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She beats me!

Popularity 1Viewed 2236 times 2015-8-2 02:34 |System category:Life

She beats me. Really, she does and I think she likes it. Well, all right, maybe she doesn’t actually beat me but she likes to hit me, especially when she’s losing an argument. Sure, now, haven’t I had a lifetime of drinking in pubs and bars and hasn’t my Irish gob talked its way into and out of more arguments that any man could shake a stick at? Haven’t I learnt to avoid the flying fists when the Paddies are going to town and needing to vent their frustrations on anything that moves or even might move sometime later? Haven’t I become a dab hand at ducking and diving at the right time when some drunken Mick is throwing punches left, right and centre? Sure, my auld dad would be proud of me now, wouldn’t he?


Well, you see now, I know when she, the wench, is feeling she’s losing an argument for I see her right hand curling into a fist. Then the shoulder drops a bit, her arm moves behind her back and I know she’s going to throw a haymaker and it’ll be aimed at me! B’Jayzus but I could almost have a wee nap between the time she makes the fist and when she actually throws the punch and this, dear friends, is where the problem lies. Sure, I can’t just stand there and let her batter me, can I? My auld dad would turn in his grave at the thought of it so he would but the wench says I should. She says I should stand there and let her hit me. She says that’s the way with Chinese women and it means they really love their man so they hit him! Well, being a kindly auld soul and a logical one at that, didn’t I only ask her if it meant that I loved her and wanted to marry her if I punched her sweet, lovely lights out every now and then? Oh no, the wench tells me and I can see the anger rising in her eyes, that just means I hate her plus I’m just a big bully to hit such a wee, defenceless woman. Sure, now, how could any man win when faced with logic like that?


Take last week for example when I was on the phone to the wee brother. The wench had heard me saying to him that she was as beautiful as a butterfly on a summer’s day, nearly twice the size but only half the weight. Well, didn’t the brother understand exactly what I meant but she, the wench, didn’t and, what’s more, she didn't like it at all. The next thing I know is she comes tearing into the room and don’t I know she has the hump with me then for she has a face on her like thunder. She’s offended, deeply hurt that I should say she’s like an insect and especially to my own brother who she hasn’t even met yet. Well, isn’t the auld brain doing overtime as she rants and raves until, a few moments later, the Irish gob opens and don’t the sweet, melliferous words come flowing out like there’s no tomorrow? Don’t I tell her that butterflies are wonderful and beautiful just like she is? Don’t I say their bodies are long and slim and doesn’t every man admire them for their beauty? (Ah, thank you, St Patrick for we Paddies do indeed have the gift of the gab.) Well, don’t I keep this up for a while and can’t I see that she’s enjoying the flattery but isn't she a determined wench who hates having to back down? Well. then don’t I only see the hand curling into a fist and don’t I know what’s coming next? She takes a step back and lets fly with a wild, swinging punch that would knock a horse out but me, well, don’t I just step lightly to one side as I’ve done a hundred times before and doesn’t she only go crashing over the sofa with arms and legs flying everywhere and landing in a most undignified heap on the floor?


Well, you’re right. I know I shouldn’t have laughed as I helped her back to her feet but didn’t the whole episode just strike me as being funny? She stands up, regains her dignity and lets fly with a mouthful of abuse the Devil himself would have been proud of. She finishes by telling me to get out of my own home and, well, didn’t I think that that might be a good idea? Didn’t I just grab my coat and step outside? I’m thinking, then, I need some help with this and, to be sure, don’t I only know the perfect man to give me the advice I need? Sure, doesn’t that fella have the wisdom of Solomon and the patience of a saint? Doesn’t he know everything that’s worth knowing and even many things that aren’t? Can’t he answer any question you might care to ask and, even if he doesn’t know the right answer, won’t he tell you such a wonderful lie that you’d wish it was the truth? I must consult none other than the favourite barman, so off I trundled.


Well, I had only stepped into the pub when yer man looks at me and says “Now, there’s a man with a thirst for something”. He was right, of course for he’s always right and he knew exactly what I was wanting. Then he looked again at me, giving me one of his looks as he was pouring a glass of the lovely stuff. Sure, doesn’t he have a hundred different looks to give to people, even when they’re not noticed or appreciated? He sets the foaming brew before me then gently asks “What ails you?” Sure and isn’t it marvellous the way he knows when I’m vexed about something? He takes a look around the bar and, as it’s a bit of a quiet night, he pours himself a glass of the same, sets it beside mine and comes and sits himself down next to me. “Right, then”, says he. “Tell me, for I’m all ears’.


Well, hadn’t I only started to tell him of my woes when he stopped me, saying that this was a women problem and, as such things were serious matters, we should have a couple of snifters of the golden stuff too and didn’t I know he was right again? So we sat there, the two of us and didn’t I have to tell him the whole story? Didn’t I tell him about her and how she liked to hit me when she was losing an argument and didn’t I describe exactly how she’d gone flying over the sofa so gracefully only to land in a heap on the floor? Well, being the kindly soul that he is, he listened in silence to every word I said, sometimes nodding his head, sometimes just smiling. Finally, he looks me straight in the eye and tells me that women are strange. Well, wasn’t I about to tell him that I knew this when he said he’d often wondered if we were actually of the same species or just the result of a terrible accident? Then he told me such words of wisdom that I’ll bless his perspicacity for ever or, at least, until the cows come home. He says to me that women never believe anything that men tell them. Women always think we mean something else and that’s where the confusion begins. He said that we should never tell a woman the truth because she won’t believe it. So, knowing that no woman will ever believe anything that a man says, we should just have some fun and tell them lies! “Besides”, he says. Anyone can tell the truth but telling lies needs a good memory and a great imagination”.


Wasn’t I just sitting there then, letting his pearls of wisdom sink in when he only comes out with the final solution, the greatest bit of logic since yer man, that Greek fella years ago, realised that two plus two really does make four? He says to me “You have to box clever with women. You have to tell them the truth by telling lies.” What? Wasn’t I gobsmacked by this revelation? Weren’t me flabbers all ghasted? So, there was the two of us, sitting cuddling our glasses of the lovely stuff and the golden stuff and didn’t we devise a wonderful plan to solve my problem?


Didn’t I only wend my way home then, convinced I knew what to do? Didn’t I open the door and call out a loving “Hello, darling. I’m home”. Sure, didn’t I know her mood had changed as she stepped out from the bedroom wearing that long, tight, black silk thing that I’d bought her in Hong Kong? Didn’t she just look at me then with those big, soft, eyes and wait for me to say something?


“Well, darlin’,” says I. “I hate arguing and fighting with you so let’s settle this one now. If you will admit you’re wrong, I will admit you’re right. Isn’t that fair enough?” Didn’t I look hopefully into her eyes then? Wasn’t I just wanting to hug her, hold her close to me and kiss her? Couldn’t I see in her eyes that she also just wanted me to hold her tight? Couldn’t I also see too, though, the suspicion that I was up to something as she mulled over my proposition? Couldn't I see her puzzling, thinking it over? After but a minute or two, didn’t she just repeat what I’d said? 

“So,” says she. “If I admit that I’m wrong, you will admit that I am right?” “Yes, my love,” says I. “That’s it exactly.”


“Okay,” she says. “I was wrong.”


“You’re right,” says I.


She hit me when I wasn’t looking.


(Opinions of the writer in this blog don't represent those of China Daily.)




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