Our outspoken columnist John Crow has
The news that
fat men are wearing bras comes as no news to me. Week by week,
month by month, we see the erosion of traditional male values.
While I am for equality as much as the next man, it is surely
time for a gentle yet firm hand to be laid on the shoulder of
women before the menfolk of this country finally disappear in
a poncey great cloud of talcum powder.
For men of
my father's generation, personal grooming amounted to little more
than a regular haircut and a hot bath when required. They and
their wives were happy. Nowadays, we are expected to cleanse,
tone, wax and moisturise in order that we become more attractive
to the likes of Germaine Greer and her fellow anarchists. I confess
to having had my back waxed some years ago, but even then it was
only as a prank by my friends whilst I lay unconscious in the
street having been hit by a car.
In these days of celebrity culture and makeover TV, it can be
difficult for the old fashioned bloke (in whose number I proudly
count myself) to assert his right to be himself. That is why I
live alone, much in the same way that Clint Eastwood's Man With
No Name lived alone: preferring the company of his horse and the
prairie cactus to that of hairdressers, beauty consultants and
the fashionistas who would have us believe that the brassiere
for men is a good thing. God gave man ten good fingers in order
that he could unfasten bras and bring pleasure to their contents,
not so that he could rummage through the lingerie racks looking
for a nice one to wear on a hot date.