Of TMS, Boys, Balls And Belts

TMS wrote an interesting post the other day about others peoples' perceptions of her. The theme of it is that she feels she is a tomboy, though it's written with her customary lilt, with much more detail and using words like "magnanimous". Class.

Now I've never met TMS in person, though I do feel as if I know her quite well. We communicate regularly by email, we're FB friends and she frequently sends me naked pictures of her, but I've never actually met her face to face so I can't really say whether she comes across as a tomboy or not.

She tells us in her post that she drinks more than many men, swears like a trooper and she smokes like a chimney. Also she's frequently the only girl out with men when they go out for a drink.

Our favourite spell casting thespian goes on to say:

"Because deep down all I really am and all I’ll ever really be… is one of the guys. A man with boobs."

Well TMS you inspired me to think, as you often do with your writing, and this time I contemplated and cogitated about what it meant to be a boy, apart from the obvious and old fashioned physical business about willies, vaginas, breasts, periods, babies and beards, all so last century.

Like everyone in the world today I spend a lot of time watching reruns of Friends. I often think that there must be African fellows, living in the remotest little villages in darkest Africa, who haven't the faintest idea who Barack Obama, or maybe even Mervyn Silva is, yet they know all the intricacies of Ross and Rachel's relationship and were as happy as the rest of us when they sailed off into the sunset at the end.

I can never remember which one it is but there's definitely one series that's no way near as funny as all the others isn't there? I think it's about series 7 or 8 and I should try to figure it out some time, but each time I see one of its episodes I groan a little. But, that's by the by, the thing is that the writing of Friends is one of its many strong points and each character contains elements of the ideal man and the ideal woman.

Every man wants to be a combination of Chandler's wit, Ross' intelligence and Joey's sheer boyishness and ability to bed women. Every woman wants their personal combination of the three girls. Though every man wonders what on earth a woman would want from Monica or Phoebe.

And boyishness is something that only true boys understand. It's well documented that I like shopping and use moisturiser but I still think I'm all man, perhaps with a couple of female strands floating around in my DNA.

Being a real man isn't about drinking with men, smoking or using bad language. No, being a real man is defined by two main things; understanding the joy in scratching your balls and getting joy out of a totally useless gadget.

I could write a post about scratching balls but frankly that would be easy. I could make you chuckle with humorous tales of gonad itching and the comments would flood in and I might get in Cerno's book. But I'm going to take the road less, er blogged about, and tell you about gadgets, one in particular. The one I bought on Saturday, the one that gives me a manly feeling each I look at it.

I went to Richmond for a mooch around the shops and to buy some mens' things; shampoo and cream for my nails. And, while mooching I looked at belts, brown leather ones. I'm not a label person these days, I tend to buy things that I think look good on me. Unless the label is Superdry of course, then I tend to love it because of the brand, but other than that I won't fall for all this "buy me because of my branding" stuff.

But for some months I've had my eye out for a nice brown leather casual belt. I've got one already and I wanted another, I like to live on the edge. In Sri Lanka I was disappointed in Otara's selection, that would have been my first option, so I just thought I'd keep looking in a non urgent way.

There I was, walking through a department store, we have more than one over here, and a brown leather belt caught my eye. It was thick dark tanned leather. There was no fancy stitching, no loud patterns and it had a simplistic buckle. I also noticed that it's made by Ted Baker, a label that's quite British and quite expensive. It had a price label on it, and it said £35, a shitload of money for a belt I thought.

I looked at the thing. I tried it on and was fascinated by its design. You see it had no holes and no spikey thing in the buckle to put through the holes. The buckle had a clever thing that held the long bit of the belt in place on its own, giving the belt a sleekness that I liked. But, the longer I looked, the more I deliberated, the longer the price remained at £35, a shitload of money for a belt I thought.

My staring at the belt, turning it in all directions and generally acting like a bride to be choosing a wedding dress, was making me a bit stressed. Am I turning into a girl? Maybe I am to TMS' man with boobs a woman with a willy. Maybe the shop assistant was looking at me thinking that I was a drag queen, a woman or a shoplifter. Or all three, or any two from the three.

And then I saw it, the clincher, the USP and I reacted in the way that banished my fears and made me realise I'm not a woman with a willy or anything like that, I'm a man, apart from the strands of female DNA. Yes, I'm all man, with a huge throbbing drumstick.

There was little label attached to the belt and it explained, in trendy marketeer's speak, that the buckle incorporated a....bottle opener. That was enough for me. I bought it and would have willingly paid twice the asking price, a shitload of money for a belt I thought, but not one with a bottle opener.

Not once in my 24 (plus a few) years have I been caught short without a bottle opener. I have a friend who can open a bottle top with his thumb and a disposable lighter and that's without using the flame, but it's just not something that has ever bothered me.

If I was stuck in the situation I'd just smash the neck of the bottle and drink away. I guess the only time this might be a major problem would be if I was stranded in a marshmallow factory with just bottled beer and no opener. Then smashing glass would be hard to do and I might die from thirst. The death would be even more painful if I had started to eat the marshmallows, which I would.

But I had to buy the belt. And now I know that I'd live if the whole marshmallow factory nightmare ever did happen to me. Unless I was wearing the old belt of course.

I spend a lot of time glancing at this belt and, as I look at the buckle with its built in opener, I feel a sense of joy that only another man would understand.

That's what being a man means. Joey would understand. Girls don't.

And scratching balls.