Growing Pains of a Hapless Househusband

by Sam Holden

  Of course, I took an instant dislike to Ms Stocks. And she took an instant dislike to me. It was like the first time chalk and cheese had ever met, and they both knew that their differences were going to be the stuff of metaphor. By the end of our half-hour together, I was tempted to find out whether hitmen listed themselves in Yellow Pages.

  The first ten minutes was suitably banal, and I felt at ease plugging the show, and telling her how the childcare programme worked. Of course, had I realised it at the time, I wouldn't have relaxed quite so much, and on reflection, her tactic was to make me drop my guard. The first tricky question was a simple one, but it was loaded with subtext.

  'What I find interesting about all this,' she said, 'is the tacit assumption that men are better at just about everything. Your programme seems to strip away centuries of female-led childcare with a kind of "let the man do it" attitude.'

  'Do you think so?' I replied.

  'I don't know,' she said. 'I was wondering whether you thought it, that's all.'

  'You mean if I think men are better at doing things than women?'

  'Yes. But with regard to childcare.'

  'I don't think we're better, I just think we're different.'

  (So far, so good.)

  'How?' she asked.

  'Well, I think we're different in our approach to childcare in the way that men are different in their approach to lots of things. I think we're much more interested in systems and order than women are. I think we look at a task and try to implement a very logical set of structures in order to complete it. Women, on the other hand, tend to feel their way round a problem, and it's a more instinctive process.'

  'And you think that's the case with the way women raise children?'

  'Generally speaking, yes.'

  (At this point, I knew I was well out of my depth.)

  'So you think women are illogical in the way they handle children?'

  'No. They're just a little more instinctive. It's a question of emphasis, that's all.'

  'But your so-called programme is more than a question of emphasis, isn't it?' she asked. 'I mean, your approach seems to suggest to women, "Come on girls, you've been doing it wrong all this time, here, let a man step in, he'll sort it." '

  I sort of laughed.

  'I don't think that's what I'm saying at all, Ms Stocks.'

  'Really?'

  'Yes. All the Holden Childcare Programme is saying is that there is another way of bringing up children.'

  'A man's way?'

  'My programme could have easily been invented by a woman.'

  'But women are more instinctive, you say. They don't use programmes or systems or logic.'

  'You're somewhat polarising my position. All I said is that it's a question of emphasis.'

  'But there's no way that your programme is just a little bit of emphasis, or a subtle nudge or anything like that. It's a completely revolutionary approach to childcare.'

  'Thank you,' I said. 'I'm glad you think so.'

  'A male approach to childcare.'

  'Not necessarily.'

  'Then why is it called WonderHubby?'

  Again, I sort of laughed – the bitch had me.

  'Well, you know, it's just a nice light-hearted title for the show.'

  'Yes, but it's all about how a man is going into a woman's world and telling her how to do things.'

  'You make it sound like I'm ordering them around.'

  'Well you do, don't you?'

  'Not at all. It's a consultative process. That's the whole point of management consultancy, as I said at the beginning. The word "consult" is absolutely key.'

  'It's a strange kind of consultancy that involves going into people's houses and sticking incomprehensible charts on walls with very long words and then giving them precise instructions about what they should and shouldn't be doing.'

  'Well, obviously for the sake of the show we've had to distil many aspects of the Holden Childcare Programme into a short space of time, so it probably makes me look bossier than I am!'

  'OK,' she said. 'I can see that we're not getting anywhere here. But I would like to ask you this. You say your wife works, is that right?'

  'Quite so.'

  'And that you're a househusband.'

  'That's correct.'

  'Except you're not really, are you? You're making this programme. So what I want to know is this: who looks after your children on a day-to-day basis?'

  Fucking bitch, I thought. Why the hell did she have it in for me so badly? Would anybody actually enjoy listening to these nasty little chippy left-wing questions? Nevertheless, I thought it best to be honest.

  'We have a nanny,' I said.

  'A male nanny?'

  'No, a female nanny.'

  'Why do you have a female nanny?'

  'It's of no consequence whether our nanny is male or female. It just so happens that ours is female. Most are, you know.'

  'I do indeed.'

  I had rather hoped that would be the end of that thread, but it so wasn't.

  'And does your female nanny use the Holden Childcare Programme?'

  I should have seen that one coming a mile off.

  'I'm afraid not,' I said. 'I'm afraid you can't teach an old dog new tricks!'

  Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, I thought.

  'You're calling your nanny an old dog?'

  'No! It's just a figure of speech!'

  'Rather an offensive one, wouldn't you say?'

  I didn't reply.

  'But your "old dog" doesn't use your system?'

  'No.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because she has her own way of doing things.'

  'Ways that you approve of?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'And she's a woman?'

  'Yes.'

  'So a woman's way can be the right way, yes?'

  'Yes of course.'

  'So what's the point of your programme?'

  'As I keep saying, it's a question of emphasis. And besides, people don't have to use my programme. It's just another way of doing things.'

  'So perhaps I should be interviewing your nanny instead of you?'

  'Perhaps you should. But you asked me, didn't you?'

  'We did indeed,' said Ms Stocks, her tone indicating that she wanted to throttle her producer.

  We paused momentarily.

  'Another thing confuses me,' she said.

  'What?' I asked bad-temperedly.

  'You say that you're a househusband, and yet you have made a TV programme. Do you think it's really fair to describe yourself as such?'

  'Yes. If I hadn't been a househusband, then the show would have never come about.'

  'Maybe, but how long were you a househusband for?'

  'It's not a question of "were", I still am.'

  'How can you be if you have a nanny?'

  'The nanny is a temporary measure while I make and promote the show. When this is over, the nanny will go. If I were a cook promoting a cookbook, you wouldn't turn round and say that I was no longer a cook because I wasn't spending every waking hour in the kitchen. It's absurd to suggest otherwise.'

  'Thank you for that,' she replied. 'But let's face facts here. There's no such thing as a househusband. It's just a myth. Aren't the men who describe themselves as househusbands just being ironic, because they either don't need the money, or they've got some lucrative part-time job they can do at home?'

  'Not at all,' I said. 'I've met plenty of househusbands, and they are all genuine.'

  'Genuine?'

  I thought of all those prats I met at the zoo the year before last, when I tried to bond with the 'HouseBands' – Tet and Spilby and all those stupid crusties. The truth was that they were a bunch of arrogant alternative wankers, who were as prescriptive about their lifestyle as they claimed people like me were about mine.

  'Yes, genuine,' I said. 'Most househusbands are the primary carers of their children, and although a few have some part-time work, so do many housewives, a
nd yet they are still described as such.'

  'Do you describe people as housewives?'

  'Yes of course.'

  'And you don't think calling them that is in some way derogatory?'

  'No, it's a statement of fact. And don't give me any politically correct crap that they should be called homemakers.'

  'I wasn't going to.'

  'Good.'

  'I just wondered whether the term "househusband" is in fact offensive to women, more so than housewife.'

  'For heaven's sake, why?'

  'Because the word "househusband" is always used ironically, as if to suggest that the role is some kind of cultural joke or anomaly. While the female equivalent "housewife" is used matter-of-factly, it also carries those same negative connotations, and it will never lose them unless the word "househusband" is used seriously.'

  'Well that sounds like utter bunkum, Miss Stocks.'

  (I used the 'Miss' deliberately, and I could see her seethe.)

  'Hardly the most sophisticated argument, Mr Holden.'

  'Your point of view doesn't require sophistication. You have got it into your fat head that men just spend their time laughing about housewives all day, whereas in fact they don't. Your militancy is just perpetuating a difference that no longer needs to be there.'

  'I'd ask you to retract that I am fat.'

  'I didn't say you were fat.'

  'You said I had a fat head.'

  'Jesus! "Fat head", in case you haven't heard, is another figure of speech that denotes that someone's thinking is somewhat clouded.'

  'So the word "fat" carries a negative connotation?'

  'Of course. What is this? Some kind of mid-1990s campfire debate at a shit American university? I suppose you call yourself "differently sized", whereas in fact you are simply fat.'

  'I find you remarkably offensive.'

  'Well, you are fat, aren't you?'

  In fact, she was probably clinically obese.

  'And even if I were, what would be the problem with that?'

  'Um, where shall I begin? Increased risk of heart disease, increased risk of cancer, increased risk of strokes, excessive pressure on your ligaments and bones – any more you would like me to mention? People like you create an all too literal burden on the health service because you are incapable of self-discipline. As a result of your inability to control yourself, you look for other parts of your life that you can control. With you, I'm afraid it's other people and the way they live their lives.' 'Have you quite finished?'

  'No. I've come on to your programme in a spirit of good will, and all you have done is insult me and make snide remarks. People like you are so out of touch with ordinary people's lives, and yet you are totally unwilling to accept that. You can fuck off back to Greenham Common, frankly.'

  'I think we should end it now.'

  'Why? Have we run out of time?'

  'I'm afraid so, Mr Holden.'

  'Well, it's not live, so why don't we continue?'

  'I'm afraid it is live.'

  'Oh fuck.'

  Friday 8 August

  I can't actually believe that my interview has made the papers, but it has. In a big way. Perhaps it's because it's the silly season and there's bugger all else to write about.

  Page five of the Herald: WONDERHUBBY TELLS SUPERFEMMY TO F.O.!

  Page five of the Bugle : F-WORD WONDERHUBBY SHAME!

  Page eleven of the Clarion: NEW CHILDCARE GURU IN SPAT WITH LEADING FEMINIST

  Page six of the Daily News : WONDERHUBBY SOCKS IT TO JULIA

  Page nine of the Gleaner : F*** OFF TO GREENHAM, SAYS WONDERHUBBY

  'This is all fucking brilliant,' said Dom when he phoned at 8.20 this morning. 'You're a fucking PR genius. Great stunt, mate. Emma didn't tell me you were going to do all that. How sweet of you to keep it a surprise! I'm touched, mate, I really am.'

  'Er, it wasn't exactly planned as such.'

  'What? It was all spur-of-the-moment stuff? You're kidding!'

  'I'm afraid it was.'

  'Doesn't matter. What matters is that we've got the WonderHubby brand out there, all over the place. Red tops and broadsheets. Waldman is going to really dig this, you wait.'

  I did wait, and not for long. Waldman phoned at 8.50.

  'Sam, dig!'

  'Thanks Dave. I was a bit worried . . .'

  'Don't be! Everybody hates that lefty old bitch. You certainly showed her where to stick it. Fuck off to Greenham, brilliant!'

  'Thanks!'

  'However, let's not have too much more of that, OK? I don't want you making a name for yourself as some rude cunt, all right?'

  'I promise not to be a rude cunt.'

  'Dig!'

  And with that, Waldman put the phone down.

  Since then, I've been taking stock. At the beginning of the year, I was just an anonymous bloke living in an anonymous village in an anonymous county who didn't have a job and just looked after the children. Now I'm slowly turning into some sort of media figure, and the TV programme hasn't even aired yet.

  I shared all this with Sally over supper.

  'Please don't let it go to your head,' she said.

  'I'm not. In fact, I'm finding the whole thing rather humbling. More than that, I confess it's a little bit scary.'

  'How?'

  'Because when you become a public figure, you have to give yourself to everybody. And not everybody is going to like you, and they're going to say nasty things. Suddenly you don't have control of your self-image any more, and I find that a little frightening.'

  'But I thought you were desperate to be famous.'

  'I was,' I admitted. 'But now I'm about to become famous, I'm finding it's not quite what I thought it was. You become a cartoon figure, two-dimensional. Like some painting in a gallery that anybody is free to come along and do whatever they like to. They can spray on me, shred me, whatever.'

  'Draw a funny moustache and spectacles on you . . .'

  I laughed.

  'You're right,' I said. 'I'm being a bit too serious.'

  Saturday 9 August

  Normally I wouldn't be at my desk at 11 o'clock on a Saturday morning, but I've just been asked to write an article for the Sunday Advertiser. I've never written an article before, so I'm a bit nervous, especially as the Advertiser is the largest-selling mid-market paper. The article is going to be headlined something like: WHY A MAN'S PLACE IS IN THE HOME. The commissioning editor, some bloke called Toby Andrews, said that I shouldn't worry too much about style etc., as he would probably rewrite the whole thing anyway. Charming. Anyway, as he's paying me £1,500, I'm hardly in a position to complain! They're even going to send a photographer round to take shots of me in the kitchen with the children – great publicity.

  Sunday 10 August

  Lots of calls regarding the article, which was an entire double page. Friends, family, Dom, Dave, you name it. They all seem to love it. Dave sent a text which simply went: U ON A ROLL. DIG! Incidentally, I now know that the correct word to use for an article is 'piece'. And you don't say 'double page'. You say 'spread'. I shall remember this to make myself sound more media savvy over the coming weeks. From now on, my piece will cover a spread. Ooer.

  Wednesday 13 August

  So far – and it's still three and a bit weeks to go until transmission – this week has been nuts. For some reason my piece touched a nerve, and I've had no end of obscure TV and radio programmes ringing me up for interviews. These are the ones in addition to those that Emma has already lined up. Emma said they can't cope with it in-house any more, and they've had to hire a PR firm, who I must see tomorrow for lunch with her, Dom and Dave. And guess where we're going? Of all places, the Clarendon Hotel. The very same place where I fainted the year before last, having stalked my own wife in a fit of jealous rage. It will be nice to associate the place now with something a little more positive.

  Friday 15 August

  Fuck I love my job, if you can strictly speaking call it a job. Yesterday was all about eati
ng well, getting smashed, and not having to pay for it. I can barely remember a thing. What I do recall is that somewhat squarely, I wore a tie. My last visit to the Clarendon involved the management making me wear some sort of 1980s pink monstrosity round my neck, and I wasn't going to have that. Of course, when I rocked up into the dining room this time round, I found that I was the only person wearing one. I looked like an accountant, so I subtly whipped it off, although I later realised that it had been hanging out of my jacket pocket all afternoon, which must have looked as gauche as hell.

  The PR woman was called Laura Raynor, and she knew her stuff. She also looked the business, which I guess is why she is in PR. Married man or not, she could sell me anything. Not only did she look great, she was also bubbly without being idiotic, and sassy without being overly knowing. A rare combination, rare enough for me to look at her left hand to see if she was wearing a wedding ring. (She was.) I hated myself for doing this, felt icky and disloyal, and mentally flagellated myself with a cat-o'nine-tails. (Clearly to have literally done this would have created a scene in the Clarendon that would have surpassed my last visit.)

  The conversation was then basically all about me, which was sort of wonderful really. I remember there being lots of talk about not peaking too early, and how I had already built up a really good brand that we needed to utilise and to build on, and all sorts of stuff like that. To be honest, marketing and PR is totally over my roof, and so I just nodded away inanely, pathetically grateful that I was in this position. I was so grateful I decided that many toasts were in order, and so, every seven or eight minutes, the party had to endure my increasingly bibulous expressions of affection for all the hard work, and 'how great you guys are' etc.

  Thankfully, I stopped just short of embarrassing myself (I think), although there was one awful Freudian moment when I was toasting Dom.

  'I jusht want to shay,' I slurred, 'how NAPPY I am to have Dom as my producer.'

  'Nappy?' went Laura.

  'Nappy?' I went. 'What's a nappy got to do with anything?'

  'Nothing, I hope,' said Laura. 'It's just that you said how "nappy" you were to have Dom as your producer.'