Let me tell you about women in 15th century Florence. When they reached early adolescence they were given two choices. They could either be married and devote their lives to domestic torpidity, or they could become prostitutes. Those were the options.
Let me tell you about men in 21st century Britain. When they reach early adolescence they are given two choices. They can either pick up the gauntlet of lad-hood, or they can become hipsters. Those are the options.
I think it's no exaggeration to say that the conditions faced by men today are as bleak and unyielding as those faced by 15th century women. Except they definitely aren't. What a bastard I am.
The problem is still a pressing one though. If you're a guy, and you want to have any sort of standing in society; to be recognised as a successful personality and not a dribbling outcast, you either have to become a lad or a hipster. You look into your wardrobe one day and either pick out the pink A&F t-shirt or the maroon skinny chords, and you never look back.
Think of your male friends. Think how easily they slot into these categories. Think of how when you go to the pub half of them buy 10 pints of lager and the other half sit outside smoking roll-ups. Think of how half of them suggest you go see Paranormal Activity 7 at your local multiplex this weekend and the other try and drag you to an existential little spanish film showing in the back-room of a coffee shop. Think of how half of them went to Benidorm this summer and the other went to Bestival. Think of how half wear shirts so tight you can count the goosebumps circling their nipples, and half wear jeans so tight you can read the veins on their cocks.
Anyone who doesn't fit into either category...well, they've sort of failed, haven't they? Failed to grasp that great existential truth that we've all realised, that conforming equals success and individualism (and I'm talking about proper individualism here, not the sort of individualism that you put on empty Ray-Ban Wayfarer frames to achieve) is reserved for those whose weekends consist of making airfix F1 cars in their bedrooms and rooting around in the laundry basket to see if Mum's left any fresh panties lying around. Freaks 'n' geeks. In any sort of sane world they'd be euthanized.
I fought against this prevailing wisdom for a couple of years until, not wanting to give the impression I enjoyed the smell of super glue and still-warm M&S value undies, I realised I'd need to make the choice.
Lad went straight out the window. It just wasn't going to happen, was it? Just no. So I put my mark down in the hipster box. One trip to Ryan Vintage and an awkward haircut later, I was set.
But it never felt right. I was never very good at it. I half wanted it, half despised the very idea of it. I felt like a fraud.
Because even though I'd ruled it out, being a lad always looked like it would've been more fun. Let's face it, there's a lot that's better about it. There's no self-concious posturing, no vanity, no pretentiousness, no way for well-off middle-class kids to pretend that what they have to say is in anyway profound and meaningful. There's just getting pissed and insulting each-other's mothers. That's the life.
And I want to reclaim this. Why should I have to restrict myself? I want freedom. The freedom to on one day run a hand through my fringe and quote snippets of Beat poetry and the other piss through the exhaust pipe of a car and listen to bands that don't sound like they're playing lift music to an audience of sleeping pensioners. Together, we can achieve this dream. I need your help. All two of you. Who's with me? Excelsior!
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