Ironing Trousers

I have just been trying my skill at trouser ironing.  Taking three pairs of trousers, a quarter bottle or rum and a three quarter bottle of diet coke I set about it.  It's not the easiest thing in the world to iron.  But it certainly is a lot cheaper than getting professional pressing.  I also tried this a couple of weeks ago, but then I didn't have the aid of rum and coke.  Don't forget the ice.  An essential.  Oh yes and a little entertainment with help from the world service and continuous updates of the situation in Libya.  I must admit to being a news freak in this respect and eagerly eat up any bit of news there is.  First thing was, filling up the iron with water and plugging it in.  No first thing was checking out as many videos of trouser ironing I could find on YouTube.  There wasn't many.  In fact I thought if I can get the hang of trouser ironing I could do my own video of it.  But I'm beginning to think, ironing is a hell of a lot more difficult than one would think.  A bit like playing golf, or even just being able to hit a golf ball.  You sit there watching it on TV, slagging it off as a ponce's game and then find, just as you put down a golf ball and hit the bloody thing you look like a complete twat as nearly falling over.  I know, I have.  If Sparkling sees me because I've managed to twist her arm to come along she sits there in laugher.  I'm sure any woman who saw me with an iron and trousers this evening would also of been sitting there laughing.  But it's not right.  Ironing shouldn't be a gender related task.  It should be something everybody does.  I'm quite convinced now it is one of those useful tasks which they never tell you at school but would be a hell of a lot more useful than an 'O' level in geography.  Where I learnt geography was more about volcano's than it was about countries on the world map.  It should of been called geology, rather than geography.  Unlike ironing.  Which is definitely ironing and nothing else by any other name.  I will confess to one thing.  When I began the 4th rum and coke, whether the crease is in the right place just didn't seem to matter so much.  At least two of my three pairs of trousers now have train tracks where there was once a single line.  Not a single crisp line, because they needed an iron in the first place.  The train tracks happened after I got my hand on the iron.  Well, so what.  It's not the end of the world and I'll be sitting on my fat backside most of the time.  Viva le iron, viva life.  Love ya baby x x x