Summer is at last upon us and nothing signals the arrival of this warm season than the hordes of shirtless and oiled men who walk down our High Streets.
Forget the image of Glastonbury, beer gardens, girls in short skirts or the sight of BMX riding kids devouring Calypso lollipops on their summer holidays. Forget all that.
The champion icon of the British summer is now, without question, the Topless Male. He is now a species unto himself.
Speaking as one who’s body has lapsed into a state of catatonic atropism it may sound like Jealousy Herself rearing it’s head, but it is not.
I too, once ever so briefly, achieved what insiders in the business would call “developed abdominalis” and the rest of us merely a “six pack”.
My abdominal muscles were so solid, that even professedly heterosexual males would touch and think of the word “steel” (some would utter it aloud). And boy did it stroke my ego like a little girl would stroke her favourite kitten. And being on the whole human and male and full of testosterone, I would invite grown men, from time to time, to punch me in the stomach, as a demonstration of strength. Boys will be boys unfortunately and some will behave idiotically.
But still, even then, I largely kept my six pack under wraps, to be unleashed only in times of urgent necessity. I viewed my six pack, knowing how much effort went into obtaining it, not as a superficial mirror I could reflect my vanities upon, but as a byproduct of training my core muscles to improve my balance, and improve my training output. The fact there were lumps in the middle of my body was nice, but not the whole story.
Showing off is the preserve of the peacock and a peacock, though beautiful, is ultimately useless. It will not discover the cure for AIDS anytime soon.
Now, the big question of the summer, is not so much whether Big Brother has reached the apex of trashiness, nor whether the combination of a slowing housing market and rocketing oil prices will leave many people feeling the pinch. No, the question of the summer will be - is there far too much man-breast on the average street?
If you are a male who spends a lot of time in the gym, naturally I can understand your need to show off the fruits of your labour. I know that whilst a lot of people are safe in the comfy confines of their homes, you toil in a smelly gym with poor ventilation and rusty equipment, straining under the weight of gravity and your own ego.
Speaking as one who’s body has lapsed into a state of catatonic atropism it may sound like Jealousy Herself rearing it’s head, but it is not.
I too, once ever so briefly, achieved what insiders in the business would call “developed abdominalis” and the rest of us merely a “six pack”.
My abdominal muscles were so solid, that even professedly heterosexual males would touch and think of the word “steel” (some would utter it aloud). And boy did it stroke my ego like a little girl would stroke her favourite kitten. And being on the whole human and male and full of testosterone, I would invite grown men, from time to time, to punch me in the stomach, as a demonstration of strength. Boys will be boys unfortunately and some will behave idiotically.
But still, even then, I largely kept my six pack under wraps, to be unleashed only in times of urgent necessity. I viewed my six pack, knowing how much effort went into obtaining it, not as a superficial mirror I could reflect my vanities upon, but as a byproduct of training my core muscles to improve my balance, and improve my training output. The fact there were lumps in the middle of my body was nice, but not the whole story.
Showing off is the preserve of the peacock and a peacock, though beautiful, is ultimately useless. It will not discover the cure for AIDS anytime soon.
Now, the big question of the summer, is not so much whether Big Brother has reached the apex of trashiness, nor whether the combination of a slowing housing market and rocketing oil prices will leave many people feeling the pinch. No, the question of the summer will be - is there far too much man-breast on the average street?
If you are a male who spends a lot of time in the gym, naturally I can understand your need to show off the fruits of your labour. I know that whilst a lot of people are safe in the comfy confines of their homes, you toil in a smelly gym with poor ventilation and rusty equipment, straining under the weight of gravity and your own ego.
No-one to say “well done son” or “my your handsome” etc. It sometimes feels like it’s all for nothing.
But I urge you, this summer leave the shirt on. Please.
But I urge you, this summer leave the shirt on. Please.
Of course, many women will disagree with me on this issue. But shame on you - you're only encouraging this smorgasbord of man-flesh.
Then again, I really may be jealous after all...
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