Men are redundant, but let's keep them anyway. Without men, there would be no one to remove spiders from the bath, says Rowan Pelling.
I used to think it would be fascinating to experience life, as the blind prophet Tiresias did, from the point of view of both genders. You could be a woman until the age of 35, or the first sign of serious wrinkles, then turn into a man, play poker and date people ridiculously younger than yourself. This daydream lasted until most of the middle-aged chaps I know developed prostate trouble, and I suddenly realised there were far more troubling things than a ticking womb and laughter lines like a First World War trench.
Men are still required to deal with unwelcome visitors Photo: Andrew Crowley
The "Crisis of Masculinity", as it's often termed, has been brewing a long while. My old boss at GQ, Michael VerMeulen, used to say in the 1990s that the ascent of women meant that men only had two choices, "playboy or drone". But soon even those options were closed: in 2003, after reading Y: The Descent of Men, by the Telegraph science writer Steve Jones, my husband told me mournfully that the crumbling Y chromosome meant his lot would be extinct in another couple of million years.
A few resilient Iron Johns kept beating their chests, sneering at metrosexuals and rushing into the wilderness to wrestle bears. And things started to look up after The Dangerous Book for Boys became a hit, and whittling sticks was once again acknowledged as a useful male activity. But the announcement that British scientists have discovered how to create human sperm from stem cells means it's official: men are redundant.
Yet I feel compelled – and not just as the mother of two small boys – to make a spirited defence of the weaker sex. Where would I be without my husband to read 80 pages of a car manual, in French, to find out how the back windscreen-wiper works? Who would tug the dried lumps of excrement from our cat's backside? Who would explain the rules of cricket to an American? Who would clear a blocked drain of unspeakable clotted matter? Who would take hours to demonstrate the dreadnought manoeuvres at the Battle of Jutland, armed only with salt cellars and jam jars?
Without men, there would be no one to read Joseph Conrad or Norman Mailer, to remove spiders from the bath, or (important one, this) to tell women they're pretty. And say what you like, but they were the lion-hearted fools who invented the idea of "women and children first". I say we keep them.
*One particular male facing a crisis of masculinity, or so it seems to me, is Daniel Radcliffe. The Harry Potter star is almost 20, but is still scheduled to make two more films in the series before he can retire from the role. Like Macaulay Culkin, he seems doomed to be forever perceived as a boy trapped somewhat spookily in a man's body.
Radcliffe, I'm afraid, is not a natural male lead outside wizard school (and yes, I have seen that Kipling drama My Boy Jack, and kept thinking, "It's Harry Potter with a 'tache"). There is no conceivable way he could play the lead in Spooks, or the suave villain in a Bond movie: "Tell me the code, damn you, or I'll bash your shin with this Quidditch broom!" And unlike his co-star Emma Watson, he can't model with Chanel. Once again, it's a woman's world.
*Apparently, it's a boom time for British herbalism, with lavender in particular enjoying a big revival. I am delighted to hear this. During my childhood, no boudoir was complete without a small bottle of Yardley's English Lavender. And recently, when I was suffering from mild panic attacks and broken sleep, my aunt (who told me when I was six that she was a witch, and charmed my verrucas away with a gold ring) suggested I scatter lavender oil on my pillow. I did so, and almost immediately the palpitations disappeared and my sleep improved. Boy wizards may grow up, but witches never retire. ( telegraph.co.uk )
I used to think it would be fascinating to experience life, as the blind prophet Tiresias did, from the point of view of both genders. You could be a woman until the age of 35, or the first sign of serious wrinkles, then turn into a man, play poker and date people ridiculously younger than yourself. This daydream lasted until most of the middle-aged chaps I know developed prostate trouble, and I suddenly realised there were far more troubling things than a ticking womb and laughter lines like a First World War trench.
Men are still required to deal with unwelcome visitors Photo: Andrew Crowley
The "Crisis of Masculinity", as it's often termed, has been brewing a long while. My old boss at GQ, Michael VerMeulen, used to say in the 1990s that the ascent of women meant that men only had two choices, "playboy or drone". But soon even those options were closed: in 2003, after reading Y: The Descent of Men, by the Telegraph science writer Steve Jones, my husband told me mournfully that the crumbling Y chromosome meant his lot would be extinct in another couple of million years.
A few resilient Iron Johns kept beating their chests, sneering at metrosexuals and rushing into the wilderness to wrestle bears. And things started to look up after The Dangerous Book for Boys became a hit, and whittling sticks was once again acknowledged as a useful male activity. But the announcement that British scientists have discovered how to create human sperm from stem cells means it's official: men are redundant.
Yet I feel compelled – and not just as the mother of two small boys – to make a spirited defence of the weaker sex. Where would I be without my husband to read 80 pages of a car manual, in French, to find out how the back windscreen-wiper works? Who would tug the dried lumps of excrement from our cat's backside? Who would explain the rules of cricket to an American? Who would clear a blocked drain of unspeakable clotted matter? Who would take hours to demonstrate the dreadnought manoeuvres at the Battle of Jutland, armed only with salt cellars and jam jars?
Without men, there would be no one to read Joseph Conrad or Norman Mailer, to remove spiders from the bath, or (important one, this) to tell women they're pretty. And say what you like, but they were the lion-hearted fools who invented the idea of "women and children first". I say we keep them.
*One particular male facing a crisis of masculinity, or so it seems to me, is Daniel Radcliffe. The Harry Potter star is almost 20, but is still scheduled to make two more films in the series before he can retire from the role. Like Macaulay Culkin, he seems doomed to be forever perceived as a boy trapped somewhat spookily in a man's body.
Radcliffe, I'm afraid, is not a natural male lead outside wizard school (and yes, I have seen that Kipling drama My Boy Jack, and kept thinking, "It's Harry Potter with a 'tache"). There is no conceivable way he could play the lead in Spooks, or the suave villain in a Bond movie: "Tell me the code, damn you, or I'll bash your shin with this Quidditch broom!" And unlike his co-star Emma Watson, he can't model with Chanel. Once again, it's a woman's world.
*Apparently, it's a boom time for British herbalism, with lavender in particular enjoying a big revival. I am delighted to hear this. During my childhood, no boudoir was complete without a small bottle of Yardley's English Lavender. And recently, when I was suffering from mild panic attacks and broken sleep, my aunt (who told me when I was six that she was a witch, and charmed my verrucas away with a gold ring) suggested I scatter lavender oil on my pillow. I did so, and almost immediately the palpitations disappeared and my sleep improved. Boy wizards may grow up, but witches never retire. ( telegraph.co.uk )
No comments:
Post a Comment