So ‘real men’ don’t cry any more?

So ?'real men' don't cry any more? Give me strength …

Ron Ferguson
August 14 2006

Oh, dear. It seems that the role of real men is changing yet again.

We are apparently at the beginning of what is called the "Menaissance", which features new/old definitions of masculinity. The movement has begun in the US, and we already know that when America sneezes, Britain catches a cold. Menaissance will soon be showing at a pub or street corner near you.

This is a long evolutionary story. Here's the short version. In the early days, man leaves cave to kill wild beast and drag it back to hoose, where perpetually-pregnant bidie-in already has pot bubbling in anticipation. The man's role as hunter-gatherer is clear and unambiguous; no social skills are required. The caveman needs strength and speed, but he is certainly not required to emote or to slap on moisturiser. Despite his repellent breath and steaming oxters, he has a clear role in the procreative process and it does not involve asking, "How was it for you, darling?"

Variations on the "Me Tarzan, you Jane" paradigm lasted well into the twentieth century. When I was growing up, a mildly reconstructed version was still the order of the day. In order to take my place in the proper order of things, I, a skinny, stunted boy who would have been lunch for any wild beast rather than the other way about, embarked on a Charles Atlas course. (Remember the slogan, "Don't let anyone kick sand in your face"?) The exercises and supplements failed to make mountains of out muscular molehills and I remained stubbornly insignificant - until I suddenly expanded and developed the magnificent physique which still causes tourists to gasp in Orkney. I also developed such profusion of body hair - including beard and shoulder-length mane - that even gorillas were afraid. When out walking without clothes, I looked like Birnham wood marching on Dunsinane.

Then came the feminist revolution. Caveman was made redundant. Women, for some reason, no longer wanted to be stuck in the house with wailing weans. They demanded careers, equal pay, and - if they wanted a male around the place at all - a man who didn't spend his time scratching his rear and grunting. It was all very confusing for males. Ever ready to respond to the zeitgeist, I shaved off my beard, cut my hair and put lashings of moisturiser on my face. It worked. You would never guess that I am 102 years old. I became a gentle new man, managing to emote in full sentences. I learned to wash dishes and write poetry.

Then more bewilderment. An edict from the women's collective said that they didn't want men to open doors for them, or to walk next the road to protect against splashes from horse-drawn carriages, or to stand up for them on a bus. These things were deemed to be patronising and demeaning. But just when I had finally managed to repress my conditioned impulses to offer up my bus seat to every living creature equipped with anything remotely resembling a cleavage, a fresh edict was issued just last year saying that, no, most women actually quite liked to have men acting in such old-fashioned, chivalrous ways. Aaargh. Darkened room time.

Next came metrosexuals, with super-gelled hair and androgynous clothes. Orkney doesn't really do metrosexuality - it's something to do with living on farms - but I did my bit by taking off the boiler suit and putting on Calvin Klein boxer shorts when venturing into Kirkwall.

And now, God help us, the Menaissance. What's this all about? Well, it's a reaction against the gentle, concerned male with the moisturiser and the pink sweaters. It's back to machismo manhood and fearsome jumping on your mate's bones. Carnivorous caveman is back. We're talking retrosexual here. A bible of the new movement is Jim Belushi's Real Men Don't Apologise. It's all about unreconstructed masculinity advocated by men (and some women who have tired of emo-boys with Kleenexes) who believe that males have been emasculated in the course of the gender wars. The new/old battle cry is for masculine assertiveness, bravery and a willingness to beard the psychological wild beasts in their lairs. At its best it's about dignity and manliness, at its worst it's about beer bellies, flatulence and "spontaneous" (ie drink-fuelled) bad behaviour. Attractive and exciting, ladies?

Many women will insist that it was ever thus, and that the considerate New Man who cheerfully does the housework and changes nappies was always a mirage, a figment of the male imagination. There is truth in this.

The gender wars are full of wishful thinking and self-deception. In the meantime, I'm heading back to the electronic croft's darkened room, before getting in touch with my inner caveman. Again.

Sometimes it's hard to be a man.