Let me tell you something about real men: real men cry. They weep giant, fist-sized tears of misery. They collect them in a bucket, which they’ll later use to drown an angry bear.
Pay attention: it’s important. Because just as we’re told that ‘real women’ have curves, so we’re also spun lines about which men count as ‘real’.
Study the signs, remember them. Then burn your laptop lest this fall into enemy hands.
Real men like football and beer and can tell the difference between a Heineken poured fresh from the bar tap and one that’s been filtered three times through the bushy beard of a lumberjack.
Real men don’t read maps or ask directions, they simply drive in a straight line towards the horizon, smoking Marlboro cigarettes and occasionally shouting ‘WOOOO.’
Real men have man-bags. And man-caves. And man-chairs and tables, in case any spare men pop round for dinner.
Real men pull women. And pork. And tanks.
Not all at the same time, though, because real men can’t multitask and if you ask them to they will implode.
A real man will also pull the emergency cord on the train, then he’ll re-start the train with pocket jump-leads, because he’s handy like that.
If you’re down, a real man will know when to hug you, when to bring you chocolate, and when to vanquish your enemies with a gigantic laser cannon.
Real men call their mothers every weekend.
Real men emerge from their exoskeletons at full moon, so they can bathe their soft internal parts in the gentle moonlight.
Real men engage in awkward banter with their fathers, and it somehow always escalates into full-blown fist-fights over Sunday dinner and Jesus there’s blood in the gravy and it’s Mum’s birthday why must you do this EVERY TIME Steven?!
Real men lift.
Real men lift everything.
Seriously, if it weren’t for real men then everything you’ve ever loved would be on the floor right now because no one would ever have lifted it up. Look at your floor. LOOK AT IT. That beautiful sight is brought to you by men. Real men.
Real men don’t refer to looking after their children as ‘babysitting.’ They call it ‘leveraging biological equity’.
Real men carve turkey left-handed, to impress any passing talent-scouts.
Beef, on the other hand, they carve with their bare fists, while shrieking ‘FEAST ON THIS, PEASANTS!’
Real men can bring any mammal to orgasm within three minutes, using only the tip of their tongue.
They’ll juggle a career, a family, a hobby and also oranges because they’re good at sport.
It is vital that you know these signs. That you can spot the Real Man from the impostor. Because on the day of the Apocalyptic Event, there shall be a battle the like of which you have never seen, and the Real Men will rise up to defend us. They will grasp the shoulders of the impostor men – those men who do not lift and can’t carve turkey and who’ve never owned a tank – and there will be pain and destruction the like of which you have never seen.
If you want protection and comfort and safety, you must learn how to find a Real Man. Curl yourself tight in the crook of his arm and shelter there, safe from the bones and the blood. He will weep, of course, to calm you with his sensitivity. Then he will shed his exoskeleton, dry your tears with his fists, and whisper ‘sssssh’ as the world burns hot around you.
You’ll make sweet, sweet love in what’s left of civilisation.
Then he’ll punch an elephant to death.
I wrote this after a couple of requests that I make a twin for this one: what is a real woman?