Sorry Luv, but It is a man's world

As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.
E.H.

Marriage is a series of compromises, it is often said. This sage advice is most helpfully given at weddings by which time it is too late and serves only as an omen for the future. The more recently married man will chuckle this advice to the recently initiated, as though it really isn't so bad, and sometimes the little things don't amount to anything, even though he now sleeps under a pink floral bedspread at night, it does at least smell nice. Married men of many a year, grizzled veterans of the deadly conflict of marriage will growl this advice to you as though it means in the absolute biblical sense, the end of days as you know it. Again rather unhelpful at the wedding stage. 

Last night I found myself rather comfortably reposed in a bath drawn by my infinitely more worthwhile half. Why I was clutching a bottle of Green Tea shower gel in my hand I was unsure. It even had moisturiser in it. Not that I have anything against green tea or moisturisers or in any other combination, it was just something I would never have considered buying or using unless there was nothing else to use after Windolene. I like my bar of soap. It may just be me and five other gentlemen in some forgotten Welsh valley that still like to use soap in its clearly dated compact bar form. I wondered how it had come to this. I liked the smell but it didn't seem a scent I should have. Change is always more stiffly resisted in the beginning. I like my soap white, hard, slightly caustic and it should sting one's eyes. Steve McQueen used a bar of soap for heaven's sake. 

A bar of soap (for those unaware)

My soap went the path of most unwanted items by my wife, in the bin. As I sat there glumly sniffing the shower gel but reluctantly enjoying how smooth it felt on my skin, I remembered a vague discussion about bits of soap, something of a mess and me agreeing to not leave a mess. Of course I wanted to seem reasonable and so now I smelt of a tea of sorts. Despite the new fragrantly smoother me I felt a small sense of loss. Perhaps it wasn't the soap. 

It is also said over a drink, once more unhelpfully at social gatherings, usually several years post the wedding that a compromise is where two people don't get what they want. That is essentially untrue as there is always a tipping point in interactions where favour is leant more towards one party. It is never fifty-fifty and the law of averages has absolutely nothing to do with the outcome and even less so if you are a man. Any compromise I feel I have won, I am quite sure it was a tactical loss on the part of my wife and the object of said compromise was a puny pawn sacrificed for some ultimate check-mate of which I haven't an inkling of the very nature thereof. Perhaps it is a floral bedspread. 

To be honest though most men's decisions without the compromise or advice sought of a women are ill-thought out anyway. The last time a man made entirely their own decision, Poland was advised that bratwurst would henceforth be on the menu and well,  Putin is having a rather good year it seems. Never mind his little annexation, it is the bare-chested man-boob on a horse photo that is clear evidence is that he is in dire need of a female guiding hand. He is sucking in his gut so hard his left pectoral is in a state of semi-permanent spasm. Who else other than his all-male Kremlin think-tank think he is the man? 

One, two, three...hold your breath!

Or maybe Old Spice is really to blame for all this

Compromise is the mark of civility. It doesn't hep that the compromise decisions are fluffed up orders from someone infinitely more attractive and nicer smelling that you. Biologically, we don't stand a chance. You just will never know it until it is too late, and by then you probably don't mind anyway. 

Frankly my dear, I give too much of a damn

Guidance or compromise, however you wish to call it, does a man changeth as so it is writ on a wall somewhere, and usually it is for the better. Still, the quiet exit of my soap seems to mirror a larger change in the world of man. Remember the word metro-sexual? If you do, it sets you quite definitely within a certain age bracket. If you haven't you are either old enough to still shun the world of fragrant shower gels, or young enough to be one - you just don't know it. Men initially scoffed at the term 'metro-sexual', defining a male that took undue care and attention to their appearance. Then the word fell out of usage and became the norm which is probably why you are wondering whether a metro-sexual is someone that enjoys riding the metro more than most. The problem is men desire to be desired. Not much wrong there, it is how we were programmed and it has done us rather well up to now, but perhaps we are going too far?

I read about a worryingly new fashion trend. Male leggings. 'Meggings' are about to become main stream, possibly. Firstly, why on earth are they called meggings? What is wrong with leggings, other than obviously they ought not to be worn by men? But besides that, calling them meggings does not make them any more acceptable. By that reasoning, should all male goods start with an 'M'? Marley Davidson and for the ladies a Farley Davidson. But back to the meggings...where is the self-respect? 

Not even little aeroplanes can save you...

The Hipster Beard seems rampant at the moment, and really I think it is quite good and a throw back to when the world was quite exciting. Kind of the sort of look of someone about to walk to the North Pole or disappear into some wild hinterland. So much so that I would like to grow one, but due to an over abundance of grey hair I think I have missed the boat. All I might end up looking like is a rugged Colonel Sanders or Father Christmas.

But the man look is only from the neck up. Man-scaping also seems to have become normal. The Hipster Beard may very well be the last hurrah for Mandom, although I fear it too will no longer smell of smoke and fried whale fat the way a good explorer's beard ought to, but will be silky soft and smell of rosemary and some type of fragrant tea.

  

Below the collar has become a rampantly profitably marketing area. I base this on no evidence other than a very confusing encounter with a dizzying array of electric shavers on a recent trip to the store. All I wanted was a regular electric shaver. I was faced with a range that was available for lengths and usages in areas I was not aware needed strimming. It is not often that the men's section is larger than the women's. In terms of female grooming appliances, all the women seemed to have were epilators designed by some former East German shotput hurling female scientist. Waxing strips and some sort of nuclear dissolving creams are really the only other options available. The options for women would have made Stalin proud. 

We men on the other hand have any range of instrument desired to fulfil whatever exciting topiary dreams we may harbour. Odd. I have not seen the inside of a gym locker room in years, so my research is really not that extensive. But I do know several swimmers and triathletes that have made me look like the missing link with bits of dead animal glued to my chest and er..other regions beyond the elasticated snatch of a Speedo. 

If you really want to see how far men have gone... #cockinasock. You may not be the same afterwards. In a new trend to promote awareness of testicular cancer, men are quite literally almost showing you what matters most to them. Men now drape themselves in a member covering sock and... that's about all there is to it. The Spectator has called the digital-age male, and I agree, a pathetic creature and this latest idea is nothing more than exhibitionism wrapped up as charity. What would Steve McQueen do? Probably pour a stiff whisky for charity and jump over a barbed wire fence on a motorbike. Dong in a sock, I don't think so. 

  

Where #unmentionableinasock differs from Movember's hairy top lip is that there really is no hair at all to be mocked at. Below the belt territory now has the minimalist aura of pre-puberty. Nevertheless, I am a generation too old to understand and then one does what the dating pool does and since the whims of conformity no longer apply, my chestnuts can remain the way evolution intended. 

I shave therefore I am...a man

Hairlessness doesn't always denote narcissism. For many years as a cyclist I shaved my legs. I was under no illusion of any time savings, or whether it would be a whole lot easier to clean road rash if all those unsightly hairs were nicked away beforehand. You do it because everyone else does it. Peer pressure or herd mentality you may want to call it if you feel uncharitable towards the practice. It is a I am part of the club announcement. And if you think that is just narcissistic exhibitionism put a sock on it. The longer you are a road cyclist the further down a very dark path do you go. Cycling really is quite a strange sport in that despite its tough no nonsense blue collar origins, appearance is taken care as fastidiously of one's equipment. The devil lies in the detail. Small things begin to matter, whether your bar tape and saddle colours match, do the spoke nipples accentuate some other part of your bike? You may think that none of this matters but it does. When all the little things in you and your bikes appearance do not add up you are a leper. This growing awareness of the details is a sort of apprenticeship to the sport. It is not something quickly picked up. It is a schooling that happens over many many group rides. It has its benefits too, as they are an outward sign to other cyclists of your dedication and indirectly of your ability. I would avoid riding behind anyone with hairy legs because it was a sign that they didn't spend enough time riding a bike and if they didn't spend enough time riding a bike they are a road hazard and are dangerous when riding with in a group. Cyclists are notorious for being stand-offish. Polite comments are really shared between different riding groups. There is very little communication offered other than a 'one your right, or left'. In this icy silence you are being appraised. Your spoke nipples are being appraised, and how neatly your gear cables are routed. It is a funny game, notoriously bitchy but enormous amounts of fun. 

Man Country - Cycling's roots are as hard man as you can get.

Gino Bartali, the rider following in this photograph was recently honoured for helping hide Italian Jews during the war. He rode ridiculous distances with letters and plans concealed in the tubing of bicycle to save lives. Tom Simpson rode himself to death on Mount Ventoux. Despite him taking an impressive cocktail of substances, he too is an endearing hero of the sport. 

Even with copious amounts of drugs to help get through the insanely long distances, it was an era of heroes on the bike. Despite there being more drugs then that would have killed Keith Richards in a fortnight, cycling has an image problem now and its not the drugs. The suffering of an epic sport is now not quite there and it just not the same. The modern heroes are just too clean and smooth to be of any interest at all. 

Definitely not Man Country

Where have all the men gone?

Perhaps it is a tough world to be a man in. It is a far less exciting place than it used to be and much much smaller. No longer can you trek to the Poles and eat all the dogs on your return journey the way Amundsen did. Shackleton's disastrous but epic journey is something now that would be impossible. Thankfully so, but the room and the need for ingenuity and courage to survive something like that are no longer needed. So what is a man to do? What else is there to do other than resort to our evolutionary salmon like instinct to try appear attractive to women. If our deeds no longer do the job, we now spend a good deal of time in the bathroom and snap a selfie with a rugby sock. 

So where does one find Man Country nowadays?

Perhaps you might think of a ranch somewhere. But with one of the last Malboro ad men dying of cancer recently and with cowboying actually being outsourced to tougher and cheaper vaqueros from down south it appears that Dorothy has settled in Kansas or Wyomming or wherever. You may even think it might be wherever Vlad Putin lives and wrestles bears, tigers; all this without a shirt and smelling Old Spice but you'd be wrong. It's Greece. 

Greece, the home of democracy and pederasty (what did you think would happen when there was naked twister Graeco-Roman wrestling). I don't think Greek men are particularly more manly than others and this is partly because of their overbearing mothers. Nevertheless, I have never come across such a male dominated society. So much so, that if I ever were to be offered the opportunity to get to do it all over again, my first choice would be to do it as a Greek man. Not for either of the two reasons just mentioned mind you. I used to toy with the idea of being either Heff or Richard Attenborough in terms of an interesting life if I would have the choice, but really being a Greek man must be what it must like to be one of a chosen people. 

Greek men are treated as god-like by their womenfolk. Greek mothers start the process by treating their sons as though they really are. Getting cooked for, cleaned and really with no real expectation to just breathe until they are 40 is quite an amazement to consider. The exception of course was Alexander the Great who it seems to had to escape his mother and went as far away as possible, conquering the known world on his way. But he was the exception and most Greek men don't venture too far away from their mothers. Coming between a Greek mother and her child is infinitely more dangerous than straying between a bear and her cub. The baton is passed onto a Greek woman who marries the son and consequently will and unavoidably always fall sort in her mother-in-laws opinion on how to care for the golden child. It is only in his death that a Greek woman may have any respite from the constant coddling of a man. 

At the end of it all, I am not sure there is much room any more for the archetypal man's man. I hope there is, because the world is an infinitely more interesting place with them. There are too many of us and not enough room to go and do interesting things we have lost a sense our sense of purpose. Idle hands and a razor is what it has come to. A good friend recently wrote about why we do the things we do. Nowadays we need to look within to find the windmills to tilt at. This is a process of finding ways to push ourselves to the limit. How far can we run, the biggest waves to fling ourselves down. What drives us, what gives us a sense of purpose, what makes us feel alive. 

These are the corners where you will find the men with hair.