I’m not an expert on many things. I can make a fair stab at Nietzsche’s law of eternal recurrence and how the theory of a positively curved and infinitely expanding universe has relevance to modern physics. I can coast along quite nicely if you want to talk metaphysics, if you don’t mind a good dollop of subjectivity. I’m a dab hand at wrapping Christmas presents (with the exception of this years present to onebadway and mrs onebadway which was wrapped in Tescos paper and brown tape) and I can tell you what shoes to wear with what outfit. I’m not like herebe or F or Mr and Mrs Onebadway who are all experts in their chosen field (although I do worry that herebes attraction to/obsession with colonialism is simply Grandma S’s xenophobia manifesting itself in another form) But, one of the things that I am an expert on, is men. Not every aspect of them. I will never understand for example why they feel the need to watch sports (even intelligent ones) or why they have such fascination with gadgetry but in the field of men/woman relationships I have had some a priori experience. Not that I’ve been around the block or anything (although there are some who would maintain that I might have stood at a corner and swung my handbag while I waited to see what turned up) It’s just that I have always been and still am, a hopeless romantic.

Between the ages of 15 and 21 I yearned for true love to come my way. Actually if truth be known I yearned for true love well before that but let’s face it a nine year old living in a village with only 20 inhabitants (including family members) is going to have very little chance of meeting, never mind attracting, either Indiana Jones or Han Solo no matter how precocious she may be. And it was the characters rather than the person I wanted. I’ve never seen the point of idolising real people - far too much room for disappointment.

Instead I waited.

In the meantime I gorged a gargantuan appetite for romance, taking in Sumeria, middle earth, outer space, ancient history, several rows of the best of 70’s sci-fi and a smattering of Anais Nin until my ideal man was formed. Lithe, sword wielding, fast talking (or mean and moody but deeply sensitive), kill you soon as look at you, swashbuckling hero’s with a penchant for derring do, long journeys, jewelled clasps and mysterious past, lined up and filled my (rather innocent) fantasies. Not that I had any interest in being the rescued princess. Herrena the henna haired warrior princess was much more my idea of how a girl should behave, someone who could swing a sword almost as well as her man. Luckily for me that not only did 70’s sci fi writers have an unhealthy fascination with such females (or maybe it was a healthy fascination engendered by the advent of woman’s lib) but we also had a couple of rapiers kicking about the place so I was free to roam the hills and challenge any impudent sheep that crossed my path. Mum, alas, later disposed of the rapiers, after a particularly gruesome incident involving the daughter of a family friend and a slight disagreement. (Obviously there is no excuse for such a rotten thing to do, except to say, that I did tell her that if she said a certain phrase twice I’d beat her black and blue and that even after this warning she said it, so I was honour bound to keep my word)

No doubt Freud would have a field day with such a confession. I don’t care. I wouldn’t have known phallic symbolism if it had come up and bit me in the bum. Sometimes a sword is just a sharp metal implement designed to skewer people’s vital organs. Sex never came into it, even after the Anais Nin, several references to bedchambers and some very anatomically correct descriptions of pert breasts (obviously all the 70’s sci-fi writers were bottle fed) I was precocious but I wasn’t that precocious.

And then I hit puberty and all interest in romance vanished. It wasn’t that I’d discovered boys. By this time we’d moved closer to a town and I was going to a bigger school. There were loads of boys and, to be quite frank, they were all a great disappointment. They weren’t lithe – they were stringy. None of them seemed to have the slightest aptitude for sword wielding. As far as fast-talking went, well if they could string two sentences together then you were lucky and in any case they didn’t talk to girls. Holidaying on the Costa del Sol with their parents didn’t really qualify as wanderlust in my eyes and as far as jewelled clasps went – well this was the North East. They might wear a signet ring. To be quite honest the most mysterious thing about their past was the fact that, on seeing their tiny naked form in the hospital, the parents hadn’t given them up as a dud straight away and left empty handed hoping for better luck the next time round. No one was going to lean over their crib and pronounce on them a destiny that came from the Gods, not unless the Gods had decided that equilibrium could be restored by some cunning plot which used the ancient skills of middle management to defeat the forces of darkness unleashed on the world by a mad godking skulking in a ruined castle on the shores of death.

To be fair, it wasn’t all their fault. Even if I had been interested in one of them I wasn’t what you’d call a catch. I’m not going into any details on the grounds of I don’t want my toes to curl with embarrassment (by the way if anyone knows how to stop their toes curling with embarrassment over things that happened xx odd years ago and yet still pop up to fill your thoughts just before you go to sleep, would you please, as an urgent act of human kindness, let me know) but let’s just say that all the years I spent wandering in my dreams had been put to different use by the Michelle’s, Andreas and Joanne’s of this world. I’m not going into detail describing them. You know who they are. You may even have been one of them. They were at your school too. The ones who dotted the i ‘s in their names with a heart. Even if their name didn’t have an i in it.

Now you may be wondering how, someone who by her own admission not only found boys completely unattractive but who the boys also found completely unattractive, came to be such am expert on men. The answer is simple. Hormones. And vodka. A pretty lethal combination in anyone but when mixed up inside a girl from Newcastle they create an unstoppable force. The hormones kicked in at about 15. The vodka about three months later. Together they got me a boyfriend. Not much of a boyfriend. Definitely not a lithe, sword wielding, fast talking (or mean and moody but deeply sensitive), kill you soon as look at you, swashbuckling hero’s with a penchant for derring do, long journeys, jewelled clasps and a mysterious past. He was a gnarled, nervous, curly haired piano prodigy and a bit of a nerd really but he was very sweet and I learnt how to snog. He lasted about a month and then I two-timed him with a gorgeous but thick goth (who was also very sweet) who I dumped when he started wearing purple eyeshadow. It wasn’t so much the eyeshadow that got to me. It was the fact that it was applied so badly. But I had made an important discovery. Once you had a boyfriend, then a whole world of possible boyfriends was opened up to you. It’s a bit like being offered a job when you’re already in employment. I’m not talking about putting out here by the way – although raising the possibility that you might put out sometimes helps and if you do feel like putting out, then far be it from me to stand in your way. There’s nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch (just make sure that they don’t have any itches) So I dated.

And below for your delectation, delight and with my devout hope that you don’t make the same toe curlingly embarrassing mistakes as I did is the first part of Hendrix Cat’s guide to men. I’m not saying that they apply to all men. There are some good ones out there (somewhere). But based on my personal experiences the following guidelines should be observed.

Never date a man whose name only has 3 letters. Because no matter whether their name is Les, Des, Tom or Tim, Ali, Cal Stu or Jon, Joe, Ben, Max or Alf. Zak, Jay, Leo, or Kai they all spell dickhead. I don’t know why. But I do know that of all the men I’ve dated and I’ve dated some (mostly) shmucks – men whose names only have 3 letters in them are the schmuckiest. In the case of Kai’s be doubly careful. If he spells it with an I and dots it with a heart – the relationship is likely to be heading on the fast lane to nowhere and the chances are you’ll be dumped for a uniform wearing moustachioed blonde called Kyle. Not that I’m speaking from personal experience here or anything…

Never date a man with a double barrelled surname. Now this needs a bit of qualification. If the double barrel in question comes with a large estate in Scotland with good shooting (we obviously aren’t talking council estate here) and the freehold of a couple of streets of London then you’re probably going to be ok. Unless you’re from good working class stock, your kids will probably have weak chins and thick tongues but when has the potential ugliness of your progeny stood in the way of true love. What I’m referring to is the double-barrelled name that has been made up by the person in question. Tacking your mums maiden name to your dads surname is just tackyand non-U. I once dated a S******* S******* and very proud of it he was too. Once I’d actually met his family I wondered why. It’s not that I’m a snob. Well actually I am a snob. But I’m a real snob. Be who you are and respect where you come from. Have gold taps in the shape of a dolphin on your pink bath in the shape of a shell if that’s what you like. Eat your peas with a knife, drink tea out of a saucer and call your dog Rex if that’s what makes you happy. I won’t judge anyone on where they live, what they do for a living and who their parents are – so long as you respect them (you don’t have to like them but if you can’t show respect to the people who created you then you’re not worthy of being respected). But, don’t pretend to be who you aren’t in a vain attempt to join the upper classes. The upper classes don’t care. Date a man who thinks that being called S******* S***** puts him firmly in the echelons of the aristocracy and you’ve condemned yourself to a life of weak earl grey, inedible food and undrinkable wine in an attempt to keep up with the Jones (who never saw the need to change their names anyway)

Never date a man who can’t remember your name. Not is it incredibly rude but he’s probably two timing you. Also, be wary of men who try to get round not remembering your name by calling you darling, love, sugar, sweetheart or any affectionate term. There are exceptions to this rule (There are exceptions to all my rules except the little darling one) If you wake up next to a completely gorgeous stranger with no idea of who they are or how they got there but with the vague memory of a night spent drinking champagne and having incredibly hot and satisfying sex then some tiptoeing around the question of identity is permitted (but only if it was incredibly hot sex) If, on the other hand, you wake up next to someone who looks like their face was crushed between 2 bricks with a vague memory of brown ale, farting and some alcohol fuelled fumblings then don’t wait around to be introduced

Never date a man who has a girl’s name. You know that song by Johnny Cash? The one about a boy names Sue? And how it made the guy all tough and capable of standing up for himself? It’s bullshit. There are enough and aplenty of perfectly good more than 3 letters long boys names in the world. In fact there are some truly beautiful boys names. Calling a boy a girls name is basically telling him that his parents wanted a girl, no matter how they later try to dress it up by telling him that it was originally a boys name to begin with. This will lead to an intense neurosis in later life and give him issues with his mother. Which brings me neatly onto the next point, which is…

Never date a man who calls his mother “little darling” If they engage in a conversation that goes - Boyfriend “ So how’s my little darling then?” Mother “I’m fine and how’s my little darling then.” Don’t wait to hear the next sentence. You’ll probably be vomiting anyway (I’ve heard this conversation and it does make you want to throw up and not because of the saccharine content) Once you’ve stopped throwing up. Run. Run fast; run free and above all, run far. This is one time that trainers are acceptable footwear. Leave no forwarding address. There is no way that this relationship will ever work. By the same token, if the mother goes into a sulk and starts crying cos the boyfriend (her son) has bought his girlfriend (you) leather hot pants for Christmas and not her, then take a plane. leave the country, leave the planet if you can - Oedipus is alive and well and dating you.

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