Hang on to your hats or – if you go bare-headed while using PCs and Blackberries – prepare to cope: women sleep better than men.
The one-size-fits-all approach to humanity has soared into the stratosphere of generalisation with the news that men who share a bed with their partners sleep badly, and thus suffer the following day. Whereas all women everywhere of every ethnicity and culture sleep soundly – awaking refreshed and cheerful to face the day.
At the risk of sounding like a New Labour spokesperson apologist, this has not been my experience on the bed. As a man with reasonably eclectic cohabiting case-histories upon which to draw, my impression is that (in the morning when women are supposed to be fully rested and ready for anything) ladies of the opposing gender are wont to complain quite a lot about the degree of REM in their sleep.
In some rough order of repetition, the accusations faced by A.N. Otherbloke as the sun rises tend to be (1) You hogged the duvet (2) You snored (3) You made a jack-knife shape in the bed (4) You farted when you visited the ensuite (5) your arms flayed about and hit me and (6) just exactly who is this Julia woman anyway?
As for those female significant others who sleep like a babe in arms, there is a simple explanation for this too: the night before (at lights out) they utter a list of all the things which (a) need doing at the weekend (b) men are crap at (c) you failed to do having promised faithfully you would (d) represent signs of serious illness among the offspring and (e) mean we will be cut off.
This sort of responsibility-offloading delivers the same sort of sound sleep experienced by devout Catholics who dump their sins onto long-suffering priests.
But if you think that sort of research worthy of a major Bonkers Gong, get ready to be truly amazed: because yet more social investigation has revealed that a hundred quid can make the difference between a Double-First from Cambridge (footlights included) and an obscure life sweeping tumbleweed from the streets of Walsall.
Yes, it seems that just a hundred more of her Majesty’s Pounds in the first three years of an Underclass life will be enough to lift plucky recipients out of sink-estate poverty and up to the dizzy dilemmas of nuclear physics. But without this hundred nicker – the Report suggests – ‘the child’s prospects will be adversely affected’.
Harridan Harmperson is using this damning indictment of Britain’s iniquitous class system to confirm Lord Fondelbum’s illogical belief that only the right accent (as opposed to his education cuts) is holding back the perfect products of Cool Britannia’s social woodwork. So in the interests of sanity, let us now consider why these theories do not reflect one’s experiences on the ground.
This new study takes no (where zero = 0) account of the intelligence and motivation of the parents. We should perhaps ask ourselves if these parents would be living in a sink-estate if – as well as not quite the owners of a hundred quid – they were self-starting owners of an IQ in four figures.
There is an old adage stating that there are lies, damned lies, and statistics. Herewith a new improved adage stating that there are pillocks, total pillocks, and PC pillocks.
But let us not despair: Gordon Brown is said to be ‘bullish’ about his forthcoming testimony to the Chilcots. Disaster will therefore be his inevitable fate.