Dumb and Dumber

Why Do Men Always Want Sons?

And how can we stop them

I once knew a guy called Mike who only wanted a son. He was adamant:

‘No daughters!’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘To carry on the line.’

‘What line, the breadline?’

He half laughed before giving me some exaggerated family history as though he was the heir to Genghis Khan.

He wasn’t. He ran a car dealership in Sudbury in Suffolk, and had lived there all his life. As had his father. It was a family business, so he wanted a son to take over.

‘And what if he doesn’t want to?’ I asked tentatively.

‘He will,’ he insisted.

I found it depressing. The guy didn’t even have a girlfriend — he still lived with his mum.

‘If you had a daughter,’ I continued. ‘She might want to take over the business.’

‘Are you nuts!’ He glared at me. ‘A woman run a car dealership?’

I don’t know what happened to him— we lost touch after everyone stopped using the telephone in favour of social media. But I guess now he has a strapping son the size of a house, who joins him down the Rose & Crown every Saturday night to drink beer and eat pork scratchings.*

(*If you’re unaware of this British delicacy, it’s deep-fried salted pork skin eaten by men.)

What is it with this obsession with the male lineage anyway. Boys are horrible beings. They are sick! Ever been into a male teenager’s room in the morning? That smell. Those tissues…

The only reason teenage boys exist is to keep the world in a supply of Kleenex. And socks.

Why would you want a boy when you can have a girl. A nice gentle daughter: clever, courteous, gentle, caring. And clean. Ever seen tissues by a girl’s bedside in the morning. I haven’t.

But let’s get away from smutty humour for a minute, and be serious.

— Who creates life?

God.

— Wrong answer.

Who has a womb?

— Women.

Correct. Only women can carry a child.

I know this as I have a B.Sc. in Biology. OK, so it was Plant Biology, but skip a few billion years of evolution, and the ovary of a flower evolves to become the womb of a human. Which is in itself a nice story.

So what’s the male’s role in all of this?

Not much.

All the male does is cast his pollen, or squirt his semen, in the vague direction of the female in the hope he hits the bullseye. Then he can go and whack off into as many Kleenexes as he wants.

Women are special. They create and carry life. Why do we think we have eggs at Easter?

You don’t find a stash of chocolate cocks around the garden for your children to find on Easter Day, do you? Not where I’m from anyway. Maybe in Suffolk.

Since pagan times, eggs have been the sign of fertility. Rebirth. Womanhood.

Christians use the egg as a symbol for the rebirth of Jesus. Although they copied this from the Pagans. As they did with Christmas (old pagan festival). Lent (old pagan festival). And Santa Claus (old pagan drunk).

Indeed, many cultures had matriarchal societies, think Ancient Egypt. Think Cleopatra. Think Mummies…

They aren’t called Daddies, are they? That’s a brand of Brown Sauce*.

(*Again if you’re unfamiliar with British culture, Brown Sauce is a sweet, vinegary condiment used on bacon sandwiches.)

Fact is, despite 2 million years of human evolution, the likes of my friend are still obsessed with having boys to continue their feeble genetic line. Which if you’ve met Mike Spotteswood, might worry you. It worried me.

That’s his name. Spotteswood. And I really hope he didn’t have kids in the end. Imagine school.

‘I’m Jack Spotteswood, son of Mike Spotteswood.’

‘Who? Spottes…what? Freak!’

THUMP! WHACK!

So to finish this story, Mike’s mum’s maiden name is Marigold. He confided in me once that his father when he started the business in the 1950s, had considered using his wife’s more attention-grabbing name, rather than Spotteswood.

‘But,’ Mike went on, ‘as Dad was a bit of a traditionalist, he called it after himself: Spotteswood Cars.’

Clearly, he was an idiot.

I didn’t tell him that, as his father had recently died. But I thought it.

That the refusal of one man to go against tradition meant my friend had inherited a business that sounded like an unpronounceable cab company.

Whereas, if his father had listened ONCE to his inner female self, just for a second, he would be the proud owner of Marigold Motors. Imagine that?

‘Hi, I’m Mike Marigold, and this is my daughter Jackie. How can we help you today?’

Thanks for reading this feminist-inspired piece. Check out my non-feminist pieces below: