Modern tribes: the manspreader

Poor old Boris, he can look after himself of course, but every time he sits down now there’ll be this pack of demented harpies out with their tape measures to check if he’s taking up too much space, can you imagine if we tried telling them how to sit! You wonder if they’ve ever seen a naked man, if they think that’s manspreading, how do they want us to sit? My theory is their type only goes out with men with miniature gonads or maybe after a few years of misandrist nagging your grapes shrivel up, so when they see a normal guy, sitting in a normal way, resting his massive bollocks the way I am now, all the girls think is, why doesn’t he sit like us? Granted, Philip Hammond sits like a girl, what does that tell you about Theresa May, that she picks a chancellor with micro bollocks? Nothing wrong with that, mind, takes all sorts, but why should Boris have to be body-shamed, just because he’s not been castrated – now I mention it, my pair are a bit squashed, hang on, oof that’s better.

Blatant prejudice, I call it, persecuting well-endowed men when it’s cruelty to innocent genitalia they should be addressing, what kind of normally equipped man fits in an average train seat? But nobody ever shames the women invading your 180 degrees, or glaring at you when you’re just giving Robert – that’s what I call mine – some much-needed lebensraum, same with them grabbing the armrests, have they not noticed that men’s arms are twice the size of theirs?

If there was any decency, women would double up, and we’d get proper spaces, with maybe a soft central area for our equipment, they go on about babies on board, nobody ever asks what it’s like to carry a massive heavy todger around all day, same with breastfeeding. I’d love to get my tackle out right here, give it some air, but it’s one rule for women, another for us, as per, sexism pure and simple, you know what, I’m changing Robert’s name to Boris, mark of respect.