Rant

Men's' Magazines

Feature by Caroline Hurley | 15 Jul 2006

Crazy about women? Motors? Sports? Even though you don't have a girlfriend, your Fiesta sits in the garage at your mum's house and your arteries are so clogged with kebab that a ten minute kick about would put you in A&E. You are an idiot. You have been sucked into shelling out money for a glossy replacement to your missing masculinity. Despite your chat, the closest you've come to having sex in the last six months was watching an Abi Titmus download on your mate Jonno's new mobile phone. Physically, you hail from the shallow end of the Hollyoaks gene pool and as for your personality, the only thing you will ever be conversant in is football. Even then your tiny, unenlightened mind relies on the hackneyed phraseology of others; cringe inducing nonsense like "their defence was a pure comedy of errors" that you think is so clever you repeat it to anyone who will listen. Your wilful ignorance is such that your overpriced trainers, sewn by nine year-old girls too disfigured to have been sold into prostitution, will never squeak their way around the floors of an art gallery, museum or library because you are convinced these places are only open for school trips. In your utter intolerance to culture and lust to dress identically to your pals, you resemble fascism - only lazier. You are the worst example of average and now you have a manual. When the racist, small minded, middle-England, Thatcher-voting generation finally dies out, you will be what's wrong with this country. Put down that rag, you're giving yourself away.