Tim Payne Body Language What is a man? Who is he? What does he want? Why is he so prone to violence? When did he last brush his teeth? Why doesn’t he help with the housework? What drives him to bully and cajole? What’s happened to his sense of purpose? Does he really have to wear that same pair of jeans day in, day out? Where will he end up? And what is he so afraid of? Do we need men? Well, do we? These are just a few of the important questions I get to grips with in my new book, The Repentant Male: Masculinity in Tatters. I suppose I first realised that every male on this planet was in crisis one morning in June 1997. Outwardly, the world seemed fine: the sun was shining, the birds were singing in the trees and the Blair government had just arrived in town, full of hope and promise after 18 long years of Tory rule. But inside, I was crying. Yes, I was in pain. And sobbing my heart out, not only for myself but for centuries of masculine crimes and misdemeanours. Standing naked in front of the mirror, I stared back hard at myself. I saw only the hollow shell of a 20th-century male, worthless, callow, bungling. And petrified. The day before, I had performed all the usual masculine tribal rites: working, being inconsiderate to others, working some more, failing to tidy up, listening to the sports results and then working some more. In the evening, I had been out drinking with my mates, laughing and joshing, all the time secretly turning my eyes downwards and comparing the size of my pint mug with the size of my penis. Studies have shown that every male does this at least three times an hour when having a drink in a pub with his mates. As luck would have it, on that particular evening I had been served my pint of Best in a mug with a handle. While my mates slapped each other on the back, belched, farted, compared tattoos and talked their way through Graham Smith’s legendary second goal for Leeds in the 1978 FA Cup quarter-final, I realised in a flash that for the rest of my life I would have to face up to the fact that, whatever the size of my penis, it would never have its own handle. “Sorry mates, got to go,” I said, choking back the tears. Then, worried lest they think I was a sissy, I quickly challenged two of them to an arm-wrestling competition and swore long and hard before setting off into that dark, dark night. And in the car park of that pub, alone in a T-registration Ford Capri but for the bitter-sweet, heart-rending sound of Phil Collins singing Another Lonely Day in Paradise, I sat down and wept. The song ended and the late news came on. Football supporters run riot in Belgium. Another clash in the House of Commons. Two men arrested on suspicion of multiple murder. Lorry driver causes fatal crash on Ml. Lone man chews gum in high- rise. Men, men, men. Men in trouble. Men at sea. Masculinity in tatters. The next morning, my wife had already cleaned the house, done the ironing, finished the new Margaret Atwood, taken the kids to school, given the new conservatory a second coat of spring green Dulux emulsion gloss, fixed the carburettor in the Sharan, driven to her high-powered job in an environmentally aware international public relations bureau and released 10 of her staff from their responsibilities, when I stumbled out of bed, a shattered husk, staggered to the bathroom and took that long, hard look at myself in the mirror.
Like all men the world over – President Bill Clinton, Martin Amis, Des Lynam, Sylvester Stallone, Saddam Hussein, top chef Gordon Ramsay – I had lost touch with myself. On the outside I was robust, decisive and capable of firing on all cylinders. Yet inside I was hurting. Brought up to ruthlessly suppress my “feminine” side – like so many men, I was just 13 when my Victorian father reprimanded me with a vicious wag of his finger for dressing up in my sister’s clothes and soliciting strangers in the street – I was forced to retreat headlong into society’s idea of “masculinity” and by the age of 17 I had become scrum-half in my school’s 2nd XV.
I stare at my genitalia and my genitalia stare back at me, scornfully. They ask me if I am up to this endless round of competing, achieving, conquering, controlling, asserting, pontificating and fist-fighting – all those emblems of masculinity’s lost sense of purpose. Do we as a society need men? And, if so, how many, where and for what? I hope to resolve all these questions. But until then, let’s try our damnedest to shed those tears.
@ENotes & Queries Joseph Harker My student son lives on beans, wholemeal toast and oranges in term time. He claims this gives him all the nutrients he requires. Is he right?
n No, but he is eating more healthily than 99% of the rest of mankind. Relax and congratulate him on his good sense. – John Brodrick, Johannesburg
Is there any proof that homoeopathic medicine works?
n In the early 1990s on BBC2’s QED, opponents of homoeopathy claimed it was due to the placebo effect. The programme then conducted an experiment to answer these criticisms. Most dairy cows suffer from mastitis (infection of the milk ducts) from time to time, treatment for which involves the vet and antibiotics. At the suggestion of a homoeopathic vet, a large herd was divided into two groups, each with its own water trough. From two similar but suitably marked containers a liquid was poured into each trough. Some weeks later, the farmer explained that the incidence of mastitis in one group had remained as before, whereas in the second group only one cow had required antibiotic treatment. It was then disclosed that the second group’s trough had been treated with a homoeopathic remedy and the other with just distilled water or placebo. – Soroush Ebrahimi, Essex, United Kingdom
We read claims that exposure to radiation and noxious substances is “within permitted/recommended limits”. Are these limits evidence-based or merely “guesstimates” to pull the wool over our eyes?
n To quote Jesus (Matthew 27:11), “Thou sayest.” It has been amply documented that “permitted limits” for radiation exposures have been set primarily to accommodate the industry’s profitability, accepting a “reasonable occupational risk”. Those who actually run the risk of cancers and other diseases have never been honestly informed or consulted in the rule-making process by government/industry-sponsored “experts”. There is controversy about the exact magnitude of this health risk. But it is not zero, even though the industry’s public relations literature implies that the occupational limits mean “safe” limits. In some places they even say that small amounts of radiation make you healthier. There exists no study of exposed populations to back up this promise. – Rudi Nussbaum, United States Any answers? n Why are native Europeans, native Americans or native Africans not called “Aborigines”? – Mick Stothard, Lancashire, UK
n How do I tell how tough my steak is before I buy or cook it? – Alison Elsom, Lusaka, Zambia
n What happened to the proposed low-orbital aircraft Hyperion? It was intended to fly from Britain to Australia in two hours. Are there any other proposals for space shuttle-type passenger aircraft? – Simon Gilman, London, UK
n Several Parliaments sit in a crescent-moon or head- table shape. Do any countries other than the UK adopt the Westminster style with opposing factions facing each other? – Christine Martin, Northamptonshire, UK Send your Notes & Queries to POBox 91667, Auckland Park, 2006, fax to (011) 727-7111, or e-mail to [email protected]. Please keep questions and answers short