Real men are real.

 

They’re hilarious, curious, complex, caring and heartbroken.

That beautiful male model sitting in the perfect vintage Merc, bountiful beard and dazzling eyes?

He had to bury his dad last week.

 

He grits his teeth through it, walks behind the client’s caravan and cries his eyes out.

Almost all marketing is sheen and not real.

Real wins.

Don’t let Them tell you what your real should be.

 

Real men can walk unaided across Antarctica.

Discover new particles that change our view of existence.

Build cathedrals.

Fart in tune to the Marseillaise.

 

Real men can bench press 200kg.

Or 20kg.

Who cares?

Do your thing.

 

Real men would die for their kids.

Actually, literally die.

They’ve thought about it.

Decision made, in case.

 

Real men create works of transcendent beauty.

Poetry begging to tell the horrors of war.

Paintings that render us speechless.

Movies that change us.

 

Real men don’t send random dick pics on smartphones.

Who the eff does that??

Unreal men.

Dicks with dicks.

 

Real men can take a derelict yard and turn it into paradise.

Cherry trees.

A shed full of drying lavender and nicknacks.

A place to fall in love.

 

Real men wear frocks.

Diving apparatus.

Wellies.

Box-fresh limited edition Japanese sneakers.

 

Real men have fought, lost, learnt, fought again and won.

They’ve failed.

Bollocksed it all up.

One foot in front of the other.

 

Real men have mental breakdowns.

The strongest men too.

Any man can fall in on himself.

A little push, or a thudding punch to the head.

 

Real men are the good ones.

Men who climb mountains.

Wipe their kids clean.

Cry at old movies.

Fight, love and make a hash of the Yorkshire Puddings.

Every good man has a story.

 

An imperfect one.