Britical

(Transcript from a Britical Sirius Radio commentary)

 

NYC 

 

There is a huge, colourful array of world threats, a real smorgasbord, you might pretentiously say. Nuclear proliferation, bacteria resistant to antibiotics, even the physical indignities suffered by travelers at US airports…yet a far more insidious foe hovers on the horizon…

I speak of course about ‘Cuddle Parties’. Emerging in the U.S. a few years ago, it was thought this upsetting trend, much like the U.S. Constitution, had been wiped out. Not so, claim the experts.

Cuddle parties are, horrifyingly, exactly how they sound: a group of strangers in pyjamas in writhing woolly piles gently groping one another in, we are assured (and slightly dismayed to learn), a non-sexual way. Wot, no sex? What a treat.

If this idea is revolting to you, just take a peep at the photos: even a glance at the up-close shots of dozens of socked feet warmly intermingling with other socked feet will leave most sane people feeling queasy and quite violated.

And what is the pont of all this non-sexual canoodling with strangers? Shall I go into the dubious benefits (the oxycotin opiate argument) or the sad state of affairs when alienated internet addicts crave physical touch? No. Let’s not. It is all part of the same trend demonstrated by staged mass”pillow fights”. Or trustafarian “anarchists” with their parents’ cheap hippy sentiment circa 1968 offering “free hugs” on city street corners. That is, faux-naive “childlike” simpering that is best left at Burning Man or at least discussed quietly with your therapist.

Even so, arriving at a Cuddle Party, you are required to hand over a very grown-uppy $35 or $40. Not such cheap thrills after all. The group is then introduced to a “cuddle caddy” and a “cuddle lifeguard” - the latter there to help those who “get out of their depth”. For me that would mean as soon as possible assisting me to find the nearest exit. But more courageous souls stay to be guided through the do’s and don’ts. Guests are told that no means no, yes means yes and maybe means no. (Of course!) For men with “arousal” issues tents are to be quietly unpitched by eating some grapes and crackers - who knew! And although guests practice asking each other permission to…cuddle, trying out yeses and no’s, it begs the question who would be brave enough to actually say “no”? Wouldn’t it, in this smarmy, new-agey atmosphere, be considered a bit standoffish? Especially for women. Imagine what must surely be the ultimate ignominy: being rejected at a Cuddle Party!

So who in their right mind goes to these things? And are there legal waivers? Understandably, few will admit to any of it. As with A.A., attendees are encouraged to keep their mouths shut. What happens in cuddle party stays in cuddle party.
But if you relish being crushed up against strangers in the subway, if your mother didn’t love you enough or perhaps just a little too much…. or if you’re a lonely bloke looking to cop a cheap and utterly unassailable feel while not violating parole, cuddle parties will certainly float your boat - in a completely non-sexual way, of course.

 

 

Copyright Britical 2007. All rights reserved.

(Transcript from a Britical Sirius Radio commentary, "The New Man, James Bond") 

 

NYC

There’s an old trick to foil dinner party guests who might be rudely tempted to snoop about in your bathroom. You fill the bathroom cabinet with marbles…

Men in Manhattan have no need of such a ruse, it being alarming enough for any houseguest when they open the cabinet door and a huge avalanche of Kiehl’s products tumbles out. Such is the state of the much lauded, overly-discussed Metrosexual. However, a new type of man is on the horizon. More on him later.

Back in the early 1990’s we were promised, or perhaps threatened with, some sort of “New Man”. He was advertised as manly-yet-sensitive; chock full of empathy, yet secure enough to pull the remote out from its sweaty hiding place under his overhanging beer belly. Let the little lady channel surf for a change. Yet a decade or so later, and we are sick of what turned out to be either yoghurty, skinny, specimens, bleating ineffectually in patronizing tones, “Well, I myself am a feminist” and “Uh, did you come…?”, thus giving themselves permission to stay just as self-absorbed, needy and annoying as ever.

There being little money in the empathy market, savvy companies like Clinique started to ply traditionally feminine lotions and potions to men. Products, though, were carefully, slyly described in short. rugged. bite-size. sentences. And it worked.

Thus some gentlemen chose, in my view, the higher path and became completely obsessed with their bodies, chest hair, pecs, abs and the like. And about time, too, I say, for a bit of equal opportunity insecurity to get dished out, and directly benefiting us women. Fun with abs – hurrah! Now, in day spas, men account for a gobsmacking 35% of all customers, not to mention that they seek a surprising amount of weird plastic surgery, like breast reduction and buttock implants.

But, inevitably, and my fault for forgetting to load up on marbles, there is this:

Scene: My bathroom

He: (Holding up small jar)

“Is this the moisturizer?”

Me: “Yes….”

He: (Brandishing small jar)

“Is this all you’ve got? It has mineral oil in it! I can’t put this on my face!”

Bless.

So witness the ensuing backlash to all this neurotic skin-deep whining, the endless prettification of our disconcertingly hairless, smooth-skinned boys. Because much as we adore a well-groomed man, the ickily phrased “getting in touch with your feminine side” seems to have been interpreted solely as vanity! (Nice.) Which is actually a trait of female impersonators – horrid caricatures of women with overly-plucked eyebrows, entranced only by the mirror.

But as more “homely” men (and let’s face it, most are) feel threatened by the raised beauty bar, several companies are starting to instead portray their customers as iron(y)-clad chest-beating, remote control hogging throwbacks, thus replacing the Metrosexual with the Retro-sexual.

We saw, in the latest James Bond film, most men applauding the return of bare knuckles versus manicures, while women cheered the return of the sexy blunt object. But –and this is key - we women had noticed that Bond, as well as sprinting up cranes and taking out bad guys with nail guns, is a bloke who manages to pay very keen attention to his love interest and what she has to say.

So it doesn’t have to be an either/or situation. After all, women have been required to walk and chew gum – smiling and in heels – for years now. So, looking hot and paying attention – with perhaps the occasional foray up a crane? Why not? Bond, the Uber-sexual, can do it, so how hard can it be?

 

 

Copyright Britical 2007. All rights reserved.