Just a matter of common scents

Hands up all those people who like my new underarm deodorant?

Mmmmm. Nice isn't it?

It is called Wild Rain.

I have no idea why it is called that. Last I noticed, Wild Rain was no more fragrant than steady drizzle. Just wet, and yet this stuff promises to keep you dry.

My last deodorant, part of the same range I think, was called Arctic Ice.
Having never been to either pole, I have no idea if Arctic Ice smells any better than Antarctic Ice but I do sense a meteorological pattern developing with the deodorants my wife buys for me.

Do you think they bunged a bunch of weather forecasters in a room for focus research?

"What does this one remind you of, Mr Forecaster?"

"That? Oh, yuk, it smells like Bad Wind to me."

"Wind? What a good idea. We might give it a twist though and call it Westerly Wind. Or Nor-Nor-East Wind? We don't want people to think we are just making these names up."

What about Bushfire Gust? That is sure to catch on like wildfire.
Or Heavier Than Usual Pollen Count. Sure to spread.

I can imagine a romantic dinner for two.

She: "Ohhhhh, what IS that fragrance are you wearing?

He, adjusting his necktie and speaking in a deep sexy voice: "It's called Small Boat Alert. Do you like it?"

Earlier this year I read a report that men's underarm perspiration might be able to brighten women's moods.

Biologists at the University of Pennsylvania reported that male sweat had beneficial effects on women, helping to reduce stress, inducing relaxation and even affecting menstrual cycles.

Whoa, I thought. They probably gleaned this information from the study of lady mice. I have this thing about research involving mice. It is probably because I resent being constantly told what is good for rodents will probably be good for me too.

But my friend Orville, who has a very scientific mind and a lot of common sense, pointed out that mice have very minimal sweat glands and, besides, it was very hard to administer underarm deodorants to them.

He said the researchers had collected samples from the underarms of actual men who had refrained from using deodorant for four weeks.

The extracts were then blended with another scent (my guess is it was Small Boat Weather Alertto put them off the scent, as it were) and applied to the upper lips of 18 actual women, very possibly weather girls, aged 25 to 44.


If this is the case, why do we need deodorant at all?

The world would surely be a nicer place if we sweaty males were allowed to have a constant calming effect on our womenfolk.

She: "Ohhhhh, what IS that fragrance are you wearing?

He: "It's called B.O. Do you like it?"

©John Martin. All Rights Reserved

Speaking of B.O, perhaps you’re interested in more B.S.?

Between the crocodiles, the politicians, a bunch of accidental asylum seekers and the smoke grenades, my novel, Major BS: A Top-Secret Mission, is seriously funny. Or funnily serious.

If you don't want to spend a cent, no worries.  There are hundreds more free columns on this site, as well as a blog, for your amusement. Stay and explore.

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But if you can spare a shekel for an old leper  (though I'm no longer contagious, honest), I'll let you in on Major BS's secret.

The book is set in Australia but some of the main players are expats and the story is rooted in an orphanage in south London. 

Follow some idiosyncratic characters trying to thrive in a world beset with its environmental and societal issues. 

The most over-the-top of all is Major Jeremy Billycock-Smythe, who is a former British soldier, failed mercenary and bumbling adventure tour operator ("oh, do call me Major BS, old boy") who puts his business interests on hold in a bid to save his wife's historic Australian homestead Rowbottom. 

Along the way, he is recruited to carry out a top-secret government mission. 

What happens? 

Well, we can't give that away. Not to just anyone anyway. 
Unfortunately, unless you have a top-level security clearance, it says on the back cover of the book you can't read what's inside. Though come to think of it, perhaps that is just satire. BS perhaps.

Buy it


DISCLAIMER: This site has nothing at all to do with www.dunny.com.au so if you came here by accident, now's a good time to go there. I flog a shithouse novel. I imagine they flog novel shithouses.




0© John Martin