By Glenn Mortimer
Everywhere you look there are pictures of men. They are plastered on billboards, across the sides of buses and in the pages of magazines. They are everywhere. I'm pretty sure they are men. They seem to possess all the natural attributes of one. Some are trouser-less and you can see they are displaying, clad in tight Calvin Klein’s, what is generally considered a good indicator of the male sex. There they are in various poses and guises, but one thing always worries me. They don't look anything like me.
Everywhere you look there are pictures of men. They are plastered on billboards, across the sides of buses and in the pages of magazines. They are everywhere. I'm pretty sure they are men. They seem to possess all the natural attributes of one. Some are trouser-less and you can see they are displaying, clad in tight Calvin Klein’s, what is generally considered a good indicator of the male sex. There they are in various poses and guises, but one thing always worries me. They don't look anything like me.
I'm not bad looking. I'm alright, I suppose. Some people would say I can be quite good-looking (although, this is usually after some alcohol and a lot of persuasion). I am, on the whole, quite unremarkable; a normal, average person, but these guys in the photographs and on the TV always look quite different from my friends and me. These guys seem to be more, what's the word? Manly.
MAN
These Men always look richer, stronger, handsome and, well, sexier than us. They reek of masculinity. They walk around as if they own the place (which they probably do) and are the kind of men we imagine our girlfriends would secretly want us to be - Six foot five inches of pure gym-fit, male-modelled perfection.
These are the kind of men you see advertising shaving products. Wrapped in nothing but a fluffy white towel, he inspects his chiselled jaw in a bathroom the size Wembley Stadium and suddenly his supermodel girlfriend comes up behind him and rubs herself into his newly shaven face like some contended cat.
He looks like he’s carved from marble with abs that resemble a giant's knuckles while mine look like porridge that has been poured over a toast rack. He looks like a superhero and we look like a nerdy sidekick or, at best, some villain's henchman who has been ka-pow’d into next week. We want to be him and we could if only we could be bothered. That's what hurts most. He makes us look lazy. He does a thousand sit-ups and goes running every morning; we sit down on the toilet and run a bath.
These Men always look richer, stronger, handsome and, well, sexier than us. They reek of masculinity. They walk around as if they own the place (which they probably do) and are the kind of men we imagine our girlfriends would secretly want us to be - Six foot five inches of pure gym-fit, male-modelled perfection.
These are the kind of men you see advertising shaving products. Wrapped in nothing but a fluffy white towel, he inspects his chiselled jaw in a bathroom the size Wembley Stadium and suddenly his supermodel girlfriend comes up behind him and rubs herself into his newly shaven face like some contended cat.
He looks like he’s carved from marble with abs that resemble a giant's knuckles while mine look like porridge that has been poured over a toast rack. He looks like a superhero and we look like a nerdy sidekick or, at best, some villain's henchman who has been ka-pow’d into next week. We want to be him and we could if only we could be bothered. That's what hurts most. He makes us look lazy. He does a thousand sit-ups and goes running every morning; we sit down on the toilet and run a bath.
BOY
If it isn't this bronzed billboard Alpha Male looking down at us from up on high it is a specimen from the other end of the spectrum that greets us; the beautiful Boy.
They are waifish and pretty and look like they hang around in cool bars smoking, forming bands with ‘The’ in the title and wearing ironic T-shirts in that idealised post-teen, very pretty and floppy-haired way we all recognise from the NME, as if they all belong to the same angelic indie band. Skinny jeans are key to the wardrobe of the Boy, as are the Haircuts. Getting your hair cut and getting a Haircut are two very different things. Getting your hair cut involves clippers; getting a Haircut involves feathering.
The Boys are fancied by girls. They are in or listen to bands which are all the same no matter how different they sound. Whether it is Emo, indie or pop, they're the same. The only thing that is different is the amount of revulsion a Bloke feels towards each them.
The Indie-Boys we don't mind so much. We like their music, even if it does mean having to go to gigs surround by twelve year-old girls who have made their own clothes and Boys looking far too skinny, making us look even more like oafish layabouts.
Now, the Pop-Boys we hate, but will sing along if a) Drunk, b) Trying to seduce a lady or c) Being ironic (which is what we do when we are trying to look like an Indie-Boy).
And as for Emo-Boys, well, they just make us want strangle them with their stupid bloody key chains for daring to wear a new Nirvana hoodie and walk around like they invented being moody. I've never fully understood the key chain as part of the teen rebel’s wardrobe. If ‘The Man’ doesn't want you to look like a minimum waged security guard then I guess you’re sticking it to him good.
We hate the Boys, but know eventually they will have to breathe out and go bald just like the rest of us.
If it isn't this bronzed billboard Alpha Male looking down at us from up on high it is a specimen from the other end of the spectrum that greets us; the beautiful Boy.
They are waifish and pretty and look like they hang around in cool bars smoking, forming bands with ‘The’ in the title and wearing ironic T-shirts in that idealised post-teen, very pretty and floppy-haired way we all recognise from the NME, as if they all belong to the same angelic indie band. Skinny jeans are key to the wardrobe of the Boy, as are the Haircuts. Getting your hair cut and getting a Haircut are two very different things. Getting your hair cut involves clippers; getting a Haircut involves feathering.
The Boys are fancied by girls. They are in or listen to bands which are all the same no matter how different they sound. Whether it is Emo, indie or pop, they're the same. The only thing that is different is the amount of revulsion a Bloke feels towards each them.
The Indie-Boys we don't mind so much. We like their music, even if it does mean having to go to gigs surround by twelve year-old girls who have made their own clothes and Boys looking far too skinny, making us look even more like oafish layabouts.
Now, the Pop-Boys we hate, but will sing along if a) Drunk, b) Trying to seduce a lady or c) Being ironic (which is what we do when we are trying to look like an Indie-Boy).
And as for Emo-Boys, well, they just make us want strangle them with their stupid bloody key chains for daring to wear a new Nirvana hoodie and walk around like they invented being moody. I've never fully understood the key chain as part of the teen rebel’s wardrobe. If ‘The Man’ doesn't want you to look like a minimum waged security guard then I guess you’re sticking it to him good.
We hate the Boys, but know eventually they will have to breathe out and go bald just like the rest of us.
BLOKE
My friends and I seem to fall between these two points of Boy and Man into a very well populated, mid-category called Bloke.
All we see around us everyday day are visions of ourselves, but skinnier, taller and sexier. Even when they do try to sell a product to us with a promise of it making us more attractive to the opposite sex they get it wrong. Do they cast a Bloke to sell it to us? No. They cast a Boy or a Man wearing ill-fitting clothes and expression of perpetual innocence. Then a woman sees him and fancies him, supposedly because he sprayed himself with some product or put some muck in his hair. Rubbish. This guy would incite a “BomChickaWahWah” from her if he smelled like a dog’s blanket that had been left out in the rain and styled his hair with vomit. It's all lies.
When we do see a normal Bloke on an advert or film he is cast as the funny best friend or the comedy boyfriend, being lazy and stupid and having no aim in life but to be hapless all over the place. Then we hate him and he's meant to be us, therefore, we hate ourselves and we find ourselves turning into a seething mass of resentment and hate. But, it doesn't matter as this brainless buffoon will undoubtedly be played by some hunk in trunks trying to broaden his range by wearing glasses, a side-parting and being seen eating beans out of a mug.
We are not represented in the media, so I call for a new movement to be formed; Bloke-ism. We will fight for the right to be represented in every film, advert and magazine. We will burn skinny jeans and issues of Men's Health on a pyre in Trafalgar Square. Let us revolt!
Not me though. I'm going to be at home, lying about in my pants, playing stationary on my Playstation (as its name suggests) and eating pickled onions out of a jar, but feel free.
geekexpectations.wordpress.com
My friends and I seem to fall between these two points of Boy and Man into a very well populated, mid-category called Bloke.
All we see around us everyday day are visions of ourselves, but skinnier, taller and sexier. Even when they do try to sell a product to us with a promise of it making us more attractive to the opposite sex they get it wrong. Do they cast a Bloke to sell it to us? No. They cast a Boy or a Man wearing ill-fitting clothes and expression of perpetual innocence. Then a woman sees him and fancies him, supposedly because he sprayed himself with some product or put some muck in his hair. Rubbish. This guy would incite a “BomChickaWahWah” from her if he smelled like a dog’s blanket that had been left out in the rain and styled his hair with vomit. It's all lies.
When we do see a normal Bloke on an advert or film he is cast as the funny best friend or the comedy boyfriend, being lazy and stupid and having no aim in life but to be hapless all over the place. Then we hate him and he's meant to be us, therefore, we hate ourselves and we find ourselves turning into a seething mass of resentment and hate. But, it doesn't matter as this brainless buffoon will undoubtedly be played by some hunk in trunks trying to broaden his range by wearing glasses, a side-parting and being seen eating beans out of a mug.
We are not represented in the media, so I call for a new movement to be formed; Bloke-ism. We will fight for the right to be represented in every film, advert and magazine. We will burn skinny jeans and issues of Men's Health on a pyre in Trafalgar Square. Let us revolt!
Not me though. I'm going to be at home, lying about in my pants, playing stationary on my Playstation (as its name suggests) and eating pickled onions out of a jar, but feel free.
geekexpectations.wordpress.com
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