Lanzarote & War Rules

Well Lanzarote turned out to be like hiring a supercharged sunbed on Filey beach in early April. One makes the same emotional progress as a Crème Brule, first blowlamped then fridged, acquiring a crisp brown skin in the process. Like experiencing the warm weight of an exotic lover and the cold blasts of a nagging wife all at the same time; Mothermouse being of course the former. The rest was eating, drinking and Martmouse’s funny stories. Personally I’m not a humorous mouse preferring to look back over my personal history as a bleak but honourable learning process, definitely not the sort of jolly japes suitable for public entertainment. I am for example trying to light the last third of a roll-up and burning my nose as we type. It must be the way I tell them. When Martmouse joined forces with Jackmouse, a fellow footplate man during the days of steam japes came thick and fast. Sacks of spuds on the dead mans handle, afternoon shopping trips in a shunter, and explosive charges for warning oncoming trains of a breakdown thrown down shed stove chimneys to cover its occupants in soot. After fifteen minutes of these stories I became aware I was the only one really listening as each was using his off time lining up another ready for his next turn. I begin to think about masculinity. We do seem to carry on in the vein of an ancient spear throwing conflict. We throw one, dodge one, and then throw another. I think men fight wars under this basic law; either we die or throw another. Women don’t understand. We may have super sophisticated stuff to throw these days but the principle’s the same. There’s a TV program called Future Weapons where a hard bitten ex marine tests new guns that shoot round corners, pencil case sized automatics that fire 120 rounds a minute and artillery pieces that can obliterate a dozen eggs at 22 miles, and my favourite, a shell that blasts through a concrete wall then explodes inside the building to the dying bewilderment of all its occupants. And he does all this with the gleeful excitement of an eight year old with his first catapult. I mean I don’t have anything against ‘shells that blast through concrete walls then explode inside the building to the dying bewilderment of all its occupants’ so long as they’re not given to men with enemies.

But all these weapons are far too cumbersome and slow for female conflict. Female conflict is over while an SAS man is still assembling his Schmouser. (or is that a dog?) It revolves around the none life threatening use of verbals, nail files and scissors. They don’t know the ‘throw, dodge, and throw again’ rule, and see dying as pointless. Kick a man when he’s down and he goes further down but kick a woman when she’s down and she magics into a verbal sub machinegun post. I’m sorry guys, I know it’s unfair but women should always be appreciated; they don’t play by our rules and are the undisputed masters of none life threatening conflict. 

I seem to have drifted from Lanzarote.