WIL...
Wil Anderson has uncovered the Cosmo girl's ultimate man... a guy in an apron who knows his fennel from his funnel
I'm ashamed to admit it, but as I approach nearly 30 years on this earth, there are only three things I have truly learned about how guys can make themselves attractive to the opposite sex.
The first is the number-one rule of relationship happiness: none of your ex-girlfriends were ever prettier, sexier, thinner, nicer, more intelligent, or better in bed than your current partner.
The second, if you have hair on your back, get rid of it. I don't care if you shave, wax or have to hire a ride-on lawn mower, just do it. A little Nad's around the gnads probably wouldn't hurt either. Remember in Star Wars how the girls went for Han Solo, and not for Chewy? No-one wants some nooky with a wookiee.
But finally, and this is the most important, if you really want to turn a girl on, learn to cook. That's right, women swoon for a guy who can handle a wooden spoon; hold a flame for a bloke who can flambe; and the quickest way to get a bun in the oven, is being able to cook a bun in an oven.
If you're bitchin' in the kitchen, then in the immortal words of Jamie Oliver, prepare some pukka tucker for the sucker and you just might get to ... well he is called The Naked Chef.
The onky problem for me is, I can't cook. I am possibly the worst amateur chef in the entire world. I'm the sort of guy who takes half an hour to make two-minute noodles, and even then I end up burning the water. My friends call me Surprise Chef - they're surprised if what I cook doesn't give them food poisoning.
In fact, the only thing I can cook that is half-edible is grilled cheese on toast. Unfortunately the griller in my oven doesn't work, so I have to cut up the cheese on top of the bread and turn my toaster on it's side. Oh yes, I'm a regular MacGyver in the kitchen.
Actually, I'm so bad at making food I don't even own a cook book. The closest I've ever come to having one is the time I arranged my mass of takeaway menus into alphabetical order.
My idea of a balanced diet is drinking local andimported beers, I only eat fresh fruit when they put pineapple on my pizza, and I consider it a salad if I eat the pickle in my Big Mac.
To me, "kumera" sounds like something you would drive, and "fennel" is how a New Zealander would say "funnel".
In fact, the full extent of my entire culinary expertise is pretty much limited to the ability to heat up a hot chicken torpedo at 7-Eleven in the middle of the night after 15 beers.
That achievement is nothing to be sneezed at, admittedly, but it's hardly going to help me with the ladies. In my defence, I don't think I'm a lost cause. I do actually have a gas oven in my house, it's just that in the three years I've lived there I've never felt the need to actually get the gas connected. The only gas my kitchen has ever seen came as a result of that hot chicken torpedo from 7-Eleven.
In fact, earlier this year I gave up on the oven as a cooking implement altogether and plan to use it as either an extra filing cabinet, or a spare room if Natasha Ryan ever comes to stay.
But while storing my tax return in the griller might allow me to cook the books, it still doesn't help me in preparing a romantic meal for a date. So I finally took the plunge and asked one of my male friends for some culinary advice.
My mate assured me that preparing the perfect romantic meal was actually a piece of piss. All I had to do was get a couple of candles, invite that special somebody around, and prepare them, "an Aristos starter, a Jamie main, and a Nigella dessert!"
Sadly, though, the best I could do was a couple of cigarette lighters and a Ronald starter, the Colonel for main course, and for dessert, Sara Lee.
Oh yes, hello ladies. Did I happen to mention my back is completely hair free?
Return to article index
Return to mainpage!!
