Finally; a bit of recognition for us blokes in the Harris jackets with the pens in the top pocket. Until yesterday, I thought my life would pass in a blur of cigarettes and whisky, my value to society known only to the cognoscenti, just like oh, what’s her name?-Princess Margaret! But Mr Gorilla Bananas has set the record straight, and you can like it or lump it but the truth is out there and that’s all that matters.
One tiny fly in the ointment.
Mr Bananas’ correspondents would rather not have sex with engineers.
Who can blame them: I’m repulsed by the idea too, but if I were a lady, I’d rather do it with an engineer than a gynaecologist say, or worse, a lawyer!
Oh – my - God, think on that: a big, hairy-arsed lawyer a-huffing and a-puffing all over you with his chalk stripe trousers neatly folded over the chair.
And if we, the doers and shapers, wear tank tops in the summer, so what?
They wear blue shirts with white collars! I mean, who the hell are they kidding? That is like so Eighties.
That’s the trouble with us engineers, we see things with such clarity, things that ordinary people (no offence) just can’t.