Robyn’s Nest

A “friend” has just skimmed through my holiday piccies on Facebook and made the strangest of assumptions. He thinks that because I went on holiday with three other girls, and because our holiday snaps don’t show us sucking the faces off some Spanish bullfighters, that I must be on the turn. In other words, he thinks I might be a lesbian.

I am a little offended. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, if that’s your thang, but women don’t have the right plumbing for my sexual tastes.

Who are us single girls supposed to go on holiday with anyway? Our parents? I think not. And me and my girl pals have all reached a certain age where pulling random strangers on hollibops isn’t very cool. Therefore our holiday photos show four girl mates having a jolly good time, without the aid of the male species. Yes, I know, shocking isn’t it. But it can be done.

This “friend” - a male in his 40s - also makes reference to me “blow jobbing” a bottle in my Facebook profile pic. Sorry to disappoint, but I was simply taking a swig of Corona. Maybe this guy needs glasses!

Why is it that men can get away with sending the sort of text messages to women that women can’t send to men - ‘cos they’d run a mile?

My mate stupidly gave her number to guy she wasn’t really into and was flooded with messages like “text for a cuddle”, “are you pining for me?” and, when she didn’t reply - “have you got broken thumbs?” I think a woman sending these sort of messages after one brief meeting would have been labelled a whacko at this point.

The same mate also received a picture message from a guy she met once, and only once, showing his crown jewels in all their glory. I think the text mentioned the words “cock” and “horny” and “are you free?”. Nice.

Call me old fashioned, but what ever happened to simply taking a girl out for a drink?

Up 4 a gd nite? Txt 4 sex versus Sat pm? Drink? U & me?

Christmas in Morocco. Well, what can I say? When people ask how it was, I usually say “interesting” or “different”. It wasn’t the holiday we were expecting, put it that way. We thought we’d be sunbathing by day and partying by night. We did sunbathe, but there were no parties, no dancing and, amazingly, no hangovers - I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol while I was out there.

The reasons for this sedate holiday? Flu did play a big part in my desire for an early night but us trio of girlies needed to keep our wits about us - Moroccon men were lurking everywhere. From the minute we arrived at the airport we got stared at. We felt like a tourist attraction in our own right and the constant attention and hassle we got from sleazy and sweaty men was relentless and exhausting.

A 10 minute walk along the beach, for example, resulted in no less than 12 approaches from men, either wanting to sell us camel rides, bottles of wee (could have been perfume but I wouldn’t bet my life on it) or Moroccan kaftans for 30p, or just wanted to talk to us and look down our tops.

On teh first day we ventured out of the hotel to visit the cashpoint and five taxis stopped to offer us a lift, one of them reversing 100 metres down a main road to do so. We were just trying to cross the road!

So, after my festive experience in Agadir, Moroccan men are definitely off the menu, for the following reasons:

• Their chat up lines include shouting “fish and chips” at English girls as they walk by. I would never dream of shouting “couscous” to a Moroccan geezer - how immature!
• Their eyes bore into you where ever you go. Don’t they know it’s rude to stare?
• In England it is not a compliment to be told you’re worth 300 camels. It is in Morocco apparently.
• I’m not a fan of short men anyway, and most Moroccans are just that.
• A lot of guys could be seen wondering around wearing long gowns with pointy hoods. Say no more.
• Morocco is a very poor country but blokes, and women too for that matter, want tipping for everything. Helping someone reverse out of a tight space, taking a photo of someone’s donkey and cart and passing you a roll of toilet paper all require money to be handed over. Moroccans think English folk are loaded and expect us to throw money at them at every opportunity. Not an attractive quality.
• They get funny when you can’t understand their English. But when they say “don’t you like to be in the shit?”, they’re actually saying “don’t you like to be in the shade?” Amusing.
• They smell. Now I kinda like the whiff of a bloke who’s just worked his socks off on the volleyball court, but Moroccan guys just smell bad. All day long.
• They’ll try anything to convince you to spend time with them. Even the holiday rep tried it on. His persuasions included telling us he used to be manager of the hotel (whopping lie), he was from a very rich family, his friend was an estate agent, we were “very special people” and “he would never damage us”. Hmmm, I was almost tempted. NOT!
• They’re very childlike. When one of the hotel entertainers took a liking to my mate, he was distraught to learn she had a boyfriend back home. (She doesn’t - we thought it was safer to say she did.) He then refused to speak or make eye contact with her for the rest of the holiday. And when we chatted to some French guys at the bar one day, we were accused of having French boyfriends. Look pal, you don’t own us, we can talk to who we like.
• They’re very suspicious of journalists. I wasn’t sure they were going to let me into the country. We had to fill out cards on the plane which some serious looking dudes looked over at passport control. I was asked to write down the name of the newspaper I worked for and he was utterly confused when I said I worked for a university. You don’t have to work for a paper to be a journo you know!
• I could never date a man who drives a donkey and cart. There were a lot of them about.

Maybe I sound a bit snobbish, but Moroccan guys have made a lasting impression on me, and not a good one. They could easily have ruined our holiday because they wouldn’t leave us alone for one minute. I’m sure there are some lovely Moroccan chaps out there, I can only speak from my own personal experience. So, it’s so nice to be back home where I can walk down the street without attracting a single glance.

So, wanna hear the story about the near death coach journey, the Moroccan dentist and a man with two hedgehogs and a guinea pig in his bag? Tune in to tomorrow’s blog entry.

I had a lovely and relaxing day on Sunday, blighted only by the vulgarities which poured out of the mouths of a bunch of guys in the pub.

After a long lie in and a TV-fest with two mates we dragged ourselves to the local for pre-cinema steak. And all was going well until a bunch of men who looked to be in their 20s - but acted in their early teens - chose to sit at the table next to us.

I knew it was going to end badly when, on noticing mine and Lisa’s hoodie, which clearly read “Leicester Volleyball Club” on the back, one guy asked what sport we played. “Hockey?” he dribbled. Then: “Who do you play for?” The clue was in the title, pal.

In romance stakes, my opinion of men is pretty ambiguous anyway, but it’s so much worse when they’re stupid. Literally, the second thing to come out of this guy’s mouth was something to do with a women’s private parts - in particular reference to my mate - and the third was about the size of his willy. Not as big as the one attached to his forehead, I’m sure.

I know there are good guys out there but this bunch of idiots aren’t a good advertisement for the male brand. Yes, I can F and blind with the rest of them, but when part of the pub has been cordoned off for a christening, surely these guys could have toned down their language? And the volume? And maybe showered before they left home?

It felt like they’d sat on our laps, they’d moved in so close, and it’s a good job me and the gals can hold our own. Others may have found them intimidating.

Although the manager refused to serve them another drink, we left before them - to moanings and groanings that the pub would fold without their trade (unlikely) and watching them steal the scraps off our near-empty plates (how demeaning).

I doubt Santa will be visiting them this year (probably on the naughty list) but if they do write a letter to the big man in red, I hope they ask for some manners - and a more varied vocabulary!

Rant over, I’ll get back to my knitting now. Hot chocolate anyone?