Every now and then I feel like some area of popular culture has stared me blankly in the face and muttered at me to just be a fucking man. I spent yesterday afternoon alone in the cinema watching The Expendables. Sly Stallone gurned, Jason Statham grimaced and some Latino bird got a bit damp. I felt inadequate. And I took some notes. Here's 5 things The Expendables taught me about drinkin', fightin', male-pattern baldness-defyin' masculinity:
1.) When your girlfriend leaves you for some basketball-playing douchebag, there'll be no weeping and wailing. Real men don't snivel into the answerphone at 3am. Just jump on your Ducati and full-throttle it to Mickey Rourke's tattoo shop. If, upon your arrival, Sly Stallone is ready and waiting bent over a motorbike, you can relax: this is all you'll ever need.
2.) Abducting women is fine, as long as you think it's in their best interests. Especially when they're Latin-American and therefore, you know, probably pretty thick.
3.) Putting too many super-hunks into any one scene can only lead to super-hunk cameo overload. Cutting between John McClane, Rocky and The Terminator inevitably leaves you with something that looks like an advert for a chain of celebrity-endorsed gyms. Or baby oil.
4.) If picking off individual targets is proving a tad finicky - and frankly a waste of time better spent guzzling beer in Mickey Rourke's tattoo shop - just stop messing about. Use a rocket launcher. It's like the tough-guy equivalent of your dad spending ten minutes in his garage trying to carefully disassemble an old Ikea wardrobe, then grunting 'Fuck it' and smashing the bastard to smithereens with the back of a spade.
5.) Watching soggy middle-aged men throw punches at each other is really fun for about forty minutes. And then you remember the first time you saw Carrie Bradshaw in a tutu, way before that last racist movie - and your heart flutters.
'What's wrong with this picture?'
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