F*cking mothers day again and the bloody Red Rooster ads start. Come on, kids, your Mum’s alright eh? You love her eh? So give her a break from the cooking she presumably does every night and come down to Red Rooster. Sure she’ll clean up afterwards and make your breakfast in the morning but just this once as a super special treat why not through her some some battery hen chicken, artery clogging chips and sub-par peas cooked from a packet? You know you want to. Or if that’s not her cup of tea why not buy her an iron? A saucepan? Just don’t go crazy and buy her something she doesn’t need to use in the kitchen cleaning up after her three ungrateful shits. Or, fuck me, why not just put a bullet through her brain instead – arguably cheaper and probably a fuckload more fun for Mum.
Yes, as regular readers will know, I’m not a massive of the bullshit sexist advertising that surfaces this time every year but this year it’s particularly got me ticked off and I have my reasons.
Partly it’s my slightly ill-advised decision to see chick-flick extraordinaire Made of Honour this week. If by ‘extraordinaire’ you mean ‘takes existing chick flick stereotypes to a bad place you never even dreamed existed’. The movie is dire, of course, but the attitudes it displays are much worse. The film’s insights into the female psyche include the fact that all women want to marry, preferably before they’re 30; that marriage to a man you barely know is preferable to ending up a spinster; that no woman can make up her own mind without a ridiculously stupid ‘romantic’ gesture and that it is better to deceive the object of your affection to woe them away from her fiance than to have a proper talk with her because she has a brain the size and consistency of a peanut. Whatev.
My fragile mind, already inflamed from the aforementioned ads and, now, the movie has been further incensed by a report from a friend, let’s call her Girl A, that a third party, let’s say Girl B, was outraged that Girl A’s boyfriend hadn’t proposed to her on a recent romantic jaunt. Actually angry outraged. Despite the fact that Girl A has no desire to get engaged or married and has never, in my hearing anyway, said anything to suggest otherwise (clever girl). Even so the assumption seemed to be, to Girl B at least, that she MUST have wanted to get engaged and was just waiting and HOPING her boyfriend would pop the question. Ew.
Last but not least I spiralled into The Black Rage while reading a very trashy magazine that told me, quite calmly, that women know within 6-9 months of going out with someone if they wanted to marry them while only men, bless them, dragged their feet and weren't sure. Uh huh. Of course we do, why wouldn't we? Let's face it, ladies, once we hit a certain age and the call to nest overpowers us all we're looking for is a mate. Hell according to this I knew FOUR AND HALF YEARS AGO (allegedly) I wanted to walk down the aisle to some cheesy fucking Pachebel's Cannon bullshit with Andy, right? Coming from the girl recently described by a dear friend as a massive commitmentphobe (thanks Johnsy) and who took two trips to the shops today to decide she didn't really know what she wants for lunch that's pretty fucking impressive. And surely the kicker must be said magazine's handy hint for, effectively, snagging yourself a husband. Hey, you can't spell love with ultimatatum - am I right or am I right?
So all this has been rattling around in my brain, stewing and festering until one day, quite possibly tomorrow when the advertising reaches fever pitch or during Better Homes and Gardens’ mothers day special (faaawwk me) I shall snap and go completely postal. Whether this will take the form of a ranting, raving 3am visit to my local red rooster, or merely a calm iron through the TV who can say. Only one thing is certain: there will be blood. Er probably mine, unfortunately as I'm either escorted off the premises or impaled by a large shard of flying TV screen but, eh, I have my principles...