Why is it that a man is never able to see how good he has got it? Why are we so willing to gamble a life’s happiness for a moment of cheap satisfaction? Tiger had a great wife. Beautiful, smart, university educated, worldly and by all accounts a nice person. Plus she has given him two beautiful children. As far as marriages go, a man can’t really ask for much more. Tiger had it made. That was until he started banging a New York nightclub hostess.
Tiger’s cock-up is momentous. Huge. Up there with Decca Records not signing The Beatles and Tom Selleck turning down the Indiana Jones role. He had everything on a silver platter and he chose to eat off the floor. As they like to say in sports writing — he snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. But the thing is he is not alone. Tiger’s mistake is an absolute classic man-move. One of those unfathomable decisions that men just seem to make. All the signs are saying go right and we go left. We forget about the gold we have in front of us and stick our hand into the fire to pull out a piece of copper.
Why the hell do we do that? What is wrong with us? I mean we are talking about the same people who have led nations through wars, navigated troubled waters, developed cures for crazy diseases, gone to the moon and run large multinational companies. People who are capable of making very complex and rational decisions in the most stressful of conditions. But put us in a bar and offer us some cheap floozy and we’ll think about it. We’ll think about tossing away everything we’ve got. Just for that shot at 1 minute and 53 seconds of glory. Confronted with the most simple of dilemmas — the choice between a totally awesome wife and a girl we hardly know — and our ability to reason is reduced to that of a Neanderthal. A moronic fool who shouldn’t be trusted with the money for the next round, never mind the keys to lifelong happiness and domestic bliss. But there it is, that’s the way it goes. It is the test that so many men have and will fail. When it comes to the opposite sex we seem to have the moral fortitude of alley cats.
Many people seem to believe we are driven by the old pecker. Led into trouble by that little fella in our pants. And yes, that is partially true. He is a little prick. A no-good one-eyed chancer who likes to screw with our future. A deviant who should at all times be securely fastened inside a pair of tight briefs. But surely after a million years, we have progressed far enough that we are not just some useless appendage to our penis? To be dragged along to any and every foray of his choosing. Surely we are more than just our sexual desires?
The same goes for the people who say it is genetic. That straying is somehow hardwired into our DNA. That it is more than just lust and is in fact a natural way to behave. A throwback to the days when we lived in troops rather than societies. When it was imperative to our survival as a species that we buggered anything that moved. Well, if that really is the case why do I not feel the need to eat raw meat, live in a hole or roll around in the mud like my primordial ancestors? They too are natural ways to behave. The truth is we have been quite selective in what “instinctual” behaviour patterns we have decided to keep. For many men playing the field is definitely more fun than going back to the cave to hang with mama and the cubs.
That is until we get caught. Too many times I have sat with guys who have lamented the wife or girlfriend they lost. The one that left. The one that was so awesome. The one who understood him. Didn’t laugh at him when he secretly shed a tear during a crappy rom-com. And gave him a cuddle when he had a bad dream. The one who put up with his strange habits, his idiosyncrasies and his tendency to drink straight from the carton. The one who had sex with him even when he stank of stale beer and cigarettes. The chick, who when he met her, he couldn’t believe she was actually interested in him. The chick who every other guy in the room would have given their left nut for. And what did he go and do? He banged the intern at the office party. He slept with the au pair. Shagged the fat bird at the local. Went down on the stripper at his buddy’s stag do. Slipped one to the maid. He became yet another cliché.
Boys, it is the season of Christmas parties and bikinis, troubled waters lie ahead. God’s speed and hang tough. A timely U-turn is always better than three weeks on our bro’s couch and months of grovelling. And ladies, we are weak, like dogs, so please be nice and kick us in the nuts and send us back to our rightful owner.
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