Winter! What a kak season? The birds fuck off, the leaves commit mass suicide, you wake up when it’s dark and go home when it’s darker. Okay, you can sip Gluhwein while getting cosy with the missus by the fire, but it still bites. And by bites I’m talking about the wind chill factor that seems to freeze dry your hands and turn your lips into those of a four-week-old cadaver on CSI. I’m talking about some vile git sniffling and sneezing all day in the next cubicle at work. I’m talking about skin more leathery than Gandhi’s flipflops and a goon satchel trying desperately to crawl up your arse for some warmth.

But above all this I’m talking about a severe drought of lady flesh. Winter! That cruel twist of the planet’s axial rotation that causes women to discontinue the shaving of their legs and gaggle on about the latest silk scarves. They start talking about ‘layering’ and make getting to second base tougher than Edmund Hillary’s worst nightmare. Pantyhose? I mean pantyhose? What sick bastard invented those? By the time you get off her jeans (yup, they even wear them under jeans in winter) you reckon you’re one slip of a g-string away from heaven, but no. And don’t go getting a run in them cos of your haste buddy! “That’s my last pair!” she’ll shriek as your chances of nookie disappear faster than democracy in Zimbabwe. But, if you do manage to successfully navigate your way past the Velcro, the buttons, the zips, the pullovers, the not-so-bloody sexy thermal underwear, then forget about leaving the lights on. Once you get all that crap off, she leaps under the covers faster than a virgin on Matric Dance night. But wait, just like a fucking Bioslim ad… there’s more. You reach out desperately in an attempt to caress the porcelain skin that you have just spent the better part of 2 hours trying to free, yet she recoils at your frozen mitts, hissing that you are not touching her at all until those babies are warmed up. What follows is another 15 minutes or so of passion murder, while you stick your hands under your arse and will them a few degrees warmer.

S.A.D. It stands for Seasonal Affective Disorder. Now the scientists reckon it’s depression in the winter months caused by the lack of daylight hours and synthesizing Vitamin D and melanin production and all that crap. But, Einstein, it don’t take no genius to figure out that the male of the species is simply pining for a glimpse at an ankle, let alone Wonderbra-enhanced cleavage.

Come on summer! They hit the gym again and shed those comfortable kilograms they picked up in winter when we couldn’t tell if they had the body of Heidi Klum or the Michelin man under all that clothing. They hop into tan cans creating acres of bronzed female skin. And then they slip into bikinis and parade around in all their God-given glory.

Summer! Men everywhere worship it. Feet, ankles, calves, thighs, pert bottoms in bikinis, smooth stomachs with belly rings, chest to neck cleavage, those sexy dimples on her lower back, necks, shoulders, golden-haired arms. Acres and acres of female flesh!

And if this isn’t enough, we have parties in summer. Millions of 'em. What is a weekend without at least one braai by the pool? Booze, bikinis and braais. Clubs and parties seething with halternecks, bikini tops, skirts no bigger than a man’s belt - also known as fanny pelmets. It’s a veritable fleshfest! A golden-paved afterlife has no small job to impress after your typical summer in South Africa.

So, to all the girls out there, we salute you. We salute you and we go down on our knees in simpering gratitude. Thank you! We understand that it’s winter’s fault, and we thank you deeply for more than making up for it in summer.