How Not To Be a Boy

by Robert Webb

So, on that particular night (and I’m tempted to put the negative emotions in bold here, but I wouldn’t do that to you), I was afraid that I was in the wrong place, afraid of losing my old friends, anxious that my new ones didn’t love me and, as usual, in grief. On top of that, someone just correctly pointed out that I’d behaved in a selfish and self-indulgent way, so we can add shame and challenged pride to this bountiful platter of Reasons to Get Drunk. If you’re thinking right now that this catalogue of mishandled feelings is, in itself, all a little bit self-indulgent, then I suppose my reply is this: for men of about my age and older – those whose fathers had fought in a war, or those who were raised by the sons of such fathers – there can be few more powerful accusations than the one of self-indulgence. Paul got it from Ron, and I got it from Paul. This is the voice I hear all the time: Be a man. Man up. Act like a man. Get a grip. Get real. Get over yourself. Pull yourself together. Sort yourself out. Stop moaning. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You don’t know you’re born. BE A MAN. MAN UP. ACT LIKE A MAN . . .