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.

Ad Nauseam: Miller Lite

The phrase ‘Man up’ is a noxious one at best. But it risks losing all meaning if it is continually employed for trivialities. A man struggling to find courage in the face of adversity, or blighted by prevarication when action is due, might benefit from the imperative, presuming it was delivered by an appropriate source. Another – a better – man is really the only acceptable giver of the exhortation to ‘man up’, and it is an exhortation to be used sparingly.

It’s not difficult, bearing this in mind, to see what’s so wrong with the latest Miller Lite commercial. For starters, all light beer should be stricken from the earth. There is really no point in claiming that one light beer is more masculine than another, for it is all abominable. If you are watching your weight, don’t drink beer. It’s that simple. Don’t doubly emasculate yourself by publicly announcing that you diet as you order your calorie-controlled weasel urine.



Second, this man clearly has no need of diet, so his choices are reducible to his general lack of taste. It is quite audacious here to have portrayed the righteous barmaid without a shred of irony. She knows taste. She knows the right light beer for real men. But she does not, I aver, for it does not exist.

The man is justly criticised for his choice in bag, but the issue is surely its cheap vinyl quality, not its denomination. Men carry stuff. There’s no getting around it. But it is possible to choose a bag of some distinction, made of leather; something that will wear and, with you, garner its own biography. This man is cheap and tasteless. His critic operates within the same sphere of cheap tastelessness. The ad overall can be reduced to the same assessment. The next time some company tells us to ‘man up’, it had better be a call to arms.

Substance and Style

Of all the blogs and websites out there trying to sell you something, how many really think very deeply about the substance of their product? In the world of Manliness Inc. the idea of manliness is reduced to an image, a suit of clothes, a telling look. Well, readers of this humble project of mine will know that I am by no means indisposed to a good suit of clothes and a telling look. But it is what the look tells that is all important. Clothes do not make the man, but they do (or should) say something about him. Yesterday, for example, when it was doing its level best to snow out there, the man in shorts and flip-flops might as well have worn a matching t-shirt with the slogan: ‘I am an idiot’. The man who matches a sport jacket and tie with chinos that puddle on the floor and a pair of running shoes would do no worse if he donned a baseball cap adorned with ‘Woman repellent’. In short, one’s clothes, more than almost anything else, make the first impression. If one is to appear as one really is, due discretion in matters sartorial is important.

With this in mind, I have to take my hat off to Austin Reed. Some bright spark in that venerable institution is well aware that dressing well sends a message, and instead of leaving all of us to work out what their brand of menswear signifies, they’ve established a blog (with facebook presence, of course) that is letting us know in no uncertain terms. From hosting dinner parties to tying bow ties; from shining shoes to mixing martinis, the good people of Austin Reed are building a lifestyle around their image, and it is an edifying one, based on the principles of etiquette. And they’re not ramming their product down our throats either. Go and have a look. And then come back!

Remember gentlemen, style signifies substance. How you look will be the basis of how you’re judged, rightly or wrongly. Better then to look the part, don’t you think?

Time and A Place; or, Get A Room.

I am all for the romantic arts. ‘Courtship’, whenever that word gets wheeled out, seems unable to escape its epithet: ‘old-fashioned’. Since I care not for fashion, nor for passing fads, I think we ought to put period to this unfair appellation. The outward form of courtship may change with the times, but at its heart is a respectable romance and a foundation of politeness. It takes place in two settings, one public and one private. To observe a courtship in public is never to be outraged, never offended. The intentions of the lover are manifested subtly, through kindnesses and attentions. The responsiveness of the beloved is likewise demure, modest. The courtship is suggestive only insofar as eye contact, or the occasional kiss of the hand, lingers, barely perceptively, a little longer than it might otherwise. In private we may dispense with some of the formality, but to put too fine a point on it would be to undo it. It is private, after all.

I was sitting in my usual spot, working in the library. I have often thought that libraries are sexually charged places, but this has something to do with the impossibility of even verbal, let alone physical interaction. As I have said before, if one desires a frisson of excitement, it is to be found in restraint, in covering up, in patience. The mind must not be deprived of its imaginative work by feasts of the eye! Yet even the hushed halls of places of learning crumble against the pressure of an uncouth culture, beating its walls from within and without.

The Place Where I Sit. Almost.

Immediately to my right, with her back to me, a woman was working away. At first, I only noticed the ear plugs: sad testimony to the inevitable noise. Well, thought I, at least I won’t have any trouble from her. Until the man arrived. As she plucked out her earplugs, I noticed the rest of her, entirely clad in black, tight work-out gear. Her nether woman was barely covered, and in the gap between the top of her sweat pants and the bottom of her t-shirt (about ten inches), her rather skimpy underwear made an unwelcome appearance. She smiled a come-to-bed hello at this unexpected visitor, who kissed her on the mouth – somewhere between friendly and obscene. She pulled the pins out of her raven hair and shook like a wet dog in a shampoo ad. He sat beside her, much preening and many eyes being made. They then proceeded to ‘talk about work’, each with one hand pointing at respective computer screens; academic and intellectual interest being feigned. His other hand made a bid for her shoulder, thereafter sliding down her back and lingering on the aforementioned lingerie. Looping his fingers around the thong, he brushed her naked skin with his thumb.

Enough. Concentration cast to the wind, I simply exited the room. I cannot help feeling it should not have been me seeking alternative shelter. In their little bubble of loveliness, no doubt thrilling to them, was something ghastly. Time and a place, dear readers, time and a place.