American Macho

I begin my wholly ill-considered project of laying-out a cultural typology of men, the fit and the misfits alike, with the least palatable of subjects. Those of you who have been following along may already have inferred that there is a kind of American masculinity that is not to my taste. A more noble image will follow, I assure you, but there is no getting away from the ugliness that is, for want of a better description, American Macho.

American Macho carries his abundant girth like a badge of honour, and is clad in overlong chinos, a baseball cap and running shoes (never used for their express purpose). He may have biceps of considerable proportions, because fitness can be reduced to the power of the arm. He shouts before thinking, but perhaps never thinks. He is the one bawling ‘You’re the man!’ at golf tournaments and letting off falsetto whoops at concerts, and he will be seen giving standing ovations for mediocrities, if not everything. He thanks God, publicly, when he wins a bowling tournament, or an eating contest, for this is God’s purview. American Macho is highly opinionated about all matters, but utterly uninformed; yet he will never concede a point. He has never travelled, and possibly does not have a passport; yet he claims to know how the world should best be run. He knows to the very fibre of his being that America is the best country on the planet, but he does not know why (for he knows no history, and has not been out of his own State). He will, nevertheless, fight you on this point. His politics are staunch, this way or that, but can be expressed only in the same terms as his love for his favourite baseball team. American Macho does not know how to cope with America’s new reality, and cannot see past his own back yard. American Macho blindly worships the flag, the greenback and the American way of life (which he defines as the freedom to be self-interested). American Macho is all these things, but he is also simply a jerk.

There, it is said. I suppose the image will please no one; it certainly does not please me. I propose no remedies for American Macho, for his antidote is American Manly, and we may trust that American Manly will prevail. But first we must describe the American man who sits between the two, and perhaps comprises the majority type. I shall return, therefore, with what will doubtless be an equally controversial description of Homo Americanus.

Inside Out/Outside In

After yesterday’s stilted beginnings, yours truly is getting back into the swing of things. Afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason, a perambulation down Jermyn St., a new pair of wingtip brogues, a warm beer or two in a Mayfair establishment, and it feels as though I’m hitting my stride. I’m still somewhat surprised to be experiencing culture shock in my native land, but this, I suppose, is what happens when one returns from grazing in adjacent pastures.

One of the things about being a foreigner everywhere is the curious way in which I perceive strangers. Being always a semi-insider, always a semi-outsider, the respective openness or guardedness of this society and that become readily apparent. I am an unintentional anthropologist, making my way by trying to understand. In Britain, despite the stiff stereotypes disseminated abroad, strangers are perfectly willing to communicate. Chatting at the bar, making eye contact, sharing a joke: of course, it’s all a way of defusing the tension – the rage that simmers close to the surface – in a bid to let everyone know that things are under control. For now. Sharing a space this evening with a few parties of rich Arabs and Indians, with their pernickety drink demands (Grey Goose and lemonade, Black Label and soda, Corona with lime on the side, etc.), the proprietor identified me as ‘in’, and bemoaned ‘some people and their bizarre orders’. He was flustered, looking for sympathy, hoping for patience. He was also servile, not much of a man’s man, but trying hard to please. In his eyes I saw lamentation. He remembered when a pub was a pub; when men drank beer; and when landlords garnered a form of respect in their own manor.

Over the past few weeks, in my involuntary silence, I’ve been pursuing thoughts along these lines. How do I perceive men in their native environments, in their native lands, and how do they differ from place to place? How does emasculation occur here and there? What counts as manly for an American, for an Italian, for a Brit, for a Canadian, for a German? What counts as unmanly? I have only the mental field notes of an amateur observer, but I propose to offer in the coming period a few sketches – a typology, if you will – of men. No doubt I shall paint in grotesque strokes, but I plan to present the portraits as unfinished, to be augmented by your contributions and criticisms. Somewhere in the mess, there will be truth. That’s where it usually is.

British Humour

A man walked into a bar and ordered a pint of bitter, a G&T and a sticky toffee pudding. ‘It’ll be a twenty-minute wait on the food’, said the barman, ‘do you still want it?’. The man said ‘yes’. Pouring the gin, the barman realised he was out of ice and sent his barmaid to fetch more, telling the man he’d have to wait for his drinks too. Meanwhile, a second man had walked into the bar, followed by a third, followed by a woman. The lack of ice having caused the barman to lose his cool, he knew not in which order the customers came. The third man, being drunk but sensible, suggested the lady be served first. The lady ordered fish and chips and two large glasses of pinot grigio. The ice had not yet arrived. ‘Who’s next?’ asked the barman. ‘It must be me’, said the third man, ‘since I just let her go before me’. Faultless logic, no doubt, for the third man. But the second man took exception. ‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages’, he said. Regardless, the third man was served next, during which time the ice arrived. The second man, thinking he was sure to be next, was disappointed to discover that the man, patiently waiting and observing, could now have his original order filled. ‘Still want that sticky toffee pudding?’ asked the barman. ‘Yes please’, said the man. ‘This is getting beyond a joke’, said the second man. The barman apologised, but pointed out that the man had been waiting for his ice. During the distraction, the returning barmaid decided to serve an American man, lately arrived, who couldn’t quite decide what he wanted, but settled on a glass of water. The second man pointed and loudly observed, ‘Well, I know I was before this geezer!’. On another level entirely, the barman and barmaid were in disarray that erroneous orders had inadvertently been transmitted to the kitchen, wherein the chef was preparing food for nobody in particular, causing the twenty-minute delay for sticky toffee puddings. Apparently the computer printouts were unintelligible, and nobody could think of a better way to communicate orders between front of house and rear: all of twenty yards. The barman, by now heavily sweating, concluded the transaction with the man, telling him he was owed £8.50 change, but handing him only £3.50. Turning to the white-knuckled second man to take his order, the barman was interrupted by the man, who informed him that he had been short-changed a fiver. The second man walked around in circles, fuming. The barman did not apologise to the man, but rather slapped the £5 note into the man’s hands and slammed shut the till. Everybody went away to their respective darkened corners and to the waspish beer garden. And the man thought, ‘this is indeed beyond a joke’.

The pub into which the man walked. The pudding was good.

I’ll be in Blighty for the month. I hope to share my thoughts more regularly than of late, old-world irritations permitting.

Rumours of My Death...

... have been greatly exaggerated. Yours truly is snowed under of late, and I will be in four different countries in the next week, ash permitting. Many apologies for the dearth of new posts, but I do promise to pick up the pace when normalcy, whatever that means, returns. In the meantime I leave you with the thought that all must be well with the world if England are winning at cricket against Australia, and I for one applaud the manly spirit with which they have set about it. Roll on the Ashes.

Until I return, I bid you to stay resolute!

VB

Pot and Kettle

‘She’s just some bigoted woman’. So said Gordon Brown, of some bigoted woman he’d just met. Now, I don’t happen to think there’s very much wrong with that. So far as I can glean, the comment was fair. In these few moments of absolute candour Gordon Brown seemed a more real human being than I’ve noticed at any other time. Unfortunately, however, he’s just some bigoted man.

I cite these things not by way of crass electioneering. It’s much more important than that. Gordon Brown behaved, we might say, like a politician. We tend to roll our eyes and mutter and then vote for one or the other of them. I should rather point out what is essentially wrong with politicians. Only a few seconds before his indiscretion, Mr. Brown had been smiling and chatting gaily with the aforementioned woman, his cracked smile of a political mask firmly in place. A few minutes after his unwittingly recorded honesty, the mask was back in place in order to deliver the most insincere set of wimpish apologies one is ever likely to hear. His private moment of reality was entirely framed by galling fakery and absence of spine. Yes, dear readers, I aver that Mr. Brown was not really sorry, at least not in the way he claimed. How much better it might have been if, during the initial conversation, Mr. Brown had properly stood up to his misguided voter. How much better it might have been if, after the microphonic gaff, Mr. Brown had stood by his real inclinations and explained in detail precisely why the woman was a bigot, and what his party values mean. Instead, the distance between reality and political front could not have been wider, and we can only conclude that insincerity defines our political leaders.

Out of context, I know, but then all UK MPs are donkeys

Insincerity, lack of courage, lack of spine. These qualities make not for a good leader. Yet we see them wherever we turn. One of these days, a politician is going to be brutally honest, say what he really thinks, back it up with a sound education in things political, legal and constitutional, and shock the pants off all of us. And that’s scary, because such a man (or woman) would not encounter any opposition. Our political leaders are supposed to safeguard our freedom, but they’re nothing but hot air and posturing. All this false and wholly unnecessary politeness on the one hand, and all their pointless bickering and pedantry on the other, does not fill me with confidence that our liberty is being vigilantly guarded. We should call them out; upbraid them for their fawning political correctness. We should call a bigot a bigot when we see one.