Women are dirty, not grubby

Women have that extra few per cent. Harry Redknapp would call them “a little bit special”. They’re the diamond in the rough of mankind. I thought of this while in a girl’s bedroom – not for anything sexual – at the weekend.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking up a DVD.

“What’s what?” she said, looking around for some socks, distracted. Suddenly she spotted what I was holding, then went bright red. Clasped in my hand was Lady Chatterley’s Lover on DVD.

“This,” I continued.

“Ha fucking ha,” she said.

“Go on, which bits did you watch?” I asked.

“Shut up.”

“Go on, which bits?”

“The rude bits, obviously,” she conceded with a fake sigh.

And that’s what I love about women in their liberated, yet still-feminine form. They’re not grubby. Dirty sometimes, but never grubby. They’re just nice, discreet and mature, even when talking about touching their naughty parts.

Unlike men, who are quite the opposite.

Another time, a male friend of mine was at a party and stumbled across a girl’s vibrator – while rooting through her drawers. Not for him to give her the gentle metaphorical prodding to provoke some mild embarrassment. Instead, he strolled into the crowded lounge, held up a cocktail and used it as a stirrer.

We’re pathetic.