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Danny Crookshank
I need to ditch the wife for a younger model
I need to ditch the wife for a younger model


I started the Mediterranean diet many years ago, but I never actually knew I was on it until recently. This wonderful diet claims to help treat the onslaught of a midlife crisis. In fact, usually for a few hours each evening, it can dispel all symptoms completely. 
Most importantly, the so-called ‘Mediterranean Diet’ includes a large intake of red wine and been credited with lowering rates of heart disease in those countries that drink tons of it. So, this is not only good news in itself, but apart from the odd Bordeaux drinking tramp, I must have the smoothest free-flowing arteries in the Kingdom.
I've always loved red wine and it’s great to know the more I drink the healthier I become. Three canny boffins at a small Midlands University, who must have thought they had won the lottery when asked to conduct this study - no doubt funded by a California grape-growing consortium - say, it seems to interfere with the production of a body chemical that clogs up arteries and subsequently, decreases the risk of a heart attack. 
Now, having entered my forties and in light of this important and welcoming information, it’s vital that I don’t take any chances with any moderation rubbish. I intend to get stuck in and free up those veins.
For me, the benefits of red wine outweigh the risks completely. The first glass tastes great and makes my wife bearable and my kids tolerable. By the second installment  the kids are in bed and my midlife crisis is easing away nicely. At the third glass, my veins are almost cholesterol free, my wife is beautiful and I’m starting to think maybe my boss does have a personality and I should try harder tomorrow.
If there is a fourth glass, and there usually is, it can go one of two ways. I could start chatting happily away to my wife about the day’s tribulations as if we are blissfully married. Of course, she would need to be drunk too. Alternatively, and more often than not, my wife becomes the most exasperating living thing on the planet - it’s not a huge metamorphosis - and I beg for a monumental scientific development in human teleportation, preferably to a remote Island off the coast of Asia.
As well as this, I can suddenly find myself at my laptop trying to buy a black sports car by credit card on Autotrader hoping to re-live a time in youth, when I couldn't have afforded one but would have looked a lot less stupid sat in one.

I love drinking red wine, but I will only stop when the experts say it’s bad for me or I spontaneously start crying and tell a complete stranger that I love them.
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So, how do I get some of this?

Recently, I was out clubbing with my admin girl, an experience that left me both hot and cold. Having exchanged make up and saliva at the bar, I left the club rather promptly for two very good reasons.
Firstly, the exchange of affection was in full view of her workmates. Now, if you work in an office with hordes of over imaginative twenty something women, you will know the rumour on Monday morning will start like this, "Oh my god, did you see who Jenny was kissing."  By the 10am coffee break, it will have transformed into this: "You’re joking; he actually gave her one in the toilets."
So, I had to cut my losses and get out before my promotion prospects were abruptly halted by the rumour treadmill. Secondly, I am married with kids. I would have taken great pleasure in dragging Jenny off to the male cubicle to show her my one-eyed panty python, but in fifteen years of torturous marriage I have never cheated on my wife. Amazing I know. I’ve thought about it more than once and came close a few times but I understand internet porn doesn’t count.
My wife works for one of the largest law firms in the UK and had I been caught in the act, she would have bled me dry until I was left with only three shirt buttons, a set of cufflinks and a cardboard box to keep me warm at night.
In any case, how do you overcome the fear of having sex with someone new, when you only have first-hand experience of sex with the same miserable, self-centred woman for nearly 18 years to fall back on? Honestly, it’s a performance thing.
My wife would take it like a true Convent girl. Lie back, think of England and hope it would be all over quickly. It mostly was. Furthermore, even though she has two arms, two legs and facial expressions that during the day seem to work perfectly well, during sex a hormone is released that incapacities her, making her body incapable of moving or showing any sign of emotion. Once, I had to stop and check her pulse just to make sure she hadn’t slipped into a coma. Luckily, she was only asleep.

Now, it may well be that I am so catastrophically bad between the sheets that she temporarily flat-lines due to boredom or maybe she was born with the sex drive of a ninety year old bedridden Granny. I don’t know which one it is. Frankly, I am too scared to find out. To make matters worse, how will I remember what to do and where to put it? Will a potential lover call the police if I try to pot the brown instead of the pink, "It was an honest mistake officer, I haven’t done this since 1988!"
I was in the office kitchen a few days after the office 'do' making a cup of tea and in walked Jenny, looking lovely and wearing that cute smile of hers. I smiled back and asked how she was. It’s been strictly business since the tongue tangling marathon. She was fine and asked me if I had a nice time. I stumbled to get out some words fitting the event, so took the easy option and said I didn’t remember much, blaming the drink. She replied, "Yeah, me too. I was so out of it. I can’t remember anything past ten o’clock."
That comment summed it up. She knew the saliva exchange took place after ten o’clock and she was ducking out. I bet she followed me into the kitchen just to get that line in. "Really", I said with a lump in my throat. A German Ace had shot me down in textbook style, and I was hurtling towards the ground at breakneck speed, my face on fire with embarrassment. She was a fool, all she had to do was say, 'I loved the sloppy kissing session we had', and promotion would have been for the taking.
We exchanged glances and she walked out of the kitchen. "Oh, I do remember one thing", she said poking her head back around the door. "You do?" I replied flippantly. She winked at me, laughed and closed the door. Suddenly, my spitfire’s floundering engine re-started moments before immanent impact and screamed upwards.
I think I’m on for another night out!
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It turns out my admin girl does fancy me after all! Well, that’s my guess! You see, it takes little persuasion for me to be enticed out of the house. However, occasions are rare and usually result in me sitting in a boring pub discussing speed bumps or classic cars. 
This is normally with a group of ancient dumb-wits, wearing tartan caps and a half dead, deaf, blind and as equally dumb black Labrador squatting next to them. So, when I was invited out on an impromptu office 'do' by Jenny, my sweet and innocent admin girl, it took about half a millisecond to say, yes. In fact, I may have actually said yes before her invitation was ever completed. 
During the run up to the big night out, I felt as though Jenny was glancing at me and smiling willingly. If I caught her eye and she smiled, it would not be because she was being sociable to her boss but because my weak-willed and feeble mind had been taken over by a pubescent school boy; she was really trying to tell me that she couldn't wait to see next Friday for the big night out.
Friday came slowly and even though Jenny had shown no earlier sign of the slightest interest in a middle-aged receding middle manager, I was still petrified of what might happen.
I had already decided how I would turn her down and feel amazing and self-congratulatory that she had tried but I had shunned her. This of course, would also need to take place in full view of all, so I could bask in my own glory. The thought of turning down a girl of 26 was almost as satisfying as giving her a good seeing too. Well, maybe not!

The evening rolled on and I started to feel a little uncomfortable and slightly stupid surrounded by people half my age, dancing mindlessly, drinking small thimbles of blue sticky juice packaged as vodka, and with women seemingly in their underwear. What's more, I was unsurprisingly being ignored by the very girl my imagination had assured me had a school girl crush.

I went to the bar to order a large beer and let the reality of my foolish middle-age conundrum wash over me. Here I was, in a nightclub full of rebellious teenagers. They were spending their meager week’s wages on shots of sick inducing multi-coloured spirits and singing to music that had no apparent tune, reason and in most cases actual words!
I looked around and some initial relief turned to disbelief when I saw another man in the club about my age. He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt, tight black leather trousers, and what seemed like Moccasins. His dancing was so admired by the teenage revelers that he had created his own private gravitational space around him, as he gyrated in a bemusing John Travolta’ style, and gestured to every kind of music the DJ could throw at him. He was obviously the nightclub equivalent of the village idiot who really should have been back at home watching Mid-Summer Murders, and so should I.
Seeing this was the shot in the neck I needed. My pubes grew back as fast as they had earlier retreated; I threw back my drink and headed for the exit. Unexpectedly, Jenny grabbed me by the arm. She was bleary eyed and smelled of cheap perfume but as she smiled, I felt bald down below again. She spoke to me for a few moments but having asked her to repeat herself several times I became bored and nodded knowingly, pretending I could make out what she was saying. Then she grabbed me by the back of the neck, pulled me toward her and slobbered over me in a loving puppy sort of way.
This was not as pleasant as I had hoped, and I was now wearing almost as much make-up as her, but maybe this was the start of something.
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Is my wife a prostitute? If you are married and you have been for a depressingly long time, let’s say for over a month or so, then sex is a fashionable novelty. It’s a rare treat like finding £10 behind the sofa.

Sex can sometimes be accomplished after weeks of digging, meticulous planning and childish manipulation. In other words, after you have voluntarily done the washing up a few times, cleaned and polished her car and said she looks amazing for no apparent reason. In other words, no matter what you might think, it’s the female of the species that allows sex to happen. The male, as a rule, has no say in the matter, whatsoever.

In the real World, no matter how much planning, scheming and half-hearted compliments - her arse is big after all – she is the one who decides where when and if. So this leads me nicely onto a view I have on married sex. It may be warped, sexist and degrading but many agree, and it’s based on fact or experience, whichever takes your fancy.

Let’s suppose for a minute, my first scenario: You get home from work and you’re in the mood for some MILF action. Maybe you’ve been talking to the new sandwich girl at work and you got yourself worked up. In my experience most sandwich girls I’ve met look like Russian shot-putters, but it’s only a scenario, right.

You pack the kids off to her Mothers. You give her a little peck on the cheek because you’re a nice guy. You give her a little make or break compliment - something meaningless to normal men, like what a great cottage pie she made for dinner the other night, it’s a lie but go with the flow. You agree with everything she says no matter how ridiculous it sounds to you. You pour some wine and BINGO. Err, no! It turns out she’s not really in the mood. Thanks all the same.

Let’s take a look at my second scenario. Same evening, same time, same place: You pack the kids off to her Mothers - so good so far. You take her for a nice meal at her favourite restaurant; she can have whatever she wants. You tell her she looks great at least three times, but not all within the first five minutes, drag it out. You’re not so sure about the hair but you keep it to yourself and say it looks lovely. You pour more wine; just don’t get her drunk, there’s nothing worse than having it off with a dead-weight! You order desert. I recommend profiteroles, it works for me. You order some Champagne, go for sparkling wine, just order it while she’s in the toilet, she’ll never know.

Later, you order a taxi home. Don’t walk, or she’ll be knackered when you get back. Then, more wine after you arrive. Show her the cheap but expensive looking earrings you bought on eBay, just say they were from a god jeweller you know.

Slip in another compliment for the road, definitely something about how great she looks and how lucky you are, who knows it might actually be true. Try some foreplay, which should only take a minute. You head off to the bedroom and BINGO.

So, let’s look at the facts. In the first scenario you spent nothing and you got nothing. That’s quite straightforward. However, in the second scenario you let the wallet loose. Let’s see now: meal, wine, profiteroles, cheap Champagne, taxi and more wine (the compliments came free of charge). Well, that little lot would have set you back £100 plus a tenner for the fake gold earrings.

So, in conclusion, it would have only cost £30 in the right part of town and you wouldn’t have had to kiss and cuddle afterwards.
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On a recent visit to my local town, I noticed something peculiar. Aliens had taken over the town. Yes aliens!

The first wave started early on Tuesday morning with a few human looking types wearing reflective jackets, operating under the guise of council workmen. They were digging dubious holes by the side of the road and this was without doubt, the preparatory hideouts or lairs for the incoming invaders.

These workmen impostors were so convincing, they even had lunch breaks spanning hours and left cones unattended for days under the pretence of ‘men at work’. Weeks later when the job was finally done, as predicted, across the town the aliens arrived. Not exactly as advanced as I was expecting and the provisions I had made at home of six months’ supply of bottled beer and canned baked beans may not have been necessary.

With a large yellow square head, one evil eye staring unflinchingly and standing awkwardly on a single leg, the aliens slowly and clandestinely came to life, zapping all in their path. They were just like my wife, cold and calculating and picked on the vulnerable, those that had money in their pockets but would not bother defending themselves. It was, ‘the invasion of the speed cameras’. 

My local town had submitted to their seductive powers of extracting cash from the middle classes, while driving down a dual carriageway, coincidentally and without prior warning, re-classed with a 40mph speed limit. The aliens had been strategically placed, not outside a school or a busy pedestrian street but on a main un-urbanized, non-pedestrian thoroughfare into town. This was on the basis that there was once an accident on that very road involving a horse-drawn carriage and a rabbit in 1876.

Now, why would one place a speed camera on a dual carriageway going into town immediately after the speed limit reduces from 70mph to 40mph, and not in the place where the alleged carriage and rabbit incident occurred? Let me guess!

More bizarrely, one of the other cameras is positioned on the opposite carriageway, located just a yard or two before the 40mph increases to 70mph. They are so obviously and unashamedly placed in such a way as to generate revenue on the pretence of road safety, that it would have been just as easy to place a Council highwayman on the side of the road demanding, ‘your money or your license’.

Being in the throes of a deep and invigorating midlife crisis, I have decided to buy a chainsaw, rubber lined boots and take a wander into town one dark evening.
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I read an interesting article the other day about gay people potentially ruining marriages. Now, I’m not exactly sure what this means or how it works, but I thought it warranted some proper investigation.

It turns out there is an underground of closet gays masquerading as happily married men. Usually with two children, living in a three bed semi in Woking, who are constantly thinking about having an affair with Derek the retired Dentist two doors down. To make matters worse, if I didn't know I was gay, then it will be thrust upon me, literally, having hit a midlife crisis.

Now, I don’t think I’m gay, but having read a particular article, I'm not so sure. It's suggesting I may only find out my true sexuality by chance when I’m in my forties and bump into a tanned, carefree and welcoming hunk called Bruce in the lift at Selfridges. I have to take this seriously, if only to stock up on Vaseline.

A midlife crisis can apparently be a catalyst for gay feelings to emerge from, and one day soon I may wake up, look at my wife and wish she were Freddie Mercury. I may also be tempted to wear her clothes and walk around the house dusting everything merrily with the Sound of Music soundtrack on CD in the background. I know I’m stereotyping, and I can’t see it myself, but maybe that’s the problem, it sneaks up on you from behind.

A friend of mine had a similar crisis with Porn. Having spent his entire pubescent years desperately trying to find old used hardcore porn magazines in the bushes of public places he suddenly discovered the Internet - a hub of hardcore porn activity that jumps out at you without warning while searching innocently for topics on Bush Tucker - and defected to soft porn. I mean soft porn, what is the point!

He was once an alpha male with a highly prized 'Ben Dover' collection but he's now resigned to being turned on by two almost fully clothed girls, stroking and petting each other in a bubble bath. Disgusting!

I’m not homophobic, but in conclusion, having subjected myself to some improper images of American motorcycle cops from the 70s and hours of intense listening to the village people and Jimmy Somerville, I think I am happy with breasts and Brazilians.

Things have turned a little nasty in our household of late, not vicious, but plain nasty. It seems as though my wife was a tiny bit miffed about my phone trap joke a while back. She hasn’t mentioned it, but it’s been awkward at the dinner table. She knows I know she knows, and I know she knows I know she knows. Get it!

She read my text and was caught but instead of putting up her evil dragon claw, admitting it and taking it like a silver tipped arrow to the heart, she has taken to a form of 'soft revenge'. What I mean by soft revenge, is she hasn't cut up my Hugo Boss suits or replaced the kidney beans in my chilli with female hormone replacement tablets. This revenge suits her personality. Deceitful, two-faced and yet cunning like a fox; hence she’s an accomplished Solicitor.

Alas, being a pretty good Solicitor also means it’s impossible for me, the dominant male, to win any argument even when the odds are vastly stacked against her. If I were to find her in bed with the entire English Rugby team performing a sex act that even Lola Ferrari would have been ashamed of, I would still lose in Court on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour, in other words, having disturbed her before the ultimate climax.

I never really argue with her anymore. I have had my time being subjected to torturous interrogation and un-scrupulous cross-examination by a woman trained to make international terrorists whimper. I would simply run away and curl up in a ball in the shower, crying and scrubbing for hours.

So, her destructive deed went like this. I stepped into my car, put my seatbelt on, got nice an comfortable, started the engine and………. POW! Fifty million tiny pieces of white paper engulfed me, spewing out of the car air vents like Krakatoa, covering me from head to toe. After the initial shock, I looked around dazed, spat out a few bits of paper and experienced firsthand what it must have been like for those poor souls in Pompeii. I picked up a handful of dust and admired the simply, yet destructive nature of my wife’s crime. Bloody hole-punch paper!

My god, it was those tiny bits of round paper that are left in the bottom of a hole-punch. There were millions of the blighters. She must have been a secret Olympic Champion hole-puncher to have got her grubby hands on that many. Her right hand must have ached more than mine ever did after a night in with a cool beer and a Debbie Does Dallas DVD.

I couldn't believe the trouble she had gone to. To have collected more tiny pieces of hole punch remnants than is produced annually by a small eastern European Country. Then, carefully placing it all in my air vents and setting the climate control to full throttle in anticipation of when the ignition was turned on. It was brilliant and calculated. I would have been full of admiration for her if I hadn't been the victim.
To make matters worse, as I stepped out of the car and covered the whole County in a huge blanket of white paper snow, I noticed the upstairs curtains move. She must have laughed in her witches’ broth.

I needed inspirational retaliation and this called for some Steven Seagal movies.
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