A team of researchers at the Sun discovered the solution to a problem that has baffled the human race since Eve first commented to Adam that his fig leaf looked a little crinkled.
From the dawning of time, men have been judged on their ironing ability, or lack thereof. (Not that any comments regarding the standard of the wardrobe or post-laundry skills of menfolk in my household would be the subject of criticism from any of the womenfolk. We are talking purely in general terms here.)
There are very few men who have the time, patience or equipment to get a really good pleat in their trousers or a good starching of the collar. Or a good result generally with their laundry.
This is something that the best brains in the world have never quite mastered.
Rutherford was busy working on this when he inadvertently dropped the iron and split an atom. He then decided nuclear science was easier.
I always admire those guys who iron well, but are always a little suspicious at the same time, especially the ones who wear a lot of pink.
And definitely wary of the ones who boast about how well they press around their sequins.
Finally, there’s an answer for those who are so unskilled at ironing (Doctors call this Permanent De-pressed) that they think an iron board is something that really tough guys surf on.
The sort of person who is so hopeless at ironing, they’d rather buy a new shirt than try to flatten creases out of a washed one.
Or the plain ignorant, the sort of guy who asks: “Hey, what is that boat-shaped thing in the laundry with the handle on the top?”
The answer came to the team of researchers (Brian, dog and cat) while watching TV infomercials.
Now this is more of an admission of failure than confessing to the deficiency in Ironing Genetics.
It’s not often that we watch infomercials, but sometimes, it happens accidentally while channel surfing.
This is another genetic inheritance of the red blooded Kiwi male, inflicted from birth.
Only those who can iron clothes (and wear pink shirts with sequins) are born
without the Compulsive Repetitive Remote Operation gene. All boys have it, and only those who are either:
(1) neutered, or
(2) have questionable sexuality preferences can successfully relinquish possession of the remote control. That explains why in the Research Team, there is never any question of the cat or dog attempting to take command, since both fall into Category 1. Although I wonder about Ralph the cat, who sometimes shows signs of Category 2 behaviour, despite no longer having the equipment.
But back to the infomercials. We successfully dodged the scrapbooking, miracle can opener and weren’t sucked in by the scantily-clad posers selling the ab exerciser.
However, the steamy ironing machine, that miraculously vanquishes wrinkles from your clothes while they are hanging had all of us transfixed to the screen.
Here was a gadget that finally did the job of ironing without a board; without having to fiddle around getting everything flat and lined up; and without a bloke having to wear the gingham pinafore with the frilly hem.
It looked all so simple. The operator just swooped over the clothes with the nozzle and the garments were steamed flat in seconds.
Even better, if you called in the next 10 minutes, there was a whole lot of other free stuff, like non-slip coathangers.
And best of all, a skilled operator could iron a shirt without having to put down the TV remote.
It was all too much.
The numbers were dialled and a credit card whipped out of the wallet with such speed, it was smoking around the edges.
There was a slight hiccup, however that all the lines were busy. Incredibly, it was at 6am when you’d think most guys were fast asleep, dreaming about their laundry being handled by nubile Swiss maids; probably the same ones demonstrating the ab machine.
It seemed the phone lines had been overrun by Australians phoning the free number to buy the Nicer Dicer. At four in the morning!
How many Australians would be awake at 4am buying Nicer Dicers from infomercial ads?
I do worry about that country.
Let’s hope they never become a nuclear power.
A few days later, Tobi the ironing machine arrived and there was much fuss in the office.
The womenfolk swarmed over it, but I fought them off bravely.
This is a machine for men, it will change our lives forever and we don’t need to be told how to use it… after all, we’ve seen it on TV.
I expect it will revolutionise my life.
You will be able to tell immediately: my shirts will be pristine, freshly laundered and smooth, the pleats in my flares will be laser-straight and the sequined collars will look as though they’ve been ironed by Julian Clary.
Now I can get rid of the silly boat-shaped thing with the handle, and find a new use for the ironing board.
I’m thinking that with triple fins on the back it would catch a few barrels off Omanu.