The Woman Problem

Opotiki News, Volume II, Issue 274, 22 December 1939, Page 6 (Supplement)

The Woman Problem

A Primer for Males of all Ages

By LESLIE HENSON, Famous English Film and Stage Comedian

A MAN from Woollomooloo who claims to know me and mentions —erroneously, I’ll

swear —that w.e were in the same form at Borstal, says that he hears that I’m doing a spot of writing and asks me to deal with the woman problem. Now, believe me or believe me not, I never knew that there was a woman problem, except perhaps to keep her nose iiom getting shiny when waves of hot air ascend to the drawing-room from the kitchen when soused chitterlings and onions are on the menu. But as for trying to lay down the law with regard to such things as flappers, grass widows, or female holders of Government Loans, I would as soon try to listen in to a dog fight in China on a two-valve set with a cat’s whisker permanently out of wave. Besides, I’ve problems of my own. Bags of them. And nasty ones at that. Did I tell you that there’s something gone absolutely wrong with my drive, and that on Tuesday I sliced a ball miles off the fairway and copped old Farmer Buzzle a nasty smack on the side of the bean? Quite peevish about it, too, he was. And he never even returned the golf ball. On the other hand, of course, I’ve lived a thoughtful and observant life, and I hold a few opinions about the fair sex, and if my congregation will move a bit nearer to the platform, and the living testimonial to Anti-Fat in the corner, the chap with the 40-horse-power lungs will reserve his questions until the end of the meeting and I have gone- from here Very well, then. Now what was I yapping about? Oh, yes, I remember —the Ladies.

Referring to same, you must have noticed how modern writers, from Bernard Shaw up to KeenEye, the Randwick tipster, insist on pretending that the modem woman pursues the modern niai M instead of vice-versa, the other way round, and so on. According to them, no man is ever safe whilst there’s a woman about, and even a chap with side-whisk-ers and a jutting Adam’s apple is liable to be kidnapped into bondage by a female on matrimony intent.

That’s all my optic and Miss Elizabeth Martin. What woman does do—does do —does do— That’s correct, I suppose, isn’t it? —is to select the least unattractive member of the opposite sex with whom hand in hand she can venture to go through life’s meadows ’mid the song of the birds, the sough of the sea breezes, and the plaintive asthmatic cough of the lesser warthog. Some there are that make quite a good selection. Did I ever tell you how sought-after I was before I settled down? No, I don’t mean by tailors —though they were there, too, with bells on, and bills on, and writs and things. But by the fair ones. Yes, indeed.

Why, I’ve seen the lovelight dawning in the eye of the female •dentist. Can you beat that? And at Aunt Hannah’s Christmas Revels who was -the little gent that was first selected to go out of the room in Postman’s Knock —and stay out? Me again. That shows you, doesn’t it? Some of the dear girls seem to be able to pick out a good man without thinking twice. Other women —but let me not be harsh. If a girl, who was in full possession of her faculties •and that sort of thing, was found willing to marry Simpways, who doesn’t know a brassie from an Indian club, who belongs to a Chess Circle, and who has a depraved musical taste which craves for a mouthful of trombone at regular intervals, there’s no reason why any man should despair of finding a mate. By the way, don’t you think that our present methods of lovemaking are slow and antiquated, and badly need having some pep introduced into them ? At present, a chap may be crazy about a girl, but he has to go through each stage of courtship as though he were a Solomon Islander wooing an Eskimo girl by telephone.

For the first few weeks lie has to express his hankering after the girl by making goo-goo eyes and adopting a soulful expression which irritates the lady, who doesn’t know whether it is repressed affection or indigestion that accounts for his looks.

Next he ambles round with her and talks about Shakespeare and scenery, and loud speakers, and carburettors and cures for frost bite, and why he spends his holidays at Palm Beach, and how near his great uncle Josian was to winning a Lonsdale Bell 01 a Duinmow Flitch, and what the palmist said when the Scotchman crossed her hand with i dud oob through not having a dud sixpence and other harmless dope like that.

All this time he’s longing to talk to her about herself, and it’s only because he’s bashful and awkward that precious weeks and months pass during which they often spend hours and hours gazing at mummies in museums, or inspecting flyblown flowers at a horticultural show, when they might have been sitting on one another’s laps or snouting soft nothings to one another going over the bridge, in a train, of course.

And the girl is just as badly oil. she daren’t gi 'C hun a hint to cut out the highbrow stuff and come to business. As the film titles read: “So three months glide swiftly by John Bloggs and Daisy Hook learn that love for one another has sprung up unbidden like a little flower in their hearts.”

That’s it. Three long months. Whereas if they’d ben trained in lovemaking, three weeks would have seen John scouting round for a place where engagement

rings can be purchased out of income, and are despatched to the home in plain receptacles on the first payment. I can picture to myself an evening class in love-making at one of our popular institutes, as it ought to be. On a bench, side by side, are Lucy Finchall and Jabez Hasp. In front stands Professor Leslie PI., for example. Plark to the professor giving tongue:

“Now then, Lucy, put a bit more expression into your fair face. At present you look like a baked turnip. Remember, Jabez is asking you if you are fond of love stories. Turn towards him. Not so hurriedly. If he’d been two inches nearer you’d have caved his nose in. ‘Yes, Mr. Plasp, I simply dote upon love stories. They make me cry.’

“That’s more like it. But look at the land when you’re talking to him. I know he s no Adonis, but he can’t heip that. And don’t cast your eyes down. Save that till he asks you are you fond of boys, upon which your eyes sink to the floor, and in maiden embarrassment you chew a piece of the tulip bulb you ai e holding in your hand.

“And you, Jabez, take ycur hands away from her waist, you’re too swift, my lad. Begin with her hand. And for the love of Mike don’t grab it as if you were jumping on to a tram car in motion. Touch it tenderly and then, you know, g-ive it a squeeze. Hang it, man, not like that. She’s not in an endurance test, we’re doing the Narcissus Novelette stuff now, Later on, when we reach the advanced classes and are doing the Dell and Hull stuff, I’ll show you how to grab her by the hair and 'beat her head against the fender.

“Lucy, you pretend to withdraw your hand slowly, and on the command ‘Two,’ push Jabez slightly in the face. “Now, Jabez, your move. Slide along the seat a bit. Never mind if a splinter does find you first time. There are needles and cotton at home, aren’t there? Besides'', you’re supposed to be in love, and a chap in love doesn’t know whether he’s sitting on an eiderdown or a spiked/ cactus. Next, place your arm cautiously round her waist, assuring yourself on the way that there is no pin trying to come to close quarters with your hand. That’s the style. What? Plow are you to know if she objects? Well, if she reaches for a mallet or something made of iron it might be as well to draw back for a moment.”

Wouldn’t it be great? Wouldn’t a lesson like that help romantic young Couples on the road that leads to Hymen? And none of that business of two loving people sitting and gazing at one another like the lion and unicorn in L,e Royal Arms, instead of telling one another the old, old si'uy that always goes down so well.