Hamish McShanks

Ham Shanks Secret Dairy w/e 17^th December 2006

If I asked you what your ‘Gender Role’ was, what would you say? Other than ‘lighten up Ham, I’m not a Guardian reader’. Well neither am I, a Guardian reader that is, in fact I buy a newspaper unless it contains a fish supper, and if we are being picky I’m actually paying for the fish and chips, not the newspaper. Besides, my battered Haddock is more likely to be nestling between Linda Lusardis cleavage than between the ‘debate’ section of the Sunday Times. Gleaning any insight into the complexities of culture and gender role is therefore remote. On the upside you usually get to look at a nice pair of knockers!

But I seem to be digressing from the original question, so c’mon what’s your gender role? Look the only reason I’m asking is because it was suggested to me that a man baking a cake was not ‘acceptable’. It might lead one to assume that the gentleman in question is a little ‘light on his loafers’ if you get my drift. Apparently deftness with flour and eggs implies that one likes to play for both Man City and Man United. Please note that the latter part of that football analogy is usually delivered a semitone higher than the rest of the sentence and accompanied by rising of the eyebrows, surrepticious winks and a final conspiratorial tap on the side of the nose.

What the fuck are you talking about Ham? Are you on the magic mushrooms again? I hear you mumble. No I’m not; the pixie chief won’t let me have anymore. Anyway what I’m really asking is ‘does possession of both a Y chromosome and the ability to bake delicious cakes make you a puff?’ I don’t think so, and this is not because I recently baked a very fine chocolate cake, no it’s because I just fucking do okay!

Ok ok ok so I got a slagging at work and I cant understand why. It’s not like I minced through the office shouting ‘Ooooh hello sailor would you fancy a bit?’ groaning like Frankie Howard and wiggling my posterior in an alluring fashion (I think I managed to capture all the traditional stereotypes in that sentence don’t you?) All I did was pass a large slice of cake to a fellow chocoholic. It was mentioned in passing that I actually baked the fecker and you should have heard the hullabaloo.

Clearly crime of the century and conclusive proof that I like playing hide the sausage. It’s a fair cop guvnor, I done it and I deserve everyfing I get, filthy faaaaacking pervert that I am. Hark at me, libidinously baking a cake! A brown chocolate one at that! I should be bloody well hung!

Time for another tablet I think

Anyway what I did find interesting in the whole debate were the terms used in my character assassination. Apparently it’s ‘society’ that condemns me. Not the individual in question who was so palpably uncomfortable with my baking prowess. Apparently it’s ‘society’ that protests that I’m deviating from the ‘agreed’ gender roles. Not that I ever recall their being a ‘treaty of the genders’ or perhaps I just missed it when I was whipping up a lovely light Victoria sponge? ….. eeeer anyway, back to the story …

Baking it was proudly, but somewhat foolishly, declared by one gentleman ‘is the remit of women’. There was a sharp intake of breath from the ladies present when this opinion was voiced. I think the condescending manner in which it was delivered didn’t help. I had a puzzled glance round the room as the tumbleweed blew past and the ambient temperature plunged below zero. However an absence of bakelite telephones or greasy haired teddy boys confirmed that despite his Alf Garnett comment we had not in fact been transported back to the 1950’s.

Intrigued by this stereotype I pressed the gentleman further ‘so what you’re saying is all bakers are gay?’, ‘wha-’, ‘except the female ones’, ‘no I-‘, ‘Oh so they are lesbians are they?’, ’what! Of course no-‘, ‘what about chefs? They bake and make creamy desserts’ My emphasis of the word ‘creamy’ clearly caused significant discomfort ‘well yes but they do savoury as well’ he replied as if this were mitigation.

So in a nutshell cooking savoury things, like dead animals, is an indication of a strong ‘hetro’ disposition. Whereas creating a soft yet deliciously moist sponge cake covered with mouth watering chocolate fondant icing cake makes you a birrova gay boy!

Roasting a complete side of beef or barbecuing an entire suckling pig must resonate on some sort of prehistoric level. Perhaps it’s this link to our own ancient past which promotes our ‘natural’ animalistic predilection for woman. Because of course we wouldn’t have dreamt about choosing ‘the backdoor’ or biting the pillow in Neolithic times. Chiefly because pillows were probably made of stone and therefore likely to break your teeth but mainly because we didn’t actually have to ask for it! (Oh controversial Ham!)

Lets not beat about the bush (no pun intended) there were a shocking lack of manners in the Stone age. A courtship ritual didn’t commence with a trembling young Neanderthal shuffling up to a young lady and asking if she would like a spin around the cave floor. Perhaps followed by some light refreshments and a brontosaurus burger. Oh heavens no. A swift skelp across the napper with a dinosaur leg and get them before the came round or stopped breathing was the order of the day!

At this juncture I would just like to point out that I am in fact an enlightened 21^st century guy and I certainly don’t condone that sort of courtship behaviour, either now, or even in the primordial society of 20,000 years ago. It’s just not the done thing.

What intrigued me about the whole cooking and gender role debate was the obvious double standards. Why nobody raises an eyebrow at the concept of a woman rolling up her sleeves and dismembering a turkey, scooping the innards out of a salmon or eviscerating any other variety of creature whilst in the kitchen? That seems perfectly acceptable. Nobody dives in and bellows ‘stop in the name of the King’, ‘that’s mans work’ then ushers the lady out of the kitchen. Far from it.

The self same modern man that is content to slag off me for my baking abilities is also quite happy to lie idly on the sofa, drinking beer and scratching his nuts, screaming ‘where the f*cks ma dinner woman!’ to his long suffering other half.

I therefore feel totally at ease with both my baking proficiency and my gender role. Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll just die if I don’t get those french fancies iced soon!

Doei

# posted by Ham Shanks @ 10:36 pm