Manliness is next to godliness

The Art of being Manly: The metro-sexual man may be the new well-groomed kid on the block, but I reckon there’s still room for a bit of manliness in modern society.

Some women would like to soften men’s sharp edges. They want them to be more sensitive and understanding, more thoughtful and romantic and they’d happily have us sacrifice the ability to read maps to get there.

“Get in touch with your feminine side,” they say.

“Let’s have a face mask and talk about our feelings.”

But it just so happens that lots of men, and I don’t have to tell you that I’m among them, are proud to be strong and brave, honourable and hairy. We’re men’s men.

We’re the ones who take the bin out, at the third time of asking, and go downstairs at night if a light has been left on, if we really have to.

We’re the ones who laugh at the salad menu in restaurants and order the steak or the mega meat combo challenge. And by god are we going to finish it.

The ‘manly’ like their sport and cars. They drink pints, not bottles.

They sleep naked and consider the wearing of ‘jim-jams’ unthinkable.

When they go to the gym they work the chest and arms and then the arms and chest.

When entering any kind of public toilet, those who are manly do it with confidence and nod, “Alright,” without fear of misunderstanding.

They choose the urinal in the middle, lean back as if that’s necessary to keep their balance and make a “Woe-ahh!” noise before finishing with an exaggerated shake.

You also have to be battle-hardened so a scar or two is essential and it can’t be from when your sister scratched you.

I have a manly nose which isn’t quite as perfect as nature intended but the cricket ball responsible won’t be coming back for more, I’ll tell you that for free.

However manly you are though, it may be that now and again you’re obliged to re-establish your manliness in the eyes of the woman you love.

I had to the other night when my wife went all doey-eyed at the sight of film star Matthew MacConaughy, lounging on a leather couch with his top off in that annoying TV advert for Dolche and Gabbana aftershave.

“Oooh!” she said. “Huh!” I countered. “I’ll knock him out next time I see him.” And I will do. Next time I see him.


Next week… The Art of Waiting