Deep down, women really love looking after us

PAV’S Patch:

THERE’S a wonderful woman at Hyde United called Elsie.

At least once a month, when I arrive for a game, I’ll find a tin with my name on it and inside will be an apple pie, some parkin or a jam sponge.

Elsie, bless her, has taken pity on me because I am a single man with no one to look after me.

And when you think about it, we men do need someone to look after us — and women, if they’re honest, want to do that.

My dad couldn’t get dressed unless my mother found all his clothes for him.

He had no idea where they were and I’ll swear she used to hide them around the various wardrobes.

When he died, one of the things that sent her into a decline was having no one to do things for.

Forty years ago, I went to a summer drama course at a place on Anglesey called HMS Conway.

On the first night I was at a canteen table with seven other lads and we proved totally unable to divide up and serve a meat pie that was given to us. It was a mixture, with a crust on top, and no matter how we tried the stuff just kept falling back into the tray.

Eventually, a well-spoken lad from Macclesfield called Roger asked some girls at a near-by table and one of them had it served up within seconds.

I reckon it’s all in the female DNA. I mean, just take children.

Young lads are totally helpless while little girls are miniature women.

A group of six-year-old Rainbows visited Tameside Radio the other week and while they were colouring, they discussed fashion and hairstyles.

When I was in Mrs Cook’s class, in 1962, I can remember Rowena Jackson being presented to us as a model pupil. She was a girl and could put on her own coat and button it up. Me and the rest of the boys queued for Miss to do it.

Ah, I can still remember the regular background to my morning shave a few years ago. As I applied razor to face, I would hear the daily ritual of “Where’s my games kit?” “I’ve no idea.” “But I need it today or I’ll get a detention.” “Well, why didn’t you tell me last night?” “Forgot.”

Same son used to want to be in the Army. I could just imagine the cry, in the heat of battle: “Mum, where’s my rifle? Have you cleaned it?”