I grew up in Newcastle, where men, as the saying goes, were… well, men. My parents had bike shops, none of them in the most salubrious of areas, which meant the other main feature of the shop, after the huge blue and gold signage, was its security: steel roller shutters, six deadlocks on the front door, eight on the back. It didn’t stop the break-ins, and even as a boy I felt vulnerable.
I learned early to be wary of men and understood which type to watch out for, to avoid. Never the muscle-bound ones; always the wiry, pale men with face tattoos and a wide-eyed stare.
At 12, my newly, and relatively, wealthy parents moved me from the local comp to an all-boys private school, and I felt out of place the moment we lads were separated into “houses”. I found my place closer to the naughty, fighty kids than the quiet, soulful boys, and yet even then I was starkly aware that I fitted in with neither. Between the two, I came away with an odd view of masculinity that has shaped my relationships with men (and women) ever since.
As I’ve written in these pages before, I have no male friends. I see very little value in those alliances, or what purpose they might serve. Women, for me at least, seem far more open, practical and emotionally interesting, and they come without an enormous ego to clamber over.
I’m the man on the end of the table, nodding politely, smiling and feigning interest in the football chat and the bragging, when really I want to know what the women are talking about. It’s far more interesting because it usually involves actual life, relationships, feelings.
Men do anything to avoid what’s really happening. They are afraid of closeness. Wrongly labelled by society as the emotionally stronger partner, we’ve spent decades seeing our distance mistaken for nonchalance. It isn’t that we don’t care, it’s that we don’t dare; emotional investment feels expensive.
It’s fear. But of what? Of opening up. Of the closeness and vulnerability that might lead to us revealing our true selves.
Actually, I do have a few male friends. Of course I do. But I can’t say they’re the people I’d call if my life fell apart. If you asked me what purpose those friendships serve, I’d struggle to articulate it.
I can rebuild an engine, fit a bathroom, wire up a house and probably sort out that window that doesn’t quite close. What I can’t do is tolerate the squirming discomfort of a friend who has to change the subject the moment he becomes vulnerable.
Shouldn’t we try and do better at this? After all, males around my age of 54 have the highest suicide rate of any reported population group. We need friends to talk to!
We can start by looking at how the women do it. They are the queens of friendship group maintenance. Even the women who’d describe themselves as hopeless at it are exemplars to us men, who might text each other “ballbag” every two years.
Next, men are more at ease when they are doing an activity. Don’t ask your mate how he’s feeling. Ask him to help you shift a sofa, come for a walk, or drive with you somewhere, and let the conversation turn up on the way.
And, seriously, isn’t it time for us to grow up and stop using text messages for blokey jokes, but to ask “how are you actually doing?” It’ll feel ridiculous. Send it anyway.
And watch as your male friends go through breakups and divorce. Notice the self-isolation, the distance, the drinking. My own life may have given me an unusual view of men and masculinity, but whatever yours has given you, there is rarely a lonelier figure than a man in a break-up. Lean in and support them, and give them room and permission to be vulnerable.
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