‘You can’t eat it. It’s a stick. Not food. NOT FOOD. PUT IT DOWN.’

‘No, I don’t why Daddy has hair in his ears.’

‘Stop kicking your sister in the face!’

‘You do like toast. I know you do. I’VE SEEN YOU EATING IT.’

‘You can stop helping now. Please. STOP HELPING.’

Ever heard of Leo Gorcey? Me neither. He was an actor, by all accounts. You may not remember him from such films as Crazy Over Horses, Feudin’ Fools, or my own favourite, Dig That Uranium. But in 1967 Leo Gorcey had something in common with Laurel and Hardy, Mae West, George Bernard Shaw, Tony Curtis, Karl Marx, Marlon Brando and Shirley Temple. His likeness was one of those chosen to decorate the cover of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the Beatles’ and hence the world’s first concept album (the concept being ‘Let’s get wasted and not bother so much with the concept thing’). But his face was removed before the album went to the presses because Gorcey – get this – thought he should get paid. Now, it’s not as if Ringo and co. were unknowns at the time. This isn’t a story of unrecognised opportunity, like Decca’s legendary rejection of the self-same Beatles on the grounds that guitar music was on the way out. Gorcey couldn’t have known that Sgt Pepper’s would turn out to be probably the most famous and memorable album cover of all time, but … it was the Beatles, for God’s sake! We can only conclude that he wasn’t all that bothered about immortality. Sadly for him, that’s just what he’s earned. The modern sleeve notes for the album include a list of who’s who on the cover. Gorcey’s name is still there, trailed by a smirking asterisk. The footnote, ours to ponder forever and ever and ever, reads ‘Painted out because he requested a fee.’ They’ll still be laughing at him in two hundred years time, the poor bastard. There’s a moral here somewhere, I’m sure of it.

You know those care guides that you see attached to a little stick in the soil of a new house plant? Have you noticed that they’ve gone first person? They used to be nothing more than a stern list of dos and don’ts, written in cold instructionese. Now they read like a lonely hearts ad. ‘I like to be kept out of direct sunlight and to be fed once a week in the summer months. I also enjoy wine-tasting and walks on the beach.’ Presumably, the idea is to give the plant a personality so you’ll feel guilty enough to take care of it. It works, too. I found myself apologising to one the other day and promising that, if it gave me another chance, I’d be more attentive to its needs in future. In fact, I’d like to see this approach extended to other vulnerable products. Clothes labels, for example, are currently all but meaningless. Pictures of dotted irons, circles with a letter P in them, crossed out triangles … How much better if they said things like ‘I like to be washed in water no warmer than 40 degrees and to be carefully ironed, then hung up on a proper wooden hanger. Please don’t boil wash me with the tea towels and then stuff me into a drawer while I’m still damp.’ Is that too much to ask? Cars, too, could benefit. How I wish that mine had come with a sticker saying ‘Please take care of my delicate outer shell. For example, check my rear-view mirror for poles before reversing out of your parking space last Tuesday’.

It’s difficult to argue with the notion that, biologically speaking, females have got the pointy end of the stick. When it comes to reproduction, for example, men have very little to do. And, let’s be honest, that little bit isn’t so terrible. Our role is like that of a politician who smiles and snips the ribbon on a new factory. It’s herself who has to actually work there; every frigging day for nine months. We’re long gone, sipping champers in the back of the limo and telling our driver that speed limits are for the plebs. But at least pregnancy lasts a mere three quarters of a year and ends in the relaxed comfort of childbirth. The awful alternative, the monthly … eh … you know … a woman’s … natural … that lasts for decades. It’s so horrifying a prospect that we don’t even like to think about it, much less call it by its name. We prefer cryptic asides about painters and Arsenal and obscure relatives who’ve just dropped in. If a foolish male dares to engage in the hopeless battle of Who’s Got It Worse?, women have these shiny nuclear missiles to call upon. What have we got? The rusty revolver that is face-shaving. See how useless it is? You can’t even say ‘shaving’ because women shave their legs and pits. You have to be specific. ‘It’s all right for you girls, you don’t have to drag a flippin’ razor over your face every other day, except at weekends.’ As arguments go, it’s like Bill Gates telling you what a pain it is to open the begging letters. Oh well. At least we get to complain about feeling guilty. Even though we don’t. Frankly, we can’t believe our luck.