Several years ago now I had a very strange dream. That’s not to say that I haven’t had strange dreams since, just that they tend to be more fun than this one was - my subconscious never seems to have made it past the age of nine, so I regularly find myself dreaming about being a member of the A-Team or piloting Airwolf which is great as far as i’m concerned.
This particular dream, however, concerned that most sacred of things - the male personal hygiene routine. Now unlike my brother, who long ago embraced the apparent merits of a multi-product grooming process, I have long fought against this worrying trend because frankly, it seems far more effort than its worth. Whilst I fully appreciate that the cleaning needs of hair (when I had any), face, body and hands may all vary, I refuse to accept that they vary that much that I require multiple bottles of different coloured (and often highly priced) goo to deal with them.
Loreal (and their ilk) may insist that one product contains extracts of some jungle fruit that leads to less facial wrinkles, and that another results in a bright and shiny flowing mane, but quite honestly they are all, at heart, just soap aren’t they? And soap shouldn’t cost five quid a bottle.
Anyway, now that my personal washing manifesto (if its deserving of such a term) has been made clear, you will probably understand why this particular dream was rather mentally disturbing -
because in it my Missus was determined to make me moisturise.
Worse, she conspired with one of my good mates to make me do so.
The dream opened in my apartment, with me trying to watch a film with the Missus. I say trying because she was obviously a girl on a mission…
…a mission to moisturise.
“Look at my hands,” She would say, in the sweet tones of a siren. “Feel them. Aren’t they soft!”
“Yes,” I would reply dutifully. As if i would ever have dared to tell her otherwise.
“Wouldn’t you like your hands to be like this?” She would then continue. Her voice filled with enough honey to make a bee sick.
“No thanks,” I would politely reply, before gently but firmly explaining that, like Maori face tattoos, a man’s hands represent a window on his life - detailing the hardships he has overcome, the trails he has blazed and the cabins he has built with them.
“You live in London,” she would snigger cruelly, “You’ve never even seen a log cabin!”
I’d then blush and sulkily mumble something about helping my dad put a garden shed together once before (as is seemingly acceptable in dreams) the conversation would begin all over again.
After what felt like 50 cycles of this, the doorbell suddenly rang and, grateful for the reprieve from our infinite argument, I went to get it.
“That’ll be Katt and Lenny*,” says the Missus, as I head towards the door, “I invited them over for dinner.”
Now I have to give full credit to my subconscious here, because the version of my apartment it had put together in this dream was incredibly accurate - right down to the inclusion of the “vidiphone” that granted access to the front door of the building.
And my god was I grateful that it did - because, as i picked up the receiver ready to buzz our guests in, I happened to glance at its tiny screen and paused, as my blood ran cold.
There, in Lenny’s hand, was a tub of hand moisturiser.
Dirty. Fucking. Traitor.
“What’s that in your hand?” I said, frostily, into the receiver.
“Oh just some stuff that Katt asked me to bring along after she’d chatted with your Missus on the phone.”
“SWEETIE?! WHAT DID YOU SAY TO KATT ON THE PHONE?!”
“Oh nothing in particular my love, we just talked about various moisturisers and suchlike and she mentioned she had a spare tub of this lovelly one that she got Lenny to use…”
The deviousness spewing forth from her lips was suddenly interrupted by the voice of Lenny through the receiver.
“Err… Mate… You gonna let us in?!”
“I’m not letting you in until you put it down.”
“What down?”
“That fucking tub of moisturiser. I can see it.”
I could hear sudden frantic arguing at the other end of the vidiphone and there was some definite finger waving visible from Katt on the screen.
“Err sorry mate…” Lenny apologetically proclaimed, “But Katt says I’m not allowed.”
“If you value our friendship you will Put. The goddamn motherfucking moisturiser tub. Down.”
“I caaaaaaaaan’t…” came the painful reply “She’ll kill me man, fucking KILL ME. DEAD.”
Before I could reply there was a sudden flash of movement. As fast as lightning and sensing she was on the verge of defeat, the Missus jumped up and bolted past me, flinging open the front door and rushing downstairs to open the building door manually.
“DAMN YOU WOMAN!” I cried, as I frantically tried to shut the door to the apartment, but I couldn’t - for some reason the lock wouldn’t budge (stupid dream).
I pushed it against the frame and braced myself against it, in a frantic effort to prevent the others from entering the apartment. It was a hopeless task - even with God and righteousness on my side I couldn’t keep out all three of them for long, as they pushed strongly against it.
“Let us in sweetie…” came a voice from the other side.
“Fuck off and die, love of my life.” I replied politely.
It was a desperate and unequal fight, and slowly, inevitably the door began to open…
Suddenly, it was pushed back firmly against the frame with a bang. I looked to my left and, with joy and relief saw that Hulk Hogan had joined my struggle. The dream had got surreal - and not a moment too soon!
“HULKAMANIACS NEVER ABANDON THEIR FRIENDS!” He bellowed, putting a shoulder to the door.
“Too fucking right Hulk!” I replied, beaming from ear to ear, “YOU HEAR THAT LENNY! UNLIKE YOU THE HULK KNOWS WHERE ITS AT!”
Suddenly, however, just as I thought the tide had been turned, disaster struck! The girls hadn’t wasted the opportunity the slightly-open door had given them and had smeared moisturiser over the parts of our side of the door that they could reach.
Unable to maintain a grip, the Hulk and I slowly slid down the door. In seconds there was almost room for the invaders to enter, and limbs holding containers of moisturiser were already beginning to emerge around the door.
“It was an honour fighting with you, Hulk.” I said, smiling wanly as we faced our inevitable defeat.
“YOU TOO GARIUS!” said Hogan. “YOU TOO!”
Before I could say anything else I felt a tug on my hand, with horror I looked down to see a blob of moisturiser about to be rubbed into my skin…
…At which point I woke up, my heart beating frantically and sweat pouring off my brow.
I told the Missus about the dream and we laughed. Laughed at both my own silly insecurities and the fact that she didn’t want to change me just as I didn’t want to change her. Oh how we laughed.
So why am I telling you this?
Well because on Friday evening (three years on from this fateful dream) I got home from work, kissed the Missus on the cheek, began to take off my coat…
…and froze.
There on the table was a tube of men’s moisturising handcream.
“Oh!” Said the Missus, sweetly and innocently, “That came free in the post today!”
Did it fuck.
Someone get me the Hulk.
*names changed to protect the innocent