Jeremy Clarkson: Real men don't go home at 7pm

Major Tom · #1 12th-November-2006

From The Times:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article...449506,00.html

Quote:

Real men don't go home at 7pm
Jeremy Clarkson

Speaking to an audience of wimmin in Glasgow last week, Mrs Blair revealed that back at the start of her husbandÂ’s career he was told by Labour party officials that he wouldnÂ’t get very far if he kept going home at 7pm to see his wife and children.

CherieÂ’s message was clear. Men should spend quality time with their family no matter how many wars theyÂ’ve inadvertently started and no matter how many constables are knocking on the door wanting to know about cash for ermine.

IÂ’m sorry but I donÂ’t understand. If you were an Iron Age man and you came home from a hunting expedition empty-handed because you wanted to play with your children, youÂ’d starve. If you were a penguin and you came back from a fishing trip with nothing but snow in your flippers, your baby would die and the following year Mrs Penguin would find a new mate.

This is the problem. I am designed to kill foxes, bend every woman I meet over the nearest piece of furniture and give her a damn good seeing-to.

But in an evolutionary nanosecond, itÂ’s all changed. After several million years of programming weÂ’ve been told that what women really want is a husband who leaves his colleagues in the lurch at 7pm and comes home to make a delicious quiche.

ThatÂ’s like telling your faithful family toaster after a lifetime spent making toast that you want it to become a washing machine. And itÂ’s not just a bunch of baggy-breasted feminists making the point either. ItÂ’s every single girl from the age of puberty to the menopause.

Last weekend my colleague James May hurt his wrist while performing a stunt at the MPH show in London. Being male, mostly, he shrugged it off and kept going, which caused all the backstage women to treat him like a leper.

If heÂ’d wanted to impress them he should have abandoned the show, gone home, sold his heartwarming story to OK! magazine, and spent the next six weeks watching Love Actually with his cat.

I pride myself on the fact I donÂ’t cry over films Â— apart from Educating Rita, obviously. But apparently this is all wrong. I should sob hopelessly every time I watch the news.

No, really. Look at the film stars who melt the hearts of womankind these days: Johnny Depp, Judy Law, Orlando Bloom. Are they hunter-gatherers? Maybe theyÂ’d pass muster on a Saturday morning in CarluccioÂ’s but in a jungle theyÂ’d be eaten within 10 minutes.

Back in the 1960s Paul Newman and Robert Redford were much loved as they trotted around Wyoming on their horses shooting people. But when they were reunited last week, women forgot all that and in a desperate bid to justify the stirring they felt 40 years ago, talked about how Paul has been married to the same woman for a million years and how he makes a lovely sauce.

I wonder sometimes if Steve McQueen would get a break if he appeared on the scene today. Back in the Sixties he really did seem to have all the bases covered: silent but strong smouldering sexuality, the sort of man who could punch a horse to the ground while driving a Mustang sideways through the streets of San Francisco. He even managed to get Faye DunawayÂ’s knickers off just by playing chess.

WhoÂ’s his modern-day equivalent? ThereÂ’s nobody. Stallone has disappeared. Schwarzenegger is in politics. Gibson is setting fire to synagogues. And now weÂ’re expected to believe that a dwarf like Tom Cruise could knock someone out with a single blow from his hair product.

ItÂ’s the same story in music. Robert Plant used to send women wild with that lionÂ’s mane hairdo and half a mile of hosepipe down the front of his loons. But now everyone in music is a doe-eyed pretty boy with a Ken and Barbie androgeno-crotch and nothing up his nose except moisturiser.

I work with Richard Hammond, who is about as manly as Graham NortonÂ’s knicker drawer. But girls say he has bunny-rabbit eyes and that he looks like he needs to be mothered. Pah. He looks like a Smurf.

In sport, women seem to love overpaid nancy-boy footballers who fall over all the time and cry, whereas proper men who play rugby and keep going even when their head has fallen off are largely ignored.

IÂ’ll tell you this, though, Mrs Blair. If you were a penguin looking for a mate, youÂ’d go for Steve Thompson in front of Colin Firth any day.

All of which gets me back to the case in point; that after a million years of not coming home until you actually have an impala to eat, men are now being told by the prime ministerÂ’s wife that no matter what, we should up sticks at seven and go home with a box of tissues and something gooey from Belgium.

Right. So when the director says that he needs a few more shots and I say Â“toughÂ” and drive off, thatÂ’s okay is it? ItÂ’s okay that the BBC spends thousands of pounds of your money getting everyone back the next day because Jeremy wanted to get home and read his children a Winnie-the-Pooh story?

Cherie says my attitude is macho and sheÂ’s right.

It is.

It might not be very attractive in this day and age. But thatÂ’s because IÂ’m a man. I know this because I much prefer Uma Thurman, whoÂ’s all woman, to Kate Moss who, from behind, could well be a boy.

:lol:

Major Tom · #2 12th-November-2006

From The Times:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article...449506,00.html

Quote:

Real men don't go home at 7pm
Jeremy Clarkson

Speaking to an audience of wimmin in Glasgow last week, Mrs Blair revealed that back at the start of her husbandÂ’s career he was told by Labour party officials that he wouldnÂ’t get very far if he kept going home at 7pm to see his wife and children.

CherieÂ’s message was clear. Men should spend quality time with their family no matter how many wars theyÂ’ve inadvertently started and no matter how many constables are knocking on the door wanting to know about cash for ermine.

IÂ’m sorry but I donÂ’t understand. If you were an Iron Age man and you came home from a hunting expedition empty-handed because you wanted to play with your children, youÂ’d starve. If you were a penguin and you came back from a fishing trip with nothing but snow in your flippers, your baby would die and the following year Mrs Penguin would find a new mate.

This is the problem. I am designed to kill foxes, bend every woman I meet over the nearest piece of furniture and give her a damn good seeing-to.

But in an evolutionary nanosecond, itÂ’s all changed. After several million years of programming weÂ’ve been told that what women really want is a husband who leaves his colleagues in the lurch at 7pm and comes home to make a delicious quiche.

ThatÂ’s like telling your faithful family toaster after a lifetime spent making toast that you want it to become a washing machine. And itÂ’s not just a bunch of baggy-breasted feminists making the point either. ItÂ’s every single girl from the age of puberty to the menopause.

Last weekend my colleague James May hurt his wrist while performing a stunt at the MPH show in London. Being male, mostly, he shrugged it off and kept going, which caused all the backstage women to treat him like a leper.

If heÂ’d wanted to impress them he should have abandoned the show, gone home, sold his heartwarming story to OK! magazine, and spent the next six weeks watching Love Actually with his cat.

I pride myself on the fact I donÂ’t cry over films Â— apart from Educating Rita, obviously. But apparently this is all wrong. I should sob hopelessly every time I watch the news.

No, really. Look at the film stars who melt the hearts of womankind these days: Johnny Depp, Judy Law, Orlando Bloom. Are they hunter-gatherers? Maybe theyÂ’d pass muster on a Saturday morning in CarluccioÂ’s but in a jungle theyÂ’d be eaten within 10 minutes.

Back in the 1960s Paul Newman and Robert Redford were much loved as they trotted around Wyoming on their horses shooting people. But when they were reunited last week, women forgot all that and in a desperate bid to justify the stirring they felt 40 years ago, talked about how Paul has been married to the same woman for a million years and how he makes a lovely sauce.

I wonder sometimes if Steve McQueen would get a break if he appeared on the scene today. Back in the Sixties he really did seem to have all the bases covered: silent but strong smouldering sexuality, the sort of man who could punch a horse to the ground while driving a Mustang sideways through the streets of San Francisco. He even managed to get Faye DunawayÂ’s knickers off just by playing chess.

WhoÂ’s his modern-day equivalent? ThereÂ’s nobody. Stallone has disappeared. Schwarzenegger is in politics. Gibson is setting fire to synagogues. And now weÂ’re expected to believe that a dwarf like Tom Cruise could knock someone out with a single blow from his hair product.

ItÂ’s the same story in music. Robert Plant used to send women wild with that lionÂ’s mane hairdo and half a mile of hosepipe down the front of his loons. But now everyone in music is a doe-eyed pretty boy with a Ken and Barbie androgeno-crotch and nothing up his nose except moisturiser.

I work with Richard Hammond, who is about as manly as Graham NortonÂ’s knicker drawer. But girls say he has bunny-rabbit eyes and that he looks like he needs to be mothered. Pah. He looks like a Smurf.

In sport, women seem to love overpaid nancy-boy footballers who fall over all the time and cry, whereas proper men who play rugby and keep going even when their head has fallen off are largely ignored.

IÂ’ll tell you this, though, Mrs Blair. If you were a penguin looking for a mate, youÂ’d go for Steve Thompson in front of Colin Firth any day.

All of which gets me back to the case in point; that after a million years of not coming home until you actually have an impala to eat, men are now being told by the prime ministerÂ’s wife that no matter what, we should up sticks at seven and go home with a box of tissues and something gooey from Belgium.

Right. So when the director says that he needs a few more shots and I say Â“toughÂ” and drive off, thatÂ’s okay is it? ItÂ’s okay that the BBC spends thousands of pounds of your money getting everyone back the next day because Jeremy wanted to get home and read his children a Winnie-the-Pooh story?

Cherie says my attitude is macho and sheÂ’s right.

It is.

It might not be very attractive in this day and age. But thatÂ’s because IÂ’m a man. I know this because I much prefer Uma Thurman, whoÂ’s all woman, to Kate Moss who, from behind, could well be a boy.

:lol:

Major Tom · #3 12th-November-2006

From The Times:
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article...449506,00.html

Quote:

Real men don't go home at 7pm
Jeremy Clarkson

Speaking to an audience of wimmin in Glasgow last week, Mrs Blair revealed that back at the start of her husbandÂ’s career he was told by Labour party officials that he wouldnÂ’t get very far if he kept going home at 7pm to see his wife and children.

CherieÂ’s message was clear. Men should spend quality time with their family no matter how many wars theyÂ’ve inadvertently started and no matter how many constables are knocking on the door wanting to know about cash for ermine.

IÂ’m sorry but I donÂ’t understand. If you were an Iron Age man and you came home from a hunting expedition empty-handed because you wanted to play with your children, youÂ’d starve. If you were a penguin and you came back from a fishing trip with nothing but snow in your flippers, your baby would die and the following year Mrs Penguin would find a new mate.

This is the problem. I am designed to kill foxes, bend every woman I meet over the nearest piece of furniture and give her a damn good seeing-to.

But in an evolutionary nanosecond, itÂ’s all changed. After several million years of programming weÂ’ve been told that what women really want is a husband who leaves his colleagues in the lurch at 7pm and comes home to make a delicious quiche.

ThatÂ’s like telling your faithful family toaster after a lifetime spent making toast that you want it to become a washing machine. And itÂ’s not just a bunch of baggy-breasted feminists making the point either. ItÂ’s every single girl from the age of puberty to the menopause.

Last weekend my colleague James May hurt his wrist while performing a stunt at the MPH show in London. Being male, mostly, he shrugged it off and kept going, which caused all the backstage women to treat him like a leper.

If heÂ’d wanted to impress them he should have abandoned the show, gone home, sold his heartwarming story to OK! magazine, and spent the next six weeks watching Love Actually with his cat.

I pride myself on the fact I donÂ’t cry over films Â— apart from Educating Rita, obviously. But apparently this is all wrong. I should sob hopelessly every time I watch the news.

No, really. Look at the film stars who melt the hearts of womankind these days: Johnny Depp, Judy Law, Orlando Bloom. Are they hunter-gatherers? Maybe theyÂ’d pass muster on a Saturday morning in CarluccioÂ’s but in a jungle theyÂ’d be eaten within 10 minutes.

Back in the 1960s Paul Newman and Robert Redford were much loved as they trotted around Wyoming on their horses shooting people. But when they were reunited last week, women forgot all that and in a desperate bid to justify the stirring they felt 40 years ago, talked about how Paul has been married to the same woman for a million years and how he makes a lovely sauce.

I wonder sometimes if Steve McQueen would get a break if he appeared on the scene today. Back in the Sixties he really did seem to have all the bases covered: silent but strong smouldering sexuality, the sort of man who could punch a horse to the ground while driving a Mustang sideways through the streets of San Francisco. He even managed to get Faye DunawayÂ’s knickers off just by playing chess.

WhoÂ’s his modern-day equivalent? ThereÂ’s nobody. Stallone has disappeared. Schwarzenegger is in politics. Gibson is setting fire to synagogues. And now weÂ’re expected to believe that a dwarf like Tom Cruise could knock someone out with a single blow from his hair product.

ItÂ’s the same story in music. Robert Plant used to send women wild with that lionÂ’s mane hairdo and half a mile of hosepipe down the front of his loons. But now everyone in music is a doe-eyed pretty boy with a Ken and Barbie androgeno-crotch and nothing up his nose except moisturiser.

I work with Richard Hammond, who is about as manly as Graham NortonÂ’s knicker drawer. But girls say he has bunny-rabbit eyes and that he looks like he needs to be mothered. Pah. He looks like a Smurf.

In sport, women seem to love overpaid nancy-boy footballers who fall over all the time and cry, whereas proper men who play rugby and keep going even when their head has fallen off are largely ignored.

IÂ’ll tell you this, though, Mrs Blair. If you were a penguin looking for a mate, youÂ’d go for Steve Thompson in front of Colin Firth any day.

All of which gets me back to the case in point; that after a million years of not coming home until you actually have an impala to eat, men are now being told by the prime ministerÂ’s wife that no matter what, we should up sticks at seven and go home with a box of tissues and something gooey from Belgium.

Right. So when the director says that he needs a few more shots and I say Â“toughÂ” and drive off, thatÂ’s okay is it? ItÂ’s okay that the BBC spends thousands of pounds of your money getting everyone back the next day because Jeremy wanted to get home and read his children a Winnie-the-Pooh story?

Cherie says my attitude is macho and sheÂ’s right.

It is.

It might not be very attractive in this day and age. But thatÂ’s because IÂ’m a man. I know this because I much prefer Uma Thurman, whoÂ’s all woman, to Kate Moss who, from behind, could well be a boy.

:lol:

Major Tom · #4 12th-November-2006

Heres another article, also from The Times, a bit older than the other, about another man that refuses to change into some kind of metrosexual modern man:

Quote:

Boyfriend behaving badly

Missed weddings, forgotten birthdays, offended families Â— pity the woman who finds herself going out with CC Norton

It is hard to fathom how my last girlfriend stayed with me so long. It finally ended, after four years, when she came back from a work trip and asked me how much I had missed her. I paused, had a rush of blood to the head and replied: Â“Not a great deal.Â” It set in motion a three-day extravaganza of emotional turmoil that culminated in my final exit by e-mail Â— cowardly, yes, but practical.

As I said, IÂ’ve no idea how it went on as long as it did. I can only think that my ex was some kind of angel on a mission of extreme tolerance towards one destined to fall. I had become a stranger not only to her, but to the very idea of the balanced modern relationship.

My behaviour started to spiral out of control when I decided I wasnÂ’t going to buy into the whole sensitive-modern-man persona. To me, it is simply a controlled experiment in male mendacity. Why should men be under pressure to show the Â“rightÂ” emotion, not the natural anger, lust and territoriality we feel from moment to moment?

I decided instead to live according to whatever feeling I was having, a slave to a selfish, roguish existence. It wasnÂ’t just about an unfulfilled love of French existentialism. I was genuinely fed up with screening my instinctive responses and pandering to a host of compromises. The result was personally liberating but disastrous for my coupledom. To mask my selfishness, I acted with an apathetic numbness that made me immune to the repercussions of my misdemeanours.

And they were many. One Saturday afternoon, I had to make a simple train journey from Charing Cross to Kent, where my girlfriend was a bridesmaid at a wedding. Her parents were waiting to pick me up from a country station Â— but I spectacularly failed to make it. I had been drinking all night, and though I had managed to dress in a morning suit, I was a shambles. I went for a couple of sharpeners with friends and somehow found myself accepting some drugs as a chaser. An hour later, I was wasted and incapable of communication. By the time I came to my senses, on the Sunday night, I had been registered as a missing person.

I did at least make it to the next wedding, although I mistimed my alcohol consumption so badly that I dislodged a pivotal pillar at the ice bar early on in the evening. Far too comatose to remember the ensuing commotion, I lay upturned like a beetle on five blocks of ice and a sea of half-drunk cocktails. Sadly, my girlfriend did not forget Â— nor did the aghast American side of her family.

There was a crescendo earlier this year when she found out that the girl I had painstakingly introduced to her for a mÃ©nage Ã* trois was actually a prostitute whom I had paid, and a disastrous moment at her parentsÂ’ house when I was overheard loudly demanding fellatio.

Another unfortunate incident occurred when I invited some friends round for an after-party at my flat. I happened to have invited one of their secretaries back for an after-party, too. When I failed to answer the door, they climbed over my back wall to glimpse their colleague, naked except for high heels, through the skylight. I once even slept with a transsexual in Bangkok because I was bored and couldnÂ’t be bothered to hunt down a bona-fide female.

Any moral dam of straw I built had been flushed aside. My rants against the commercial emptiness of St ValentineÂ’s Day were undermined by my forgetting my exÂ’s birthday. When I lost her job application on the Tube after someone knocked into me and the envelope was caught by a gust of wind and landed on the line, I accepted my need for a desperate escape. At that moment, I can honestly say I felt like the worldÂ’s worst and most useless boyfriend.

Surprisingly, most of my exes donÂ’t hate me Â— at least not the ones who are still in touch with me. I have been accused of having deep psychological scars and issues for behaving the way I do, and have narrowly avoided being dragged to counsellors and psychotherapists on the wayward promise of changing. But why should I change? I am not unhappy. IÂ’m just numb, indecisive and apathetic, like many males of my generation. Could it be that I am one of the few honest ones left?

Major Tom · #5 12th-November-2006

Heres another article, also from The Times, a bit older than the other, about another man that refuses to change into some kind of metrosexual modern man:

Quote:

Boyfriend behaving badly

Missed weddings, forgotten birthdays, offended families Â— pity the woman who finds herself going out with CC Norton

It is hard to fathom how my last girlfriend stayed with me so long. It finally ended, after four years, when she came back from a work trip and asked me how much I had missed her. I paused, had a rush of blood to the head and replied: Â“Not a great deal.Â” It set in motion a three-day extravaganza of emotional turmoil that culminated in my final exit by e-mail Â— cowardly, yes, but practical.

As I said, IÂ’ve no idea how it went on as long as it did. I can only think that my ex was some kind of angel on a mission of extreme tolerance towards one destined to fall. I had become a stranger not only to her, but to the very idea of the balanced modern relationship.

My behaviour started to spiral out of control when I decided I wasnÂ’t going to buy into the whole sensitive-modern-man persona. To me, it is simply a controlled experiment in male mendacity. Why should men be under pressure to show the Â“rightÂ” emotion, not the natural anger, lust and territoriality we feel from moment to moment?

I decided instead to live according to whatever feeling I was having, a slave to a selfish, roguish existence. It wasnÂ’t just about an unfulfilled love of French existentialism. I was genuinely fed up with screening my instinctive responses and pandering to a host of compromises. The result was personally liberating but disastrous for my coupledom. To mask my selfishness, I acted with an apathetic numbness that made me immune to the repercussions of my misdemeanours.

And they were many. One Saturday afternoon, I had to make a simple train journey from Charing Cross to Kent, where my girlfriend was a bridesmaid at a wedding. Her parents were waiting to pick me up from a country station Â— but I spectacularly failed to make it. I had been drinking all night, and though I had managed to dress in a morning suit, I was a shambles. I went for a couple of sharpeners with friends and somehow found myself accepting some drugs as a chaser. An hour later, I was wasted and incapable of communication. By the time I came to my senses, on the Sunday night, I had been registered as a missing person.

I did at least make it to the next wedding, although I mistimed my alcohol consumption so badly that I dislodged a pivotal pillar at the ice bar early on in the evening. Far too comatose to remember the ensuing commotion, I lay upturned like a beetle on five blocks of ice and a sea of half-drunk cocktails. Sadly, my girlfriend did not forget Â— nor did the aghast American side of her family.

There was a crescendo earlier this year when she found out that the girl I had painstakingly introduced to her for a mÃ©nage Ã* trois was actually a prostitute whom I had paid, and a disastrous moment at her parentsÂ’ house when I was overheard loudly demanding fellatio.

Another unfortunate incident occurred when I invited some friends round for an after-party at my flat. I happened to have invited one of their secretaries back for an after-party, too. When I failed to answer the door, they climbed over my back wall to glimpse their colleague, naked except for high heels, through the skylight. I once even slept with a transsexual in Bangkok because I was bored and couldnÂ’t be bothered to hunt down a bona-fide female.

Any moral dam of straw I built had been flushed aside. My rants against the commercial emptiness of St ValentineÂ’s Day were undermined by my forgetting my exÂ’s birthday. When I lost her job application on the Tube after someone knocked into me and the envelope was caught by a gust of wind and landed on the line, I accepted my need for a desperate escape. At that moment, I can honestly say I felt like the worldÂ’s worst and most useless boyfriend.

Surprisingly, most of my exes donÂ’t hate me Â— at least not the ones who are still in touch with me. I have been accused of having deep psychological scars and issues for behaving the way I do, and have narrowly avoided being dragged to counsellors and psychotherapists on the wayward promise of changing. But why should I change? I am not unhappy. IÂ’m just numb, indecisive and apathetic, like many males of my generation. Could it be that I am one of the few honest ones left?

Major Tom · #6 12th-November-2006

Heres another article, also from The Times, a bit older than the other, about another man that refuses to change into some kind of metrosexual modern man:

Quote:

Boyfriend behaving badly

Missed weddings, forgotten birthdays, offended families Â— pity the woman who finds herself going out with CC Norton

It is hard to fathom how my last girlfriend stayed with me so long. It finally ended, after four years, when she came back from a work trip and asked me how much I had missed her. I paused, had a rush of blood to the head and replied: Â“Not a great deal.Â” It set in motion a three-day extravaganza of emotional turmoil that culminated in my final exit by e-mail Â— cowardly, yes, but practical.

As I said, IÂ’ve no idea how it went on as long as it did. I can only think that my ex was some kind of angel on a mission of extreme tolerance towards one destined to fall. I had become a stranger not only to her, but to the very idea of the balanced modern relationship.

My behaviour started to spiral out of control when I decided I wasnÂ’t going to buy into the whole sensitive-modern-man persona. To me, it is simply a controlled experiment in male mendacity. Why should men be under pressure to show the Â“rightÂ” emotion, not the natural anger, lust and territoriality we feel from moment to moment?

I decided instead to live according to whatever feeling I was having, a slave to a selfish, roguish existence. It wasnÂ’t just about an unfulfilled love of French existentialism. I was genuinely fed up with screening my instinctive responses and pandering to a host of compromises. The result was personally liberating but disastrous for my coupledom. To mask my selfishness, I acted with an apathetic numbness that made me immune to the repercussions of my misdemeanours.

And they were many. One Saturday afternoon, I had to make a simple train journey from Charing Cross to Kent, where my girlfriend was a bridesmaid at a wedding. Her parents were waiting to pick me up from a country station Â— but I spectacularly failed to make it. I had been drinking all night, and though I had managed to dress in a morning suit, I was a shambles. I went for a couple of sharpeners with friends and somehow found myself accepting some drugs as a chaser. An hour later, I was wasted and incapable of communication. By the time I came to my senses, on the Sunday night, I had been registered as a missing person.

I did at least make it to the next wedding, although I mistimed my alcohol consumption so badly that I dislodged a pivotal pillar at the ice bar early on in the evening. Far too comatose to remember the ensuing commotion, I lay upturned like a beetle on five blocks of ice and a sea of half-drunk cocktails. Sadly, my girlfriend did not forget Â— nor did the aghast American side of her family.

There was a crescendo earlier this year when she found out that the girl I had painstakingly introduced to her for a mÃ©nage Ã* trois was actually a prostitute whom I had paid, and a disastrous moment at her parentsÂ’ house when I was overheard loudly demanding fellatio.

Another unfortunate incident occurred when I invited some friends round for an after-party at my flat. I happened to have invited one of their secretaries back for an after-party, too. When I failed to answer the door, they climbed over my back wall to glimpse their colleague, naked except for high heels, through the skylight. I once even slept with a transsexual in Bangkok because I was bored and couldnÂ’t be bothered to hunt down a bona-fide female.

Any moral dam of straw I built had been flushed aside. My rants against the commercial emptiness of St ValentineÂ’s Day were undermined by my forgetting my exÂ’s birthday. When I lost her job application on the Tube after someone knocked into me and the envelope was caught by a gust of wind and landed on the line, I accepted my need for a desperate escape. At that moment, I can honestly say I felt like the worldÂ’s worst and most useless boyfriend.

Surprisingly, most of my exes donÂ’t hate me Â— at least not the ones who are still in touch with me. I have been accused of having deep psychological scars and issues for behaving the way I do, and have narrowly avoided being dragged to counsellors and psychotherapists on the wayward promise of changing. But why should I change? I am not unhappy. IÂ’m just numb, indecisive and apathetic, like many males of my generation. Could it be that I am one of the few honest ones left?

FFFF · #7 14th-November-2006

Well, bugger me gently and call me a bitch, I think old Jez is a true Gent!

FFFF · #8 14th-November-2006

Well, bugger me gently and call me a bitch, I think old Jez is a true Gent!