Come on men, stop being tools.

Once whilst taking an order at a table I had a gentleman tell me not to take any heed of his wife as she was on her moons. I have always considered this to be one of the crudest things I'd ever heard from the mouth of a guest particularly given the situation - a family of four, two children under the age of ten, out for Sunday lunch. It would have mattered not a jot if the restaurant had been empty save for them but the fact that the tables to the left and right were occupied seem to make his ghastly remark even more hideous. If she hadn't cut him right down there and then I think I would have. Thankfully her cutting words saved us from ever having to find out if I was man enough to deal with him.

That was many moons years ago and very little has even come close to matching its crudeness. To take something as private, as intimate, as your wife's menstrual cycle and turn it into a snide joke for the amusement of nobody but yourself is pretty cheap and extremely nasty. You see, he made the fatal assessment that as a chap I too would share in his male, all boys together, bonhomie. Women, ha, and their funny ways. The tool.

This story came flushing back into my memory the other evening.

I had just seated a charming woman who eschewed the offer of a drink as she was waiting for her husband to arrive which he duly did a few minutes later. He was a large man and waddled more than he walked. To be exact he was a cartoon character missing a sidekick and a theme tune what with his comedy walk, rosy cheeks and catchphrase of "Unerd percent".

I didn't not like him, well not at first. He was the sort of chap that could be amusing in small, well contained doses, good for amusing soundbites or occasional anecdotes but if you were trapped on the train with him on a long journey you'd probably have to fake your own death to save your sanity.

He ordered first despite my having addressed his wife first. Classy guy.

"Thank you sir"

"Unerd percent"

Tool.

I turned, back, to her, "And madam, what will you have?"

Before she could as much as open her mouth Cartman stepped in with a comment almost as crass as the other chap's.

"Naw...", says he trying to contain the laughter "...she'll just be having the soup."

I looked  back to the woman to confirm this. She nodded, looked a wee bit sad and handed me back the menu. I turned to get the menu back of Lardo which he held is his sweaty, clammy grip and as he reached it to me, sweat dripping from his head (I mused that this was the closest he'd been to an aerobic workout in quite some time) he followed up with, "Well she got the gastric band fitted, now she can't eat." And with that he fell about laughing.

The tool.

She looked as angry as she did embarrassed. I felt for her.

Again people with the private and intimate details that neither I nor anyone else need to know. Such things are like an Adam Sandler compilation DVD - not funny and not for sharing.

Come on men, stop being tools.