Being a Bloke
Bloke: noun; A man (chiefly British) Origin unknown, first known use circa 1829
It’s not easy being a bloke, don’t let anyone tell you it is. Women throw up their hands in exasperation and tell you you’d never cope being a woman…before going through a huge list of things that women have to cope with day-to-day. I don’t listen though, I’m a bloke.
Being a bloke some things just don’t register in my brain, mostly because they don’t affect me, or they’re incredibly boring and trivial. Washing piling up, dishes in the sink, a carpet that needs vacuuming; I just walk by, my mind on important stuff.
Being a bloke can mean you’re a bit insensitive at times. She’s telling you something that has happened that has upset her: something she’s seen, something she’s heard, something someone said. She tells you all about it and you sit there while she lets it all pour out. Then you notice she’s crying and say, “What’s up with you?”
You’re not cruel, you’re not being deliberately insensitive; you’re a bloke. Sensitive is something that happens to other people. I think it was Chris Rock who said that when women say ”can we talk?” what they really mean is they want you to listen while they talk. Now being a bloke means I have a very clever genetic instruction in my brain, that has evolved over millennia and has been passed down through many generations of blokes, that enables my brain to detect trivia and automatically shut down. It is a defence mechanism that protects you from pointless yap that scientists have proven can send your grey matter mushy. It’s true!
So you’re sitting there appearing to be attentive on the outside while inside most of your brain has gone into sleep mode. All, the while she’s rattling away about women’s…whatever matters to the (un)fairer sex…and the bloke doesn’t have to worry about mind melt. It’s genius really if you think about it, a real miracle of nature.
Then she’s like “oh you’re such a good listener…” and gives you a hug which wakes you up. So, not only has your brain been saved the pain, but you’re in her good books too – hooray!
Things are different in a bloke’s world. Someone once asked me what products I used, I found it a really strange question. “…er…same as everyone else I s’pose: milk, butter…”
“No, that’s produce. What moisturiser do you use?”
“Ah, oh yeah, sorry…water.”
I suppose you could learn about these things if you read her Cosmopolitan, but lets face it, being a bloke means you’ll only look at the pictures with your hand in your pocket!
I’m a bloke! I don’t have ‘an inner child’, what does that even mean? Where I grew up ‘having a feminine side’ meant you were bisexual. Where I grew up ‘reaching out’ usually meant trying to grab someone by the throat.
Being a bloke means avoiding mind-numbing reality TV, soaps and game shows. I hate it when I visit my aunt and she’s watching Big Brother or that thing when ‘celebrities’ you’ve never heard of are in the jungle. I hate soaps where they do nothing but bloody moan and call it drama.
I hate that thing where they take an hour to open red boxes to reveal amounts of money that are crossed off the board, I think it’s called Deal or No Deal. Noel Edmonds drags it out for an hour when, if I was the host, it wouldn’t last 15 minutes, “cut the crap and pick a f***ing box.” All the Box Openers are rooting for the Box Picker because they’re the only friends they’ve ever made. Then of course the Box Opener has to tell the little sad story and shed a tear while the nation cries with them. Get me a bucket, I’m gonna puke!
Where I grew up you only get forgiven for shedding a tear if you’re laughing. Or so drunk that you’re telling your mate that he’s like a brother to you etc.
Being a bloke in the age of The New Man is frowned upon. The New Man shares, The New Man cares. The New Man not only listens, he holds a box of tissues – some of which The New Man uses himself! Unbelievable.
So yeah, us blokes ain’t asking for sympathy, that would be most unwelcome, all we want is a little understanding. It’s not our fault, we’re just blokes.
Oh and by the way, in the middle of the night when you think you hear someone moving around downstairs, would you rather have a bloke go down there to check it out? Or The New Man hiding in the wardrobe with you pissing his pyjamas?