Who needs hell to burn?

To compare the average Irishman’s skin care routine to that of the Emerald lady’s has to be one of the most convincing cases that can be made for the existence of inherent, biological differences between the sexes.

Usually, people who – for one reason or other – are determined to prove that males and females differ at the genetic level, tend do so with reference to sex organs, hormones, and, only as a last resort, behaviour.

However, while I would hesitate to say that these people aren’t correct in their basic claim, they appear to be clueless when it comes to the strength of their own arguments.

As they would say in my house, they have the whole thing arse-about-face…

You see, they seem to believe that organs and hormones, anatomy and chemicals, form the backbone of their strongest case.

“These are scientific truths steadily anchored in solid research,” they say.

To this, I say, ‘balls…’

Forget about science. Forget about what dangles and what doesn’t. And never worry about estrogen and testosterone. If you want to prove that males and females are fundamentally different, a mere peek inside their preferred bathroom cabinet is all you need…

The landscapes that lay behind the small mirrored doors of the respective sexes constitutes indisputable proof that the
gods who designed each were working with very different materials.

Behind the door of the Irish lady’s cabinet lays an emporium of creams and oils, moisturisers and toners, all purpose-bought to illuminate, soften, restore and preserve.

Behind her pasty-faced husband’s, however, lurks an austere world of foam and blade, soap and rag.

Overdue disclaimer: This entire column is predicated on some extremely contentious science which has emerged from 25 years of my own incidental research, none of which has been subject to peer-review, and, the upshot of which appears to be an overly simplistic and arguably retrograde view of male and female beauty habits.

Nonetheless, in the interest of whimsical reading, we solider on, undeterred.

The reason the liabilities of the Irish male’s inattentive attitude toward their epidermis is on my mind is due to the sheer number of excruciatingly sun-burned men I saw last week.

Now, there were plenty of sun-burnt ladies too. No doubt about it. However, of all the people I seen who had been well-and-truly eviscerated, to the very last, they were almost exclusively male.

The most disturbing example I witnessed was at the top of Omagh’s Market Street.

I spotted this man’s preternatural glow as he slouched in agony past the Post Office.

He crippled along with his back toward me. It took me a second, but I eventually recognised him.

When I shouted his name, he turned slow and ominously, as though ashamed of the grotesque sight he was about to expose me to.

“Jesus Christ!” I shrieked in horrified shock.

His raw, scaly skin seemed to suggest that he had either just returned from a holiday in hell, or else, perhaps, had somehow been mistakenly identified as a lobster and consequently boiled alive in some voluminous saucepan.

“You got a qaure bit of sun,” I said, half-smiling, trying not to wince, gag or cry.

“Aye, I fell asleep in that infernal back garden of mine for a lock of hours yesterday,” he said. “I woke up feeling like I’d been pulled out of a bonfire.”

“Aye,” I replied, looking over his body like you might assess the remains of a squashed badger, “you got some touch alright, didn’t ye.”

“Aye, I did, didn’t I,” he said terminally.

And with that, he recommenced his slow, repentant walk up the town. I watched him hobble out of view.

So what to conclude from all of this? That vanity is inscribed in the genetic code of Irish females in a way that it isn’t in Irish males? Perhaps, but that seems both unlikely and unfair.

After studying Mr Crisp’s tortured step as he shamefully stumbled up the town, it seems more likely that another, more virtuous quality that distinguishes the two sides of the species…

Self-preservation and forethought.