My Mum has always told me never to judge other people’s relationships by the standards of my own, because people always negotiate their own compromises, and they are never the same as yours.

I know this is pretty obvious, but when you actually look at it some of the balances we strike amongst ourselves are quite amazing, and some of them really quite funny.

I remember Mrs. Toad’s brother bristling rather considerably when I, unthinkingly, called her a ‘minging bitch’ in the house once.  That’s something we have both been known to call one another, and there’s a reason it isn’t offensive: our previous cleaning lady’s ex girlfriend was a complete hygiene freak, to the point of OCD, and she rather venomously referred to her ex as a ‘minging bitch’ because she was so unclean.  Mrs. Toad and I found this so funny that it’s been a part of our vocabulary ever since, and we’re so used to it now that we forgot how it might sound to other people.

My brother and his missus were visiting once when she snarled at him for being an idiot.  As his elder brother my hackles instantly went up – how dare she speak to him like that, dammit, if she wasn’t going to be respectful then she could bloody well piss off.  That is exactly what went through my head; and this from the man who calls his wife a minging bitch with careless abandon.

In fact Mrs. Toad and I are known to mix in ‘stupid fucking whore’ and various other colouful epithets amongst the more traditional pet names for one another – it’s just part of how we are, for some reason.  Really, though, you’d think that kind of behaviour would be totally unacceptable and when you look at it in isolation it’s ridiculous that it’s not only normal for us, but actually affectionate.  Yet I doubt that anyone who knows us would suggest for a second that we don’t adore each other or that there was even the tiniest lack of respect in our relationship.

So I guess I kind of have to remind myself of this every once in a while when we’re in the pub and I see people behaving towards one another in ways which makes my skin crawl or my lip curl.  Basically, if I wasn’t actually in my own relationship, I’d think it was a disaster – an abusive disaster, probably.  You never know what someone wants from another person, I guess, or what strange things counterbalance other things to create relationships in some kind of equilibrium.

Sorry, this wasn’t meant to be a profound post, nor anything other than obvious.  It just occurred to me again the other day just how awful Mrs. Toad and I can seem to be to one another, and yet how affectionate we think we’re being at the time.  And it made me laugh, so there you go.

Mrs. Toad is home, everyone! She’s been off in God Bless America all week and as much as she’s a moaning, high-maintenance, half-arsed, troublesome, bad-tempered pain in the backside, I really hate it when she’s away.

It seems like a good idea in principle, I get some time with no hassle, I get to play Championship Manager, edit video, eat pickles out of the jar and all the good things in life. But the thing is, hanging around with my midget companion is the greatest fucking joy in my life. She’s stroppy, she’s rude, she’s annoying, and she’s mine.  I am never so happy as when we are pottering around together – everyday banality was never so magical.

You just know when everything is right, and ever since we met I have been completely certain that this was as good as it was ever going to get, and I was right. For such a half-arsed, undomesticated lass she is oddly protective of me, and when she is gone – which she frequently is for work reasons – I’ll be honest with you, life is shit.

There’s just something drab and boring about the world when my midget companion isn’t here. She doesn’t do much, but she makes me happy, and every time she goes away I am just waiting for her to return. I am not me without her. So I sit around, I work, I faff, I wait. And then she’s home and suddenly everything’s fine again. She’s my girl, and I miss her like hell, and when she comes back it is a massive relief. Things are right again. My girl is home. That is all.

Billy Bragg – Wishing the Days Away (Alternate Version)
Elbow – Fugitive Motel

I just do not understand blokes. Last night in the pub, I was having a nice quiet chat with Mrs. Toad and Alex Cornish, and this chap who was sitting at the bar turned around and started swearing at her. More to the point, given Mrs. Toad was bemoaning her recently-disclosed Irish ancestry, he started swearing at her. After a bit I inevitably did the protective male thing and told him to shut the fuck up and not to speak to her like that again, that we were sorry if we offended him, hadn’t intended to do so and apologised if we had, but that he was out of line and should shut his trap. Firm and to the point, with a little bit of macho bluster, I think you’d describe it.

Anyway, he continued to scowl at us and on two more occasions tried to spark something off again, although with me this time. It was all very typical ‘Do you want to take this outside’ versus ‘No, not really, but if you’re really feeling confident come over here and have a go and stop fucking talking about it’ sort of stuff. It was infantile, but what the fuck do you do in such situations, back down and apologise?

Anyway, after the latest bout of ‘my dad could take your dad’ bollocks he buggered off to the toilet and then, when he came back, made a not entirely unfriendly comment about the fact that Mrs. Toad had The Sun open on the bar next to her. From this, he sort of started talking to us and quickly became incredibly friendly. I don’t think Alex or Mrs. Toad were all that keen on fisticuffs to begin with, and I certainly had no real desire for a punch-up so we pretty much reciprocated and ended up talking to the guy for a couple of hours.

He was a decent enough bloke, under all the nonsense. An English teacher with a real passion for literature, particularly American, and particularly their simple, economical novellas. I thought he was going to hug me when I asked if he liked Paul Auster. By the end of the evening when he went home because he had to be up early for school it was as if we were all the best of friends.

Fucking bizarre. And the weird thing is that this sort of thing has happened to me on numerous occasions – picking fights with opposing players on the football pitch, nose to nose shouting matches with kitchen porters in the Glasgow Hilton who just got out of fucking Barlinnie earlier that afternoon, pissing contests with alpha male cool types during my uni years – it seems to be an established way for blokes to make friends. As Mrs. Toad said, had that happened between two women there would have been a long and simmering grudge that both of them would have happily waited years to settle. With blokes, if I see that bloke the next time I’m in the same pub, I guess we’ll share a few pints as if nothing ever happened.

What the fuck is going on there? Attempted bullying? PIssing contest? Emotional retardation trying to reach out and make friends, just going about it in a strange way? I fucking do not understand male bonding, I really don’t.

Alex Cornish – Scotland the Brave
Art Brut – Fight!

“Oh, you were finished. Well then, allow me to retort.”

[Yes folks, it's Mrs. Toad. Apparently my ramble about Toploader didn't go down all that well in certain circles. She's not disputing the Toploader hatred of course, that would be divorceable.]

Having been affronted by the accusation that a person in position of a fanny (thats erm.. snatch or mimsy to Americans and front bottom to weirdos) must be in want of a Toploader album, I come to redress the gender balance.

Yes, women lose the musical plot when confronted with flashing lights, a pile of handbags and a gullet full of Lambrini but that is nothing, nothing to what happens to a man, sober and in posession of a car.

I present in evidence a sample from the playlist of Top Gear Anthems. More Than a Feeling by Boston, Turn it On Again by Genesis, Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf. Yes, faced with the prospect of an afternoons driving, the average middle aged, middle class bloke celebrates the freedom of the open road by listening to pisspoor stadium rock. Driving holiday through the Alps? Perhaps a little Whitesnake to get those hairpin bends flowing. A long night motoring across country? Kick back with a spot of Steppenwolf.

Now, most blokes would agree that the Top Gear crew are a Great Bunch Of Lads but inclined to take the piss. Perhaps a more reliable source? The “Original Rock Driving Album” fails to support the case for the defence weighing in with luminaries of the piss poor such as Simple Minds, Bryan Ferry and Pat Benatar. Enough indeed to support the fact that a large part of the adult male population is driving around their Vauxhall Vectras tapping out Phill Collins drumbeats on the steering wheel and wishing that they had the balls (and hair) to sport Joey Tempest perms instead of a combover.

Psshaw, you say, that’s not me, thats guys my dad’s age! Yeah, true. That’s because blokes your age are driving lowered suspension Nissan Micras round town all night (with green neon trim, ooo-er!), sitting practically on the back seat so they can pretend they are in a race car. The Burberry cap is akimbo, the Elizabeth Duke bling is shining and the spliffs are go. The 200 decibel refrain of “Dubbishdubbish tink tink Dubbishdubbish tink tink awahuh awahuh” rents the night like a cut price jump jet as these cretins rev their 1.1 litre engines and conduct abortively unimpressive wheelspin starts from traffic lights. Fuck me, Lewis Hamilton must be jealous.

Now thats two extreme examples, simple stereotypes you say. Well fine, lets have the more middle of the road guy, maybe had a good year last year, bought a little Boxster with future dreams of a 911 or perhaps a BMW Z4. He likes to drive around with his lady, top down, nice sweater tied around his neck THAT way, maybe some driving shoes and god forbid.. gloves. Whats this with it cat likely to play? Hmmmm, yep Jamiroquai, Chris Rea and maybe rock out a bit… Stereophonics? You know this guy because he has probably brake tested you when he fucks up, driven up your backside flashing his lights and undertaken your ass on the motorway. He’s a cunt.

The ONLY men who listen to good music in cars, have shit cars. This is less observation than a law of nature. The minute a man shows any interest in cars or driving for drivings sake he is doomed to musical cuntery (Mr Toad would like to intercede to say he has a good car therefore this is bollocks. He doesn’t, its a 35year old Volvo with no stereo and a leaky fuel tank. I rest my case)

And these car guys are on their own, they have no-one egging them on, they aren’t pretending to enjoy themselves as many a woman bobbing along to Toploader is. There is no peer pressure. They wake up and go to sleep twats with bad music taste and theres lots of them out there, driving around. Its enough to make you wish Woolies sold RPGs.

At least when I and other women wake up hungover after having sullied ourselves by being on a dance floor when Toploader came on, we feel guilt and self loathing. These guys just get in the car and crank up the shitty tunes again, be it Billy Idol, Billy Ocean or Carl Cox.

So fuck you boys, I’d rather have Toploader pished than K-Tel sober.

Chris Rea – The Road To Hell
Retort for the boys: The Wedding Present – Drive

This evening is my last show of the term on Fresh Air, and I’ve managed to persuade Mrs. Toad to join in with me. So we will be co-presenting a selection of choices, mostly by her, from 8.30pm-10pm (BST). I haven’t managed to get myself thrown off the station by myself, so let’s see if my little nightmare can do it for me, eh?

Here, in no particular order, are a couple of songs that, althought they aren’t on the playlist, give a flavour of what might be. To listen to the show itself, just go to freshair.org.uk and click on the big green Listen Live button on the right hand side. Easy peasy!

Me First & the Gimme Gimmes – Rocket Man
The Clash – I’m So Bored With the USA
Dolly Parton – 9 to 5 (Don’t ask!)

Yes, my darling Mrs. Toad, the acid-tongued misanthropic centre of my world, has put in a bit of an appearance on The Waiting Room this week. Needless to say we consequently had far too much fun, talked far too much and DC had to take the shears to our segment to make the whole thing fit. No discipline, these new UGC stars, honestly. It’s all covers in this week’s episode, and we put that splendid Richard Godwin in there, some William Shatner and a hillbilly reworking of Snoop Dogg’s Gin & Juice. Splendid!

The Waiting Room – Drunk Covers – Wednesday 23rd April 2008

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Anyhow, as there was no time to throw in half the covers I know, I thought I’d post a couple here just for fun. Generally I refuse to post covers on this site because, for all many people do it with total sincerity, there is a distinct whiff of hit-whoring about it – sort of like constantly posting fucking Hot Chip and Radiohead remixes. Anyhow, time for a bit of an exception because I have three very good Divine Comedy covers, to go with the one we played in the show itself. I know The Divine Comedy have been both piss-poor and hopelessly unfashionable for quite some time now, but their early stuff was brilliant, and even now ol’ Mr. Hannon still produces the odd gem from time to time.

The Divine Comedy – Famous (The Magnetic Fields)
The Divine Comedy – Oh Yeah (Bryan Ferry)
The Divine Comedy – Radioactivty (Kraftwerk)

What sort of woman does this? A scarlet, wicked, naughty, and downright slippery one, that’s what sort. Fucking scandalous behaviour!

[Edit: the link appears to have been taken down.  She was asking her Guardian Talk Board mates to all go and download the Mrs. Toadcast so that hers could outstrip all my other ones in terms of popularity.  The bitch.]

Radiohead – Electioneering