REAL MEN - Beer, Football, Cars

Amid all the recent talk of misogyny a truth has been left unspoken: while he holds some antiquated ideas about women; although he is confused and threatened by females in authority; the Australian Male’s true contempt is roused only by a rival male wandering onto his patch who doesn’t fit his idea of what constitutes a bloke.

            A trip out of town for a family event allowed me to study this atavistic glitch first hand.

I could happily have lived the rest of my days without ever again setting foot in the land of my youth. Even in Bondi, Kings Cross or Canterbury people often look at me as though I’ve just flown in from Jupiter; you can imagine the reception I get in Moree – a place where even Westies are viewed as stuck-up city folk to be treated with suspicion.

My first mistake it seems, upon arriving at said family event, was being what Jerry Seinfeld called “mid-thirties, thin and neat”. My fault, I know.

And of course, if you will insist on not having twenty or thirty kilos of gut spilling over your jeans; on looking as though you may have given a thought to your hair since the turn of the century; or on not dressing as though you threw a clothes hamper into the air and wore whatever landed on you; then for god’s sake, on no account be sufficiently attractive or intriguing that any girlfriend in the room feels compelled to look at you more than twice.

Do not be seen with a book – unless it was written by a cricketer, a footballer, or a racehorse.

While having a drink with one of the few cousins who’d engage you in conversation if standing next to you – much less walk across the room to say hello – I was treated to an interesting revelation. He described me – in a friendly, matter of fact way – as slightly effeminate.

I can honestly say it was the first time I’d heard that. If pressed, I’d have said that I’m comfortable enough with my sexuality that I don’t get nervous about what might happen if there’s a gay person nearby; that I’m in touch with my feminine side, an integrated personality; that I’m happy to express heterosexual masculinity without resorting to chest-thumping, testosterone-driven stupidity.

In short, evolved.

I have two or three friends (seems a lot, I know). The males, while very different individually, would seem to an outside observer to be all of a type. That same observer – having decided the type was artsy-fartsy latte-sipping inner-city fags – would be surprised on listening-in to learn at least half our conversation consists of moaning about the women in our lives. Not inner-city fags, but sad old heterosexuals.

Some of us even like football.

It’s the fault of progress, really. The Australian Male, a simple creature at the best of times, finds himself daily in situations beyond his comprehension. It’s confusing. Bad enough that his boss is now a woman, without having to deal with me or my friends. In the good old days, he could just fall on us with some companions, tear us limb from limb, and then get back to fighting each other over rape-rights. Progress has really screwed him.

Maybe I’m wrong; maybe the fear change and destroy the different approach is the natural way of things. Maybe some of you ladies can clear it up for me ...