MAN UP OR MAN DOWN

The company of men and what it means to be a man and how you deal with manship is a preoccupation for many men. It is an interesting state. While we all accept life is a joyous cornucopia of different beings, this is rarely put into practice on man things. Male partners across the world are forced unnaturally into man-thing groups, much the same as the children of parents who are friends, shuffling uncomfortably in a front room forced to play together when quite frankly they have less in common than bread and concrete.

Concrete - as you can see - it has cracks in it much like a cracker - but a cracker is not bread.

I like all my male friends, which is why they are my friends, I have chosen them and vice versa, but have you ever observed a group of men who are relative strangers at a social gathering? At a BBQ, they are all stood round the hot coals clutching their beers gazing at the sizzling meat. This, contrary to popular female belief, is not a group of men bonding, it is an awkward group of emotionally fearful men staring at something in a desperate attempt to come up with a witty and generally appealing remark. Unlike, our female counterpoints we don’t actually have generic conversation. Football? Really? In this day and age this is a high risk opening gambit, especially for me, and I know I am not alone. If you are in a group of men all stood around in football shirts (apart from being in hell) you are on safe ground, if not however, you will be in the company of one or all of these types.

Football bore, knows too much because his life is empty, you will be stuck listening to this person forever.

Passionate fan, will get so animated talking about his beloved team he will give you an impromptu spittle shower.

Fair weather fan, this person knows very little but is so desperate to look informed and be one of the ‘chaps’ that he will agree to every comment, get names wrong, and strangely seems to have knowledge of only one season back in 1982 when he had bought a Panini sticker album and memorised all the players.

A football. I had to look this up - I expected a ball with lots of tiny feet on it.

But lets not restrict the crippling awkwardness to football, oh no, there are a myriad of topics for men to flail around at out. Cars! Here is a conversation I had recently – shortly after this conversation began all the other men stood around at the party slipped away like Arnold Schwarzenegger when he caked himself in mud to hide from Predator:

City Male: (stood feet a firm shoulder width apart, beer in hand, shirt with colour up (and WTF is that about?) tucked in black jeans, sensible brogues on feet, clean shaven, filling as much space with his body as he can) So, Martin…
Me: (wearing shorts, a pair of Birkenstocks, t-shirt, full beard and not really trying to even be present in this dimension) Ermm… it’s Simon…
CM: Yeah of course, ha ha… as I was saying Martin… what are you driving these days?
Me: (attempting lame joke just to lighten the conversational crisis I have found myself in) You mean apart from sheep?
CM: (blank look as joke bounces off his not metaphorically thick head) Are you a farmer?
ME: Err no, I am not… I have a Peug….
CM: (cutting through me) I drive a 5 Series … she’s a beast (I recoil physically at him saying beast, I also expect him to describe his wife as a ‘sturdy lass who goes well, not bad for a filly with a previous owner)

At this point it is important to note – I don’t know what a 5 Series is. But I am prepared to bluff.

CM: continuing: Of course this would be quite useful in your line of work (Eh? Works in theatre – not much call for any cars in theatre) with all those sheep, you could fit them all in the boot Martin.
ME: (look of despair) Ermm I am not a farmer… that was a joke.. I work in theatre… and my name isn’t..
CM: Why did you say you were a farmer Martin? That is a bit odd..
ME: I drive a Peugeot. (look of defiance)
CM: Ha ha ha …. you are a funny man Martin a funny funny man (then he does that punching the shoulder thing, why? Why would you just hit a stranger? This also spills my cucumber martini onto my feet, at which point a dog comes and licks it up)

Farmers are a bit more tooled up these days.

So I am left standing with a man who thinks I am a farmer called Martin who jokes about his car ownership supping a half spilled cucumber martini whilst a dog gets pissed licking it from my naked feet in opened toed sandals. This, female partners, is how us males get humiliated every time you put us into all male environments expecting us to be able to cope.

THE CHERRY ORCHARD. NOT A REVIEW OR MAYBE IT IS, I'M NOT SURE.

This isn’t a review, it is just some thoughts. And bloody hell is it hard to write a blog on a phone on the late train home!?

I often wonder if Chekov had any affection for any of his characters, he seems to sit like a Grandfather once removed from emotional attachment - to the point of ambivalence - looking at his series of grandchildren, playing, goading and failing in their lives, not giving them unconditional love or a rescue from their emotional pratfalls.

The Cherry Orchard at The National taps into this detachment perfectly, maybe too perfectly. Although I will say, for once, his ambivalence is tempered through humour though and it is here that the warmth does bleed through, a warmth of humour so often overlooked by directors in the earnest study of a Russia in flux. What stood out to me most in this production is how prescient (I have used this word twice in as many blog entries - I need to get another word) the writing (aided by historical hindsight) was, coaxed out in the translation with a very modern speech patterns, and how it seemed remarkably apposite to our current political situation, I feel that there no mistake in the subtext of Englishness of the production.

It is easy to see now how each character is on the precipice of a new and fundamentally altered existence. The loss of the old guard in Ranevskaya and her brother, the downward class mobility of her daughters with quiet acceptance, the rise of the middle-classes following the abolition of serfdom, seen in Lopakhin, hollow victories in economics but still unable to rise above the reverence that history forces him to bestow on Ranevskaya. Tragically, we sit there knowing that for all of their achievements, in a few years they will have to relinquish it to the communist state. The eternal student Trofimov, naïve yet inspiring, is about to get his utopia and will undoubtedly embrace it regardless of the dissatisfaction it will engender - making me very concious of the adage, 'Careful what you wish for.'

The servants, although used as tools to book-end the scenes remain the most keenly drawn characters, reflecting the reality away from the grandiose mechanics of class struggle, economic power struggles and the eve of revolution. These are people who are living their lives, giddy and love-struck, predatory and selfish, foolish and aspirational and empty without purpose. These are the characters audiences identify with, humans moving from day to day, responding to the changes in their lives that they have no power to control, surviving how best they can.

In short I thoroughly loved the production, Zoë Wanamaker fantastically conveys a woman stalling the inevitable and in acceptance of her flaws embraces them and holds them up with an emotional superiority to all her question her. Mark Bonnar is urgent, pious and everything we have come to expect from a proto-revolutionary. Kenneth Cranham, so deathly I fear for his health, but greatest praise for the complexity of Conleth Hill’s performance, portraying the middle-class angst with such (and literal) dexterity.


Go and see it if you can.

I HAVE TO GIVE SENSIBLE ANSWERS TO MY KIDS OR THE END OF BULLSHIT

It has finally happened. The period of bullshitting our kids has come to an end. Here are a couple of examples that I have been shot down with recently.

Ginger: Can the tooth fairy carry paper money?
Me: No, the wind tends to catch it and they get blown off course and often into lawn mowers tearing their tiny limbs apart, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that by just being greedy would you?
Ginger: Actually, I am not being greedy, paper money is lighter than metal money. They could fold it up. And nobody cuts their grass at night.

some marketing genius has taken tooth and fairy and created a scary soft hybrid

And


Blondie: Can I ask Father Christmas for a computer?
Me: Oh course not, he is old, does he look like the kind of man who could build a computer? Asking him to will only embarrass him and he will spend hours worrying about it when he could be making toys for other children. This will mean that your request prevents hundreds, possibly thousands of other children from getting presents and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that would you?
Blondie: That is why I am asking now. Christmas is ages away. He doesn’t get busy until after the Summer and Granny can use a computer.

I am pretty sure this is the kind of computer she had in mind, thus justifying my response

It is also the small crap you say to divert a needless purchase like Moshi Monster cards;

Me: Oh you don't need those Moshi Monster cards, I have asked the shop guy and he says the ones in the packet are the ones you already have.
Ginger: You are lying Daddy. Stop lying to me.
Me: (in my head only) It isn't my lies you have to worry about, it is the lies of the 'system' the lies of men and women in positions of power that will screw you over. (perhaps too harsh for a seven year old).

or the tiny lies you spout to prevent having to invite the dreadful child that has somehow become their friend from coming round;

Me: OK, but we are a bit busy right now, but I will promise I will speak to her Mum and we can invite her round next week.
Blondie: You said that last week. You always break your promises. We are not busy, Mummy asked you to put up the pictures and you are still slying on the sofa.
Me: (in my head only) Get used to it kid, you have no idea what promises me and your Mum are going to break when you are old enough to start dating people.

It has become apparent that all these excuses and nano-lies are now being logged in their tiny little minds and are jockying in readiness to be hurled back at us with exocet precision at a moment when they will do the most damage. What is worse is they are shaming us, and in public now.

I have to change my gameplan a little, it is truth versus inoccence time once again.

YES OR NO

Today you should vote. You will be voting on AV, and perhaps you will be voting in your local election. There are some things that you should remember every time you vote.

These are things that my Grandfather told me when I came of age to vote and they are surprisingly prescient given that this was 1992 and the adult playground called twitter had not been invented. My Grandfather's funeral was the same day as an election, the last thing said at his funeral was, 'before going to the reception, go and vote.' So here are his wise words.

• Don't vote for someone because your friends are or because it is fashionable or a celebrity told you
• Vote for someone because you think it is right
• Don't be bullied into voting one way or another
• A politician shouldn't expect your vote, they should win it
• You are not stupid if you don't understand their politics, they haven't communicated it properly so ask them to explain it more
• Don't vote blindly, find out as much as you can before you vote
• Don't dismiss the alternative view out of hand, listen to it first
• Most important of all, do vote

ODDS OR EVENS

Competition is a lovely thing in the right hands. I am neither a right wing ‘competition is all, losers should be scraped into the drains’ type person, nor am I a left wing ‘everyone should just join in and stand around until nobody wins’ type person. Inclusiveness is key and the correct tone should be set for ever endeavour.



The case-in-point is our street party. At 12noon, the Royal Wedding happened, then people charged out en mass to set up tables and chairs, share good humour, food and drink. The actual subject of the Royal Wedding barely raised its head through the day. There were those who were high on the pomp and circumstance, and there were those who really couldn’t give a stuff about the Royals but had been offered a chance to converse and play with their immediate community. Then began a small slice of times gone by, the competitions.


Cake competition. Lots of kids entered truly awe inspiring creations, made from rice, and other such ummm…. things that kids make cakes out of. There was a winner, they were happy; the young’uns that didn’t win weren’t too bothered.

Cakes - loads of cakes - some were winners too

Egg and spoon race. Lots of kids entered. I fucked up a little here as I was supposed to have boiled the eggs. I didn’t. So seconds before the race I was taping eggs to spoons of the youngest entrants to give them a fighting chance. Most of the little blighters still managed to drop the whole egg and spoon ensemble. There were admittedly a few upset kids in this race – but this is mainly because there was no winner.



All races need a start. Not all races need a finish (think human).


Welly throwing. Nobody won this either. In fact, thanks to some cava fuelled throwing we nearly only had losers. Sorry about your front door Phil.

The clever ones amongst you will notice this is in fact an egg splat and not a welly.

Hat competition. I didn’t know we had this competition. Some kids won. They were happy.

This hat would have won. It didn't. Lady Gaga was not
 present at our street party either, as far as we know.

Sack Race. I won (some call it a draw). I was happy. My eldest was beaming.

We made the sacks race each other with male jockeys riding them.
Some people thought this was cruel. We returned the sacks to the wild after the race.

Tug of War. Also known as the Main Event. This was the moment when everyone could settle their differences with their neighbours opposite. It was Odds vs. Evens. You can imagine the heady scent of testosterone as we all marched down to the 'theatre of Tug'. It was decided there would be three Tugs; Male adults, Female adults and Children. There was a great deal of forest noise making, and from the most unlikely sources. Collectively, us (and boy do I mean us) admin-based-commuting-withered-limb males could stand tall with our fishermen, builder and body-building brothers by a different house. Flip-flops were discarded and hands were dried on our nervous children’s clothing. The call went out to ‘take the strain’ and within that instant 50 males who, only five minutes prior had been conversing about the disruption caused by the airport extension whilst sipping on a flute of fizz, turned into sweating, heaving, growling beasts. Veins popped, children sped on the wings of infantile pride to hysteria, their shrill cries of ‘pull, come-on, pull’ attracting dogs for three counties. Wives, girlfriends, sisters, mothers and grandmothers intent on treating this tawdry masculine willy waving competition with the scorn it deserved were all sucked into the gladiatorial heat of battle. There were promises of all kinds of fringe benefits being tossed at the potential victors, from kids being sent to bed *ahem* early to being reinstated in the inheritance. With dogs barking and snapping at the duellist’s ankles and meagre muscles starting to ache more than they did when we last put up a shed, a roar went out from our side. A roar that galvanised Team Odds in the final sinew tearing tug. We pulsed with this roar, all our excel spreadsheet angst, our ektron web management frustration travelled to our palms and pulled at once. We won. This battle was reincarnated three times. Odds won each Tug. Later, as we were all chatting and trying not to let the shaking muscles show, it transpired that the roar was caused by the guy in front of me treading on a stone and hurting his foot.

Imagine 50 men holding this at groin height, yup you get what I am saying....

There was no prize except the pride of a street coming together and having fun. The general consensus? Sure the Royal Wedding was fun, but the street party even better, we should have one every year regardless of the occasion, in fact the street party IS the occasion.


Roll on 2012 and the Street Olympics.