has come to the realisation that he is not a “real” man.
Ladies and gentlemen – but let’s face it, mostly ladies – I have an announcement to make. I know this will be hard for you – it certainly is for me – but I feel it’s something that needs to be said. The web of lies has been stretched to breaking point.
What I am about out to reveal has been creeping up on me slowly over the years, but in the past few weeks it has become impossible ossible to deny. The truth is I am just t not a “real” man.
I had assumed d that because I drank and swore re and was good fun at parties that at this meant I was an alpha male. But as it turns out, it just st means I’m an incredibly y rude and charming alcoholic. coholic.
The truth first t began to dawn on me while I was watching my son n play soccer and I realised he wasn’t so much playing soccer as s performing a series of interpretive retive dance moves occasionally lly interrupted by a ball. It was more like rhythmic gymnastics astics but without the rhythm. thm. And, if I am to be completely mpletely honest, the gymnastics. nastics.
You know that t when your firstborn son n is too soft for a football code e whose primary objective e is to dive to the ground screaming reaming in pain that you really haven’t made a man of him. Yet despite all my years of training in musical theatre I couldn’t figure out where I’d gone wrong. The second big wake-up call came a few days later when I started the long and torturous process of buying a car. It wasn’t a shock to me that I am not particularly good with cars – if I was I wouldn’t have to be buying a new n one – but I was shocked to learn I wasn’t wa even good enough to kill them. them “Surely you understand th this?” my mechanic implored as h he asked for the paperwork to take t to the wreckers. “You. Did. No Not. Put. Oil. In. The. Motor.” Shortly after I asked h him what a motor was, my m mechanic insisted on accompanyin accompanying me to all future visits in my qu quest for a new automobile. Ther Thereupon he would have animat animated conversations with v various sellers in a language that to me might asw as well have been Urdu, and in some cases probably was. “It’s the cran crankshaft!” he’d tell one. ““It’s the timing bel belt!” to another. “C’mo “C’mon, mate, what about the diff?” I always thou thought the diff was som something that sho should be split, but apparently in the automotive world that is not a good result.
It was obvious that I was not the man for a man’s job. Despite always priding myself on my workingclass background, the truth is my background is neither classy nor working. Really, I was just raised by a single mum on a pension. I didn’t even know how to lift a toilet seat until I was 15 years old, let alone a bonnet.
In retrospect all this should have been radiantly clear: I never played proper football, I never learnt how to fix a car and I still use phrases like “radiantly clear”.
But even if I couldn’t fix my car, I thought I could at least fix my mistakes and make my son a better man than me. I tried to get him to kick a ball and fight fair and drink water…
Well, turns out I’m not the man for that job either.
Still, he does have some pretty wicked dance moves. And I know he didn’t get them from his mother. Joe co-hosts Studio 10, 8.30am weekdays, on Network Ten and is Editor-at-large for News.com.au.
“I thought I was an alpha male. But it turns out I’m just a charming alcoholic”