Journalism

Men's Health - I’m not a real man because…

For the attention of Andy Richardson
Andy - hope this is OK. I should be in the office Tuesday if you need to go over anything.

IÂ’m not a real man becauseÂ… I donÂ’t like cars by Richard Herring

Real men like nothing more than taking their monkey wrench in their hands and fiddling around under their bonnets. Real men are kings of their petrol fuelled palaces of speed and passion. Real men are modern day centaurs, top half, human, bottom half, sports car.
I am not a real man. I donÂ’t like cars.
I donÂ’t have any environmental objection to them, in fact I think theyÂ’re a pretty good way of getting where youÂ’re going (as long as IÂ’m not navigating), but I canÂ’t get worked up about a large piece of metal, however shiny it might be.
My ignorant disinterest is embarrassing. IÂ’ve never even owned a car. I canÂ’t tell a Robin Reliant from a Porsche Libido. I think a saloon is where women have their hair done. An estate is a place I am scared to walk through at night. To me a Chevy is an actor, whose appearance in a film guarantees that it will be free of any kind of entertainment value.
Worse still, because I didn’t learn to drive until I was 26, I have no formative teenage “back-seat” experiences to remember with a wry smile. The smell of the plastic seats of a 1971 Morris Marina doesn’t evoke memories of bra straps and steamed up windows, only ones of my brother elbowing me in the stomach because my foot had strayed to his side of the car.
And to think, if I had just concentrated a bit more when playing Top Trumps I could have been as cool and machoas Jeremy Clarkson.