Five Reasons Why You Wouldn’t Want to be Married to Me

I was stumbling back from the corner shop the other day – something heavy was on special offer – when I bumped into an old friend. She started having a rant about her husband. But it was a resigned rant. ‘Twenty five years; magic not there any more; nothing to talk about now the kids have gone…’

I did my best to cheer her up. I pointed out that while her husband is not perfect – he supports Liverpool – things could be far worse. “Look on the bright side, Claire,” I said. “You could be married to me.”

She couldn’t, because she was never that type of friend. But you get my drift. The grass is not always greener.

I’ve been writing about family life for over ten years. During that time I have once or twice – cough, cough – painted myself in a more favourable light than might really be the case. My wife and children have not been slow to point this out. They have long suggested that a no-holds-barred confession of my failings would not come amiss.

So here goes. And hopefully it will put the bloke on your settee with the beer and the remote control into perspective…

I’d rather write about it. Whatever happens in our house, my first thought is, ‘can I write about it?’ My inclination is not to fix things, it’s to write about them. You may be married to a man whose greatest joy is collecting power tools, storing them neatly and using them at every opportunity. Count your blessings. I think there might be a screwdriver somewhere in Tom’s bedroom…

I’m convinced I’m Gordon Ramsay. Look, I’m not a bad cook, but one does tend to get up one’s own bottom a little. Do I really need to yell “Service! Main course away!” every time I dish up a bowl of Spag Bol? And yes, I do swear when I’m cooking. Particularly if it’s Jamie Oliver’s turkey and leek pie. Delicious – but sweary.

I’m untidy. I occasionally like to test my wife’s blood pressure by declaring that I want our house to be ‘minimalist.’ Or that ‘I’d happily sleep on a simple futon.’ In everyday terms this is nonsense. I’m a writer, so I live in a constant blizzard of A4. And see above: I cannot cook with re-decorating the kitchen. And I’m not quite perfect at putting my clothes away either…

Speaking of clothes, I love my red shorts. And my navy blue ones. The navy shorts are simply disgusting, but it’s the red ones that really define me. They’re so old that they’re no longer red; they’re pink. They’re also frayed. Very. A remarkable testament to the needle of Mrs Matusiewicz and her ability to keep an item of clothing going long past the hour when it should have been recycled. Appearance isn’t hugely important to me. Comfort – and loyalty – is.

I’m a Yorkshire supporter. And I’m North Yorkshire’s only known supporter of Wolverhampton Wanderers. My sports teams plunge me into fits of depression. When they win I’m wildly ecstatic. When Wolves score I run round the house telling everyone. It is frankly pathetic. I should have grown out of it long ago. I haven’t. I never will.

So there you have it. The flame may not burn quite as brightly as it once did in your relationship. But look on the bright side. There is not a badly dressed maniac in ripped shorts leaping to his feet and yelling ‘Yessssssssssssss’ in your lounge. Your dining room is not awash with discarded paper as the kitchen cupboard door hangs from its hinges. And do you really want a third rate Gordon Ramsay in your kitchen? No, you don’t…

Thanks for reading – if you’ve enjoyed this post you can buy the ‘Best Dad’ intro book for your Kindle here (UK) or the second book, ‘Half Dad, Half Fish’ here. Or click on any of the other posts to read another one

The picture with this week’s post is ‘The Huddle’ by former Wolves player Jody Craddock – I’ve a signed print on my office wall.


  1. So true that the grass is never greener on the other side and I wouldn’t want to be married to me either!

  2. All things considered you don’t sound too bad. Not a hint of a serial monogamist, rapsist or moiderer among your foibles. On the other hand, Wolverhampton Wanderers …

  3. Nobody’s perfect eh? I wouldn’t want to be married to me either. Even I can’t keep track of what my hormones are doing from one day to the next. Goodness knows how my poor husband survives!

    • What’s going on here? Everyone admitting they wouldn’t want to be married to themselves. Three of us now… We must surely be able to rake up some good points from somewhere…

  4. hahaha Made me chuckle!! I have a Gordon Ramsay here…lol

  5. We lived with a broken toilet seat for 2 months and the Christmas decorations are on the landing waiting to go into the loft. My partner’s floordrobe is his actual long-term storage solution and he cooked Lasagne for me once. It was raw. I do love him though.

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