Yes. Apparently it’s true.
Without constant supervision, men stab themselves in the eyes with pencils, set the house on fire, and absent-mindedly drink bleach.
I’ve long suspected as much. When I watch television (which I do while wearing a plastic bag over my head and putting my big toe in the plug socket by the bath) I often see cheery ads in which fatuously stupid men football and beer their way to injury while their elegant wives make “boys will be boys” faces at one another. Smooth girlfriends nod knowingly as their daft lifemates drop things or obsess over designer gadgets no one could possibly need. It’s a staple of modern light television drama that men are a bit hopeless. They fail to notice when someone’s in love with them and they blunder around like Homer Simpson putting their feet in their mouths and falling over rollerskates or into cakes at weddings.
Men are rubbish. Women are great.
Come on, people.
Never mind that this is just plain silly.
Never mind that it’s an offensive portrayal of men as a gender (because frankly the power relationship between men and women is still skewed enough in favour of the boys that it doesn’t matter a damn to me if we get pooped on a bit.)
Never mind that using a stereotype like this entrenches the practice of making idiot generalisations – “men do x“, “women are y“, “white people always z, but black people don’t”.
Never mind even that this kind of gender stereotyping cannot help but legitimise the old Carry On movie blonde jokes in the modern world – because hey, “we live in an equal society and women make those gags about men now.” (Tcha.)
This way of seeing things actually proposes that capable, elegant women of intelligence should expect their men to be rubbish. It says “hey, ladies: the best you will ever get is an emotionally incapable, infantilised boy-man with moderate hygene, ADD and poor problem-solving skills. And you should love that man for his little ways and cherish him, because that is what men are.”
No, it isn’t, any more than women are Barbie dolls. If you have an infantilised boy-man who is feeding off your bank account; who can’t cook or won’t cook even when you have to work late; who runs away when your mother comes round; who only does the washing up on Boxing Day and cannot stand to miss the sporting event you hate even on your anniversary; who embarrasses you in front of your friends … trade the useless twit in for an actual human being.
This is, by the way, not Shane Watson’s fault. She is soooo not responsible for this egregious horseapple trend; she’s just catching the flack for it right now, for which, actually, I would like to apologise. Shane, if you’re reading, this is not about you. This is about a media-advertising trend which winds me up beyond belief. You tripped over my crazy this morning.
Why am I so riled about this?
I almost don’t know. Is it because so many of my friends have dated creatures of uncertain merit and serious shortcomings and thought themselves lucky? Is it because the notion that we should find gender equality in being equally stupid towards one another seems so sad? I mean, wouldn’t it be better if we founded our new world of gender (and yes, there are more than two, but please God let’s not make this more abstruse than it already is) on, y’know, respect and comradeship?
In the end, I think it’s because I believe love should lift us up. The person you’re with should make you more yourself: a purer, stronger, wiser version of who you are, more able to cope and more magnificently daring. And the Cult Of Twit runs counter to that. This notion of men as puppies is an excuse to be less.
And yet…
The strange thing is that beneath the surface, the Times article which set me off on this rant has a lot to say about that. Men married to clever women live longer. I believe that – although I would really like to see the data. Do clever women chose mates who are likely to live longer? Do clever women marry clever men, who are more able to make wise lifestyle choices? Does female cleverness have class/money consequences or roots which make the two phenomena effects of one cause? And so on.
Beyond that, though, there’s genuine affection in this piece. God knows, Mrs H and I have chastised one another for cooking in a state of undress. We both have nightmare moments in the kitchen, we each of us hate watching the other chop carrots, use a grater, handle the roasting tray. I do sometimes need to be reminded to take my keys when I leave the house… because I’m human, not because I’m male.
And then there’s that last line. Short-changed? Hell, yes. She’s right. If you’re in the marriage from a detergent commercial or a supermarket ad – then you may well be being short-changed. And you may even be doing it to yourself a little bit. The notion of the boy-man as a suitable partner allows men to coast when they should be pushing themselves to be better partners.
So while the piece makes me crazy, it somehow makes me hopeful as well.
But if it describes your life – you should seriously consider kicking some boy-man ass.
[This blog post has been brought to you by the "I SO did not imagine I would ever go here" department of the Harkaway Institute for Arguments I Do Not Believe I Have Any Business Anywhere Near.]
