Women! Le Mans! Mutually exclusive? Misogynist? Moi?
I have to admit that for me it's a time for Hairy Man, rootin' and foraging and smiting with asses jawbones. With a lunar fullness to the sky, phlegm and burnt sausages on the campfire, a man feels a certain one-ness, things are right. And it's ok to feel a little uneasy with some of your 'men friends', it's time for a little bonding, hugging and general chatter of industrial and gynaecological frankness. For a few days it is indeed a Mans World. Not to mention the whiskey.
We had the pleasure of three women in our party this year from Friday on, and lovely though they are, news of their arrival sent a shiver down the leg of a few of our regulars. Men shouldn't be tucking themselves up in bed (or in my case, not quite in bed) with the kinds of thoughts and expectation of deeds, that had bounced around our beer sodden craniums from mid-day onward. Outrageous and wildly inappropriate (not to mention athletically and medically challenging) suggestions and fantasy scenarios that would have had the vicar spitting out his digestive and lapsong soushong (with two sugars) early in the day, seemed to assume a certain matter of factness and inevitability by nightfall. Thank God most of us are rendered vegetative and bow-legged by the time we return to base. On Saturday, one our lads so encumbered was heard to mutter (whilst in a mixed gender discussion) "Oh, is that the Hawaiian Tropics? yeah, they're allright, I suppose...". I gazed over my beer speechless in horror at him. I know now what the face of madness looks like.
No, sometimes it's right to wear the same pants for six days and not worry. I'll be ticking the box marked Men Only.
H