Stand by Your Manhood

MEN ARE BRILLIANT.

Being a man is brilliant. Seriously, it is. Except for penile dysmorphia, circumcision, paying the bill, becoming a weekend father, critics who’ve been hating on us for, well, pretty much fifty years – oh, and those pesky early deaths.

Suicide isn’t much of a laugh either. Nor is paternity
fraud, schools failing boys, military conscription, conception by deception, the criminal sentencing gap, coughing up 70 per cent of income tax, dominating homeless statistics or getting throat cancer from oral sex, which – ironically – is what’s really going down for a new, unassuming generation who still aren’t briefed on life’s nagging bloke truths.

Hence the time is now for a new, improved approach to masculinity.

From our relationships with women to our relations with ourselves, nobody should be more informed on the everyday politics of being men than us. It’s our prerogative.

Yet, despite living in society’s most liberal age, our greatest ever technological era – where ideas, information and the occasional celebrity porn tape can be shared in an instant – tackling the gritty, salty stuff integral to our well-being, not to mention our hair line, remains strictly off-limits. Not because we can’t communicate, but because the truth is inconvenient for everyone else.

Men being honest – really, truly candid about what affects them sexually, financially, legally and psychologically – remains rigidly taboo because it’s the ultimate game-changer.

Funnily enough, that’s precisely why we should embrace it. Like a piñata for the pissed off, we’ve spent
decades being the trendy target in a long line of public floggings. The overrated, unfashionable gender. The one social group it’s politically correct – no, no –
virtuous
to dislike. In fact, man-bashing has become mainstream, so lucrative that people build entire careers on it – which might explain why, for many, it musn’t be ruined with a reality check.

The megalomania of it all recently snowballed to the point of censorship, with the European Union attempting to criminalise any criticism of the sisterhood via the (ironically titled) Statute for Promotion of Tolerance, whilst Facebook already suspends users for the same reason – which, together, isn’t just bonkers, but a bit Putin, too.

Thankfully, there’s light at the end of the tunnel.

When London’s Southbank Centre held the UK’s first ever men’s festival, Being A Man, earlier this year, it was a line in the sand. Putting our issues on the map with a straight-down-the-middle legitimacy, it attracted hundreds of people from all demographics – male, female, young, old, black, white, gay, straight – to chew over the credentials of masculinity in a safe space. Think Radio 4, but with beards and some really trendy brochure artwork.

Topics ranged from friendship – with Billy Bragg and Phill Jupitus detailing the success of their cast-iron, twenty-year kinship – to mental health, fathers and marriage. Even Tony Blair’s former spin doctor, Alastair
Campbell – not to be mistaken for UB40’s Ali Campbell, as one onlooker did – detailed his journey back from alcoholism and depression at a time when men’s self-destruct stats are at a record high.

Aside from being one of the few instances in human history where men, not women, had to queue for the toilets, it also offered another first: men were allowed to dip their toes into feminism – without apology or the fear of being wrestled into a headlock by Germaine Greer. About time, too. By this point we’d been criticised non-stop for about half a century, so were probably due a right to reply. Maybe even a full-scale comeback, like the Union Jack. Years ago, it, like us, was considered a symbol of benevolence and strength, before modern sensitivities made it naff – perhaps even offensive. Although it never changed, attitudes around it did. So when Morrissey took to the stage in 1992 with it draped across his shoulders, the
NME
accused him of being racist; an accusation which, although incorrect, made everyone edgy. Suddenly, people were fine being patriotic, but only sheepishly. They didn’t possess themselves too loudly for fear of being misinterpreted as jingoistic and torn down.

It took the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee in 2012 for everybody to finally relax and discover a renewed comfort level with national pride. The reason? They’d been given permission to.

On some level, Being A Man offered a similar thing. It allowed those wanting to fly the flag of their gender to do so, freely – be it holding doors open, sitting with their legs apart or having a sense of basic worth – without being labelled sexist (or, in the case of
Game of Thrones
actor Richard Madden, threatened with castration).

Although it wasn’t perfect, the festival set us off on the long, hard slog of detoxing masculinity and countering the disconnect between us and everything good. Not only did it offer permission for men to be men, but it was also a commercial success – which pricked ears. Since then, similar events have cropped up in India and the US, where, most recently, hundreds gathered in Detroit for America’s first conference on men and boys.

Of course, some questioned why they were needed at all. Female critics sneered ‘every day is a men’s festival’, whilst a handful of grandstanding guys asked: ‘What’s the point of more pale, stale males getting together and talking about themselves?’ The answer is simple: because, despite 1.9 million years of evolution, we still haven’t
quite
nailed this thing called life.

Even at our best, brilliant people like John Cleese drop the baton – which is disconcerting considering he’s one of our better brand ambassadors. Intelligent, acclaimed and in possession of the super-brain behind
Monty Python,
which might just be the funniest sketch
show ever, he continually buys into marriage despite three failed attempts, including one to Alyce Faye Eichelberger, who got more of his fortune than he did when they split. Still, after paying her off with £600,000 per year for seven years, an £8 million lump sum, an apartment in New York, a £2 million London mews and half a beach house in California, he soon went off and married somebody else – only signing a last-minute pre-nup on the hair-pulling insistence of lawyers.

Some might call this admirable, but there’s nothing romantic about financial ruin.

No less frustrating are the likes of Wimbledon champion Boris Becker, who can ace a sports tournament with ease but can’t appreciate that – as a man, and especially a famous, rich man – he’s a sitting duck for anyone determined to get a baby with a bursary and a lifestyle to boot. Thus, if he’s going to have random sex with an opportunist in a restaurant, he might want to consider the possibility of an ulterior motive, or expect a fax – and a bill – nine months later.

These great men, like millions more, are superlative in countless ways, yet they don’t seem to operate at full-truth level. Instead of seeing their vulnerability in the way everybody else does, which would serve them better, they believe their own hype. They take sexual attention at face value. They see strength manifest in their bodies as biceps,
triceps and abdominals, or as money in their wallets, and think they’re invincible – but they fail to see the personal as political, which means looking at the bigger picture. Joining the dots between individual experience and the larger socio-political structures that bind us.

This, gentlemen, is always the fatal gap in our armour. Not least because women have long been upping their game in this department and their general consensus is that we, as men, deserve bringing down a peg or two.

I once met Caitlin Moran, author of
How To Be a Woman,
during an awards ceremony in London. To her legion of fans she’s the voice of contemporary feminism, only funny. Yet, despite her credentials as one of Britain’s more well-rounded celebrity ‘libbers’, she insisted that all men lead a charmed life compared to women – always – which makes positive discrimination against us forever fair game.

The irony of a millionaire explaining this to a lad from Liverpool was not lost on me.

Then again, had I been told this ten years earlier, I might’ve agreed. After all, that’s all we’re ever told. Now, however – having burned my briefs – I can see that she’s actually only half right. Yes, there are advantages to being male: we can have as much sex as we like without being called slags; we rarely have to worry about being groped on a packed bus or making the Sophie’s Choice between
kid and career. But we also have our own issues of everyday sexism: denied parental rights; left to die years earlier than women (because NHS spending favours them – as we’ll see later); and casually packed off to war like mules. None of this shit is a) power, b) privilege or c) easy.

But if bestselling experts can’t see this, it’s no wonder men who aren’t paid generous sums to discuss gender issues don’t either. Ask any man. Or, rather, ask a woman who lived as a man for eighteen months. American journalist Norah Vincent did exactly that as an elaborate premise for her 2006 book
Self-Made Man.
A bridge between two worlds, it gave a unique insight into our lives – and, to her surprise, the experience was every bit as complex, as difficult and as demanding as being a woman.

Specifically, she said:

If only the world had listened sooner we could’ve saved her a job. But, of course, they didn’t. They never do. It’s almost like the truths of masculinity have become a classified document in recent years – unfit for public consumption. Just like airline companies won’t serve energy-generating food on long flights in case they create restless, demanding passengers, the establishment won’t share the reality of men’s lives: the underbelly of the beer belly.

Instead, they keep us socially sedated with an air-brushed version. Usually one that features a great big pair of tits. Open any bestselling men’s magazine and see for yourself. There’ll be little evidence of the burning issues we face as a gender. You’ll find fast cars, sports stars and women who forgot to get dressed. You’ll learn how to cook a steak, 101 ways to please your girlfriend and what to wear whilst asking your wife’s permission to get the snip. You know, the really important stuff. It might go on to discuss business, killer six-packs or even the gentrification of the denim shirt, but for a new generation of men this is no longer enough. Because although
it’s glossy, it’s exciting and it entertains – often brilliantly – it also keeps us asleep.

Paradoxically, few of us end up living the dream.

Over the past decade, scores of men have realised that the big-breasted nirvana they saw in
FHM
during the 1990s doesn’t really exist. In its place are divorce courts, absent children and prostate trouble. That’s not to say these lads’ mags don’t have their place – they do, because they cheer male sexuality when it’s an easy target – but they still don’t illustrate the light and shade of reality. And, if knowledge is power, then such editorial engineering, no matter how well meaning, leaves us all a bit, well, impotent.

To be fair, it’s partly our own fault. American comedian Bill Burr put it best when he said we don’t want to question our gender roles and our relationships with women because we want to fuck them. And he’s right. That’s why editors talk to our penises, not our brains. However, whilst this approach might get us laid, it’s also getting us shafted. Because every man who isn’t prudent about his life invites misandry (learn this word – it’s the male equivalent of misogyny). Think of it like professional boxing without bobbing and weaving, parrying or being cross-armed in the ring. You’d be performing at a massive disadvantage for no good reason. Yet, as men, we do this all the time in life. And, just like a blind-siding
punch, old age or a credit card bill, misandry creeps up on us. It ends up being the eye-watering family law ruling which forces you to become a second-Sunday father – a McDad – or a gold-digger’s cash-point. These are the truths that are too ugly for handsome magazines. Trust me, I’ve worked on them.

They’re the same truths that newspapers and top-ranking websites frequently avoid reporting in case they upset the establishment – or worse, their female readership. After all, that’d be bad for business. Most newspapers devote entire sections to women and their well-being because they’re the main target of advertising revenue. Men are simply given sports pages and told to be happy.

Journalistically, it’s as if we’re allowed to discuss the heavy-duty issues like war and politics, but not the war and politics of being male. Granted, some might say the reverse – that the very existence of women-specific supplements separates them – but the reality is that there’s little they can’t say in them. No women’s issues are truly off the agenda, with no insult too offensive. Meanwhile, we’re shushed and shamed into compliance. And herein lies our problem: if the women’s movement has freed up women, men need their own equivalent. After centuries of succeeding for the mutual benefit of everyone – a bit of anaesthetic here, a spot of rocket science there
– we’ve spent recent history feeling guilty for it. Instead of having a sense of pride (one that points and laughs when someone says we can’t multi-task or use a washing machine, even though we created the damn thing), we now concern ourselves with appearing asexual, being modest and ‘finishing last’.

This, we are constantly told, is the new formula for being a man. Succeeding to the point of being useful, but not leading. Or, if we do lead, feeling bad for it. Remembering that if we ever do triumph it’s because our achievements are handed to us on a plate, probably at the expense of women, not because we’re skilled and work hard.