of criticising my own gender, there are women. Have you ever known a woman who has the opinion that her own breasts are sheer perfection? No: the animal hasn’t been spawned yet. Women look at themselves in mirrors (in which they never see their true selves but a reversed image of themselves, which in itself is deceitful) and decide, usually, that the bosom is too small. They need it to be bigger. Like men and their required extra inches, women need extra inches too. They want to be able to walk down the local High street and allow their nipples to go into Tescos a full five minutes before the rest of them follows. They are impelled by some corruption of nature to visit surgeries in which knives are wielded and have grotesque implants inserted, implants that are both unnatural and make their already predatory curves look ginormous. True, they won’t feel quite right, but that doesn’t matter, does it? Big is the order of the day, and that’s all there is to it. Then, a few years down the line when gravity has its say they want the huge boobs they’ve paid so much for reduced to next to nothing in order to stop bruising of the knees.
Why do both sexes think that Mother Nature made them imperfect and on the small side? Is a man more fertile if he has a few extra inches? Is a woman more desirable if she resembles a gigantic pin-cushion on legs?
I guess the truth of the matter is that the answer is “no” in both instances. Double the length of my own personal tackle and those women not already making a hasty escape from me would turn and run like Mo Farah at the Olympics. Inflate the boobs of the average woman and I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere near her because the bosom physically dominates the room, and anyway I doubt I’d like mauling the texture of silicone with my pudgy fingers during impassioned nights when I really ought to be asleep.
This waffle is my way of concluding that they never did make diamonds as big as bricks, and for a perfectly good reason: you can’t actually improve on perfection.
Excuse me while I go and kiss a diamond after I’ve washed the taste of brick out of my mouth.
© Peter Rogerson 21.04.13