Читать книгу The Men Commandments - Christian O’Connell - Страница 4

BY

JAMES NESBITT

‘What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals – and yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?’

Shakespeare knew his onions. Four hundred and one years after Hamlet so deftly defined man’s complexities and insecurities, his pride and self-loathing, his capabilities for good and evil, we’re none the wiser. In fact, in 2008, this is much worse. Hamlet was jammy enough to die a hero. His dad was dead, though appeared once nightly as a ghost during the summer season. His mum married his uncle, so clearly they both had to die, he had sex with his girlfriend then mistakenly stabbed and killed her father, who was hiding behind the curtain, or ‘arras’ as Shakespeare called it – he obviously didn’t know his ‘arras’ from his elbow. She went mental before doing the decent thing of drowning herself before he had the ‘we need to talk’ nightmare, and then in his death throes after he had been pierced with a poison sword, his best mate Horatio held him in his arms and snogged him. Thus ensuring Hamlet died happy in the knowledge that he had tried everything.

But modern man. We have to live. Every day we have to live with ourselves, our partners, our children, our friends. And we don’t know how to. We’re scared. We’re lost. How did it come to this?

How did we arrive at a situation where we spend more on grooming products than we do on beer?

Why do our mates openly discuss their feelings while our wives debate the offside trap? Why, despite our embracing of liberal modernity, do we still have no control over the groin area?

If we publicly cry more than Charles Ingalls in an average episode of Little House on the Prairie, does it demonstrate how in touch we are with our feminine side or do we appear weak, pathetic nonces?

Why do our children change from adoring little angels to sulky ten-year-olds, embarrassed to even breathe? And why in God’s name at the age of 43 do I still suck my thumb? We need answers. Desperately.

For years women have had everyone from Mrs Beeton to Germaine Greer to Bridget Jones. Men have had no one. Until now.

Christian O’Connell looks like Jerry Seinfeld’s younger brother but with bigger teeth. And has a fondness for wearing muscle tops. Not an obvious candidate for our knight in shining armour, but don’t be fooled.

Our friendship is based on abuse. I listen while he abuses me. But I like to think it’s borne out of love. He is as at home in the company of women as he is in the company of men. He is funny, irreverent, scathing, at times coruscating but never cruel. Very much the modern man.

He has not, however, fallen prey to the dumbing-down culture which so pervades our society. Intelligent, kind and erudite, he is a devoted husband and father. But at heart he is a man’s man and is the answer to our prayers. With Christian, men can regain their identity and walk proud and tall. His wife’s man, his daughter’s man, his friend’s man, he’s my man. He’s Christian O’Connell.