I’ve just ‘read’ the Time magazine. And its all about ‘how to be a man’.

I know how to be a man. I may not act like one but I know what’s required. I’ve been aware since I first saw the original True Grit movie with John Wayne. Fill her hands ya sunnovabitch. That’s how to be a man. Swear a lot and take no shit from not nobody never, and don’t use a double negative when a triple or quadruple is available.

And did you know that there’s all different types of men? Who’d’a thought such a thing possible? I’d imagined that we were all exactly the same. All of us. Me, Wayne Rooney, the Pope, Jimmy Savile, Prince Harry, Elton John. Seperated at birth.

Apparently I’m a ‘J-Crew Man’. Sadly though, I have no fucking idea what J-Crew might be. I’m assuming its a line of clothing. Which I shall rush out immediately and bankcrupt myself acquiring because I’d hate to disprove a stereotype.

“Wears a serious watch or no watch”. That’s me. No point wearing a watch that doesn’t work. It’ll only be right twice a day, the rest of the time (good pun, huh?) you have to guess.

“Fussy about jeans”, yep, only Levis. But in the same way I only listen to music from the 60s to 80s. Because I lack the imagination to change my ways, not as some mission statement towards a shmutter company I’ve never heard of.

“Knows who Cara Delevigne is”; you’d actually have to be a dead man not to know as that anorexic waif is on every page of every paper/magazine every day poking her sodding tongue out.

“Wants a sports car”. Done that. But I did that as part of a general mid-life crisis, not out of deference to the George Clooney ideal. And he rides motorbikes anyway.

They only have rules for men ‘under 40’ and ‘over 40’. So either the latter includes everything up to 103 or those of us over 50 just don’t count. Agist bastards.

On consideration of all the information given, I’ve now decided, conclusively and unambiguously, that I am the ‘perfect man’.

I’m butch, but in a delicate way. I’m gorgeous, in a manly way. I’m a metrosexual, in a muscly way and I’m a proper, post-feminist, in a knuckle-dragging way. If told to buy ‘feminine products’ I know to ask ‘with or without wings’. That’s how fucking in touch with my feminine side I am.

All Spurs fans are the same. They don’t allow rabble into White Hart Lane. Only trendy (but effortlessly so) over/under 40s with style, class, manliness and good, groomed facial hair. The men have different rules.

Lunchtime

Happy Saturday

A xxxx