For years, men have been getting it in the neck for not ringing women when they say they will. Man s apparent inability to pick up a telephone, dial the smudged number scrawled on a tatty fragment of cigarette box or beer-mat and engage in dialogue with someone they don t know very well has long been a source of frustration for females the world over. It seems they cannot for the life of them make sense of our apparent reluctance to continue digging big holes for ourselves once the initial ground-breaking spade-work is done.
It is a female bug-bear that has been discussed ad nauseum in such erudite feminist studies as All Men Are Bastards, Take Your Tongue Out Of My Mouth I m Kissing You Goodbye and Bridget Jones Diary; three books whose very existence go a long way towards providing an answer to that thorny old question of Why Men Never Call. If men called every time they said they would, gaggles of women would have nothing to complain about on girlie nights out, and the minuscule section that passes for Humour in most bookshops would be further diminished, consisting of little more than a Viz annual and a couple of Far Side compilations scattered forlornly on a very small shelf.
To the best of my knowledge, most men don t call out of fear. The fair sex may not realise this, but ringing a woman you can hardly remember meeting with the intention of asking her out on a date is right up there on the stress scale with moving house and bereavement. So much so, in fact, that many men would prefer to get crushed to the death by the removal van as it reverses out of the driveway of their brand new house than risk the shotgun blast to the ego that goes hand in hand with discovering that the ravishing vixen you vaguely recall charming senseless last night, has in fact, used the pen you spent five hours trying to beg, borrow or steal to scribble down the number of the Samaritans. Not so much a charm offensive, then, as just plain offensive.
Even in the event of the number being genuine, the emotional trauma does not abate. Like so many other sexual issues, the blame for this can be laid squarely at the door of alcohol. Women are invariably asked for their numbers by men who are self-assured and confident because they have just poured vast amounts of beer into their faces. In the morning, however, they are sober, paranoid and ill. They crawl out of bed and check their wallets to see how much money they spent the previous evening, only to discover a telephone number and no cash contained within. Remembering little of the number s origin, they vow to call it anyway and begin rehearsing suitable opening conversational gambits. In the end, the telephone remains untroubled. After all, who are you and what have you done with all my money, bitch? is hardly the soundest of foundations on which to begin building an enduring relationship.
While it is fair to assume that many men don t call because they are cads, far more of us don t do it because we are cowards. When we ask for ladies numbers we are at our wittiest, most urbane, silver-tongued and charming. When it actually comes to dialling these numbers, we are babbling, hungover nervous wrecks who are in no fit state to talk to woman or beast. Particularly a woman or beast whose pants we are attempting to infiltrate.
So, to answer your questions, girls, we promise to call because it s the done thing, and then we don t call because it s not the done thing. However, recently in London it seems the women have recently begun something of a backlash. Shortly after a stand-up gig I performed at The Comedy Cafi recently, I was approached by a woman who I recognised as a talent scout, of sorts, for a well known comedy management company. She asked if I d be interested in a chat and, over a drink, told me that she d come especially to see my act, that she d liked it and that if I played my cards right, she could promise me fame, fortune and riches beyond my wildest dreams . . . sort of. Despite my inherent cynicism, she almost convinced me that, with her help, I d soon be beating promoters off with a stick and gigging six nights a week before going home to fornicate with nubile groupies on a mattress stuffed with cocaine and $50 bills.
Can I have your number? she enquired, promising that she d definitely be in touch within a couple of days in order to arrange a meeting between her boss and I. In the meantime, could I send in a CV and any cuttings I might have accumulated in the past.
Needless to say, that was almost three weeks ago and I haven t heard a peep out of her since. Although this eerie silence comes as no great surprise to me, I can t help wondering why this seemingly sincere woman approached me, bought me a drink, told me how much she liked me and asked for my phone number when she clearly had no intention whatsoever of calling me. I can only conclude that she was drunk, afraid or a bitch.
Hell, I was furious but, if nothing else, at least I now know how it feels to be a woman scorned.