METROSEXUALS – How The Great Tradition Of The Dandy Is Being Perverted And What To Do If You’ve Fallen For The Scam
It’s not the primping and the preening that annoys me so much.
Any self respecting human male is an arrogant, strutting peacock by nature. This is a noble and ancient tradition. It’s the new trend towards self castrated peacocks that is the problem.
Now, your regency dandies used to go to far greater lengths than manicures and coordinated casuals to impress each other and woo the ladies. Beau Brummel used to spend five hours getting ready before he would even consider stepping out of his front door. But dandies challenged each other to duels, gambled, drank, took opium, impregnated the daughters of the nobility and generally gave everyone syphilis.
Mods were considered the dandies of their day, with their –for the time- girly haircuts and their silk shirts and Italian styling. They also fought pitched battles on Britain’s beaches, invented the all night amphetamine fuelled rave and knew an awful lot about scooter engines.
What do metrosexuals do, exactly? Wonderful things in the kitchen with cous cous. They have a breathtaking knowledge of Feng Shui and listen to world music. I’d say this was all a bit gay, but that would be an unfair and inaccurate description from the point of view of perfectly respectable homosexuals.
Not that single gay men don’t do creative things with food and clothes and music and all the rest of it. They clearly do. But they also root each other in the most promiscuous and eye wateringly feral manner possible, emotions be damned. Well, they do if “Queer As Folk” is anything to go by. Which just goes to prove that men are men whether they fuck ladies or they fuck each other. Except if those men are metrosexuals, of course.
These bastards are caring and sensitive and in touch with their feminine side. (I’m in touch with my feminine side. I stalk it and send it abusive text messages.) They are attentive to women’s emotional needs, when they should really be bending them over the sofa and ragging them senseless. The women that is, not their emotional needs. Or indeed the sofas. Some metrosexuals do have one thing in their favour, man club wise; excessive drinking. Albeit in the form of sugary cocktails and coloured water spiked with vodka. Or little bottles of fizzy American pseudo lager, which as the old joke goes, is like making love in a canoe. Fucking close to water.
If you’re going to drown your sorrows boys, at least do it by getting a proper drink down your necks. And drowning your sorrows is what you are doing. Trying to swamp the pain of stifling the true nature of your masculinity. As any policeman or paramedic will tell you, something which is drowning will fight like fury and almost certainly drag you down with it.
Or if you’re doing all this because homosexuality is a bigger part of your life than you’d like to admit to yourself, then just man up, admit it and dive in. No one whose opinion is of any note will criticize for acting the way God made you. So please, whatever the reason, reclaim your cajones. ‘Cos if you keep them out of sight, tied around your ankles, they might just drag you to the bottom and ruin your life.
© Copyright Michael Grimes 2013