Real Blokes

Dudley Sutton's Bill Farrell from The Football Factory: A Real Bloke

Real Blokes can build things. And if said things break, said blokes can also fix them - with whatever tools are available. Real Blokes can hold pool cues. They have the ability to tease the cue back and forth with almighty precision as they prepare to let the white ball introduce the red to the corner pocket. The manner in which they do so is assured and controlled. Hearing the sound of a huge break or the balls smashing against each other and the throat of the pockets is the sound of masculinity itself. It should be followed by a well-deserved gulp from a pint, (for real blokes drink pints you see), and a smug gasp of satisfaction. Real Blokes are able to throw things. Far. They're able to open jars without struggling. Discovering the bite point of any clutch is innate and allows them to drive almost any vehicle - which they can then park without difficulty. Real Blokes can lift heavy things and know the inner workings of engines and other mechanical thing-a-ma-jigs. Real Men don't use words like thing-a-ma-jig. These things and many more are what separate the men from the boys.

Obviously, I am not a real bloke and am not able to do any of these things. In all honesty, I think the Real Bloke gene didn't so much skip me, but marched right past me disgusted at my lack of masculinity. I'm the kind of bloke who dreads being challenged to ironic arm wrestles (with a younger sister or a slender girl for example) as I have a genuine fear of losing. Embarrassingly, I can still remember having to get my own mother to drive me to and from band practices (didn't have a drive license - still don't!), and to lift my bulky amp and guitar from the boot, then carrying them both as I followed behind - tail falling limply between my legs, spaghetti arms pathetically hanging by my useless sides - s I carried the 'easy' stuff! I remember wondering, "When exactly are my muscles supposed to start developing?" The answer still eludes me.

Another delightful Real Bloke

Having recently been involved in helping some friends move apartment, I've rediscovered just how puny I really am. There was such pressure in trying to look like one of the lads as we ferried furniture to and from vans/cars etc. We'd exchange nods as we passed each other, everybody else looking completely relaxed and bloke-ish - me with the kind of face you see on someone that's been holding in a fart for a good half hour. I tried to blend in - forcing myself to respond to the question "Is that heavy?" with the most assured "Nahh nahh nahh" that I could muster. The whole while I felt like a fraud - desperate to tell them that I was weak and wouldn't be offended if they put me on door holding duty or something of that nature.

And when it came to my own recent flat move, I was once again left ruing my lack of masculine know-how. Finding people to help shift belongings was fairly easy as I have a very generous and kind set of friends over here (particular props go to my friends 'Gros' and 'Babe'; a Real Bloke and his girlfriend who I'm sure could take me in a fight). But once TRG and I were in with all our stuff, we realised there were some things we would just have to do ourselves. The echo of footsteps and shifting boxes danced between the bare walls, singing choruses of "Bet you can't build this" and "Good luck lifting that". I had often wondered when exactly Real Blokes were first supposed to learn how to use a drill, put up some shelves or purchase a spirit level etc.*. It was clear that time in my life had finally come.

*I went with an iPhone application in the end. #Mincer.

But something changed in me in the few weeks we moved to our own place. As useless and weak as I am, the knowledge that I had only myself to rely on in order for the flat to become livable gave me a determination I had never felt before. In days gone by, I would have simply asked my dad or brother to do the work for me but now I was determined to become the man I always thought I could never be. Over the next week or so I did the following:

• Scrubbed an entire kitchen floor to ceiling (sounds easy but required grit and determination - I had to deal with grease that was half a centimetre thick at times, and also electrocuted myself on a frayed wire behind the oven)
• Built all the (admittedly flat pack) furniture. This included a TV stand, coffee table, extendable dining table, chest of drawers, bathroom cabinet complete with cupboards, bookshelf and a sofa bed.
• Put up a shelf
• Cleaned what must have been years' worth of pigeon shit from the balcony
• Installed some sliding doors to separate the living space and bedroom

I was on a testosterone fuelled roll. I was becoming more and more masculine by the day - my hands had become calloused and blistered, stubble growth had started to increase and the smell of my pits had started to deteriorate. And so in keeping with one of the most sacred behaviours displayed by Real Blokes I realised I had become fed up with all the DIY and decided to leave a few things unfinished. So now, whilst TRG may look at me and see a scrawny little worm of a boy, every time she is blinded by the kitchen light that is missing a lamp shade or every time she reaches for some bog roll from a bog roll holder that has yet to be put up and has to twist round to grab it from the cistern, she will know, without any shadow of a doubt, she is with a Real "Bri'ish" Bloke.

So that you can enjoy my handiwork, below are some pictures of my new gaff (taken with a cheap panoramic app so I won't be expecting a Pulitzer). As a real bloke I didn't feel the necessity to clean before taking them.

Here you see the TV stand, room dividers, coffee table and the dining room table. I built 'em, so I feel I have the right to clutter them with my junk - it's a testament to the build quality they're still standing. The shelf I put up is on the left. How long that stays there though, is anyone's guess.

The walls of my bog. Real Blokes Mr. Jimmy Page and Mr. Gus Young are just out of shot on the right.

Bookshelf full of women's nonsense fiction. I can't even lay claim to the 1kg weights under the sofa - they belong to TRG.