The Perfect Man

Evil tag-mongering chain-letterer, Mr Shev, has tagged me to write about my Perfect Man.  Given the enthusiastically detailed results he came up with in his post (somewhat uncomfortably also about the Perfect Man) and the clever posts his other tag-ees came up with, I doubt my ability to maintain standards.  But everyone enjoys an ego-stroking and being called a ‘giant…ess’ at 5′ notverymany” provided the impetus for me to make an attempt, even though it means writing more than one post in eight weeks.  Oh, the agony.  I will have to recuperate afterwards with a wee lie down in a darkened room and a cold flannel on my forehead.  Then I’ll adopt similarly flattering tactics to foist this task onto five more unsuspecting bloggers I pester habitually.

So.  To summarise.  The Perfect Man, it is said, sprang from the ground upon which dripped the spittle of the hell-hound Kerberos and was carried up to Earth by Hercules, wrapped in a golden fleece.  He can be captured only by full moonlight, employing a golden lasso like Wonder woman’s and a virgin.  So, not for me then.

My Perfect Man is far more accessible, assuming we can avail ourselves of some cutting edge (and possibly not quite invented yet) medical technology and practitioners, plus several well-known male figures in society willing to donate body parts.  No problem there, so.  We shall employ a method inspired by the offhand cookery of Jamie Oliver, the careful planning of Sarah Beeney and one of my granny’s knitting patterns to mould a total peach.  We’re going to have our work cut out for us, so pop your hard-hats on, wheech your kecks down past your arse-cracks and clear your throats for some hollering at lady pedestrians as we construct my Perfect Man…!

Right. Er.  Feet first, I think.  We’re going to require hooves that’ll cope with a lot of walking.  This guy will be clocking up serious mileage exercising his slavish devotion to my every whim.  There’ll be countless trips to the shops for chocolate-covered foam bananas, red wine and Pringles.  He’ll be wearing a shiny groove between couch and kitchen for top-ups of Lady Grey and/or Merlot, and nary a meal he prepares will contain under seven courses, adding another few miles between stove and table.  I toyed with Bear Grylls (fwip) but he really gets on my tits, so instead leant towards hobbit feet.  And it’s much easier to find a picture of Bilbo’s stompers online.

Legs next.  Given the aforementioned distance to be covered, we shall require pins of marathon-esque endurance and so I ruminated over those of Tsegaye Kebede and Forrest Gump.  But Forrest’s were always clothed in boring slacks and it’s surely not possible that the twiggy physique of a long-distance runner would be muscularly developed enough to support someone’s body weight for an entire Sunday afternoon’s pleasuring beneath the shower.  So I plumped instead for the thighs of an all rounder and Chris Hoy‘s definitely look up to the job.  And he’s a fellow Scot.  In ridiculous shorts, to boot.

Sooooo.  Mid-section.  Total no-brainer.  Say hello to my little friend…it’s Jooooohn Holmes, ladies.

Right now.  On to the upper bod.  My Perfect Man’s torso should have been easy considering the volume of himbos on the interweb flashing washboard stomachs, that have been Photoshopped to blissfully plasticky perfection.  But – and call the cops because here’s a confession – some of us girlies like a little bit of fuzz.  Not this guy, obviously:

Something subtler, methinks.

Getting there.  We’ll have arms of the type one can snuggle into during a blizzard, lying on a sheepskin rug before a roaring lion fire…blah, blah, blah.  They must definitely not be weight-lifter knuckle-draggers as seen protruding uncomfortably from the trunk of steroid freaks, like the Macdonalds arches.  They should be sleek, yet defined.  Bizzarely, I noticed whilst thoroughly enjoying (bite me) the Journey to the Center of the Earth remake tonight that Brendan Fraser’s fit the bill perfectly.  Must’ve been all that vine-swinging during George in the Jungle.  I lopped a pair off Andy Murray posing with those chunky Wimbledon 2010 biceps but Scotland’s already represented and I can’t help feeling the hugs they’d produce would be less reassuringly cosy than morosely belligerent.

And…finally.  The head I found troublesome.  Mostly because that’s where (some) chaps keep their brains.  And given my Perfect Man will be funny, articulate, handsome, quirky and culinarily – yep, it is a word – adept, I’m plumping for three heads to cover all the bases.  Two won’t cut the mustard.  No Zaphod Beeblebrox for me (although I do have a bit of a thing for him and would have enjoyed squeezing him in, so to speak).  Anyway, it got whittled down to Dylan Moran (articulate and funny), Johnny Depp (handsome and quirky.  Also a pirate: a randy bonus), and Rick Stein (I love fish.  So shoot me.  In a barrel, even.).

And there we have it.  But the proof is in the pudding.  The Doozers have been all over it like a rash as I type, the scaffold has been removed so all that remains is to whisk off the mental red satin sheet to expose…My Perfect Man:

Johnny looks a bit surprised doesn’t he?  But I’m psyched about the free toucan…!  Yay!

I now bestow upon the following victims the above task, to post about Their Perfect Man (I think it may be The Perfect Partner actually):

1. NotWavingButIroning – who is the Queen of Funny.  And I noticed had Bear Grylls in her tag cloud although sadly she hadn’t directed a deliciously scathing remark his way.  She saves those for herself.  Go on over and place an order for her oven mitts today.

2. Angelsandurchins – who is probably a bit too busy and whose blog is perhaps a tad too professional for this type of frippery, but let’s see…

3. KnackeredMothersWineClub – who may have special dispensation to change it to ‘My Perfect Wine’ as that’ll be to the benefit of us all…    [and here it is..!]

4. Softthistle – if I can’t meet you for a Jagerbomb, then at least accept this tag…!  x

5. MTJAM – too funny.  But possibly too busy too.


6 Responses to The Perfect Man

  1. Pingback: They come out at night, and give you such a FRIGHT – Scottish Roundup

  2. mrshev says:

    Your three headed man would only end up getting drunk all the time and having arguments with itself before eventually admitting itself to A&E after beating itself up.

  3. knackeredmother says:

    Miss, Miss, I’ve done my homework! Do I get a star? x

    • jinedin says:

      Star? Star?! What kind of an historical school marm do you take me for? You’ll have a bloody sticker and be glad of it. if you’re anything like Boy, by the time you’ve descended the classroom steps at the end of the day you’ll have lost all recollection of what you were given it for.
      Thanks! 🙂

  4. Pingback: The Perfect Man

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