Who’s the Daddy? - Boys will be boys

AS a father of two daughters I think I’m qualified to make this statement – compared to the gentle femininity of raising girls, bringing up boys is like hand-rearing safari park chimps.

When our daughters fight they cut to the marrow with acidic put-downs that enforce their status in the domestic pecking order – when my sister’s two young lads fight one punches the other in the balls and runs off laughing.

We had the pleasure of their company for a few hours last weekend and deep down they are nice lads.

I never noticed it until my wife pointed it out but boys in general very rarely call each other by name when they talk to each other, whereas that’s how our girls start more or less everything they say.

To be honest, the casual nature of the violence shocked me.

They traded punches and kicks like they were having a conversation with their fists and feet – but 30 seconds after the punch-up everything was forgiven and forgotten and it was like the fight had never happened.

When girls fight it gets more personal, is far whinier, goes on for much, much longer and their wars are governed by a set of rules which are unfathomable to most simple-minded males.

All we want is our dinner and a bit of peace and quiet – and maybe 15 minutes of Sky Sports News.

What do girls want?

Answers on the back of a postcard to the usual address.

On the way home my sister’s five-year-old entertained everyone in the car with his latest party piece which fascinated and horrified our girls in equal measure – he’s taught himself to burp the alphabet and loudly belched his way from A right through to Z to generous applause and revulsion. You don’t see that on Sesame Street.

After spending a few hours in their company I came to this conclusion – young lads would make ideal pets, if they were better house-trained and didn’t make as much noise.

Put it this way, I’d happily exchange them for our girls’ two cats who continue to disgrace themselves at every turn.

The chunkier of our feline brothers has a little black dot on his white chin that looks like a toothbrush moustache and has therefore been given the nickname “Kitler”.

His latest trick is to stand with his back to the wall, waggle his tail like a cobra about to strike and squirt what our kids call “bum juice” over anything that he likes the look of.

Unluckily for him he decided to mark his territory over the fireplace in our living room one night last week while looking me straight in the eye and he was almost killed – in fact he would be dead now if I had got my hands on him but cats are nothing if not fast and agile and he legged it to safety before I could pull him apart like Blu-Tack.

His slimmer and altogether nicer brother is a world-class mouser and regularly dismembers screeching furry animals and birds in our back garden for a watching audience of our repulsed daughters and their terrified friends.