When my boyfriend says ‘any hole’s a goal’, what do you think he really means?
Dear Ms Flaps,
Firstly, thank you for your email. It must’ve taken quite a lot of courage to write to a complete stranger about this, so I commend you on your mad bravado. I’ll try and answer your question using the internet, as publicly as I possibly can.
Your boyfriend, like most men in the British Isles, is obsessed with goals and holes. That’s unsurprising, given that we invented football, the basic rules of which require a man (or several men) to get a ball into a hole. Should they manage that, they can call it a goal, shout ‘GOAL’, and then take their shirts off and hug each other in a way that would be considered inappropriate anywhere outside of a homosexual brothel.
They can get their balls into the hole from any distance they chose, Jane. However, it’s best to do it by lashing out at the ball/s with a steel club, remaining on the green at all times, and shouting ‘FOUR’ once you’ve got them into the air. It doesn’t matter that if there’s one ball in flight or ten. ‘FOUR’ is the word you shout. Any other number would confuse matters.
Now that we’ve established what he might be talking about, let’s apply it to your love life.
Your body is made up of holes. In fact, you are approximately 74 holes of varying sizes knitted together with science in order to create a Jane. In your boyfriend’s eyes, any one of your holes may have goal-like potential, whether it’s the one you keep hidden in the undergrowth, the three either side of your moustache, or even your vagina. To many men, they all look the same (especially when viewed over the length of a football pitch and without spectacles on), and sometimes their penis becomes engorged while they’re trying to work out what they’re looking at. Once that has happened, it’s very hard for them to think of anything other than football. At that point, Jane, any hole does indeed become a goal, and woe betide anyone unprotected who gets in the way.
Thankfully, there are things you can do to ease the situation. You have options, Jane, and you’ll relish them sooner or later.
Firstly, you can ‘lie back and think of England’. In fact, if you’re in the mood, talking about England might even arouse him. Ask him what he thinks about Rooney’s form. Question Cahill’s defensive ability at international level. Offer to role-play as Harry Redknapps.
Secondly, and especially if you’re not in the mood for ‘The Beautiful Game’, you can tell him you’ve had a headache and you’ve washed all your hairs. I don’t know why this stops him thinking about football, but it does. If he complains, show him two yellow cards and a red one. He’ll probably slouch off to his kennel with his tail between his legs, in which case don’t forget to put some food in his bowl and scoop his shit up from the lawn with a plastic bag.
The bad news, Jane, is that there isn’t a third option. This is how British women have dealt with British men for centuries. It’s why it’s sometimes known as ‘a game of two halves’, because the two options are essentially two halves of one of the holes we discussed earlier, all of which are goals.
Do you see, Jane? God have mercy upon you.