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The 'Daddy' of the Metrosexual, the Retrosexual, & spawner of the Spornosexual

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Shane Warne Comes Out Looking Pretty

Remember the Australian cricketer Shane Warne? Remember how blokey and beery and one of the carefree lads he was? A proper man’s man? Well, he’s only gone and been snared by a posh Pommy Sheila who’s turned him into a bloody pooftah!

Or at least this was the drift of today’s Telegraph article about him, snappily titled: ‘Shane Warne’s remarkable transformation at the hands of girlfriend Liz Hurley continues’:

During his years as a famous Aussie cricketer, Warne had declined to take much of an interest in his physique or appearance, except for the odd foray into blond hair dye and hair “renewal”. If he grew slightly overweight thanks to too much beer and too many meat pies, it didn’t seem to worry him.

But it seems those days are over.

Since he met and started dating Hurley, he has morphed into an altogether more sophisticated creature.

Gone is the bad dye job and spiky hair. Gone is the pot belly. Gone are the trainers and high-street tracksuits.

These days Warne seems to be styling himself, or being styled, on a cross between James Bond and a Ken doll.

Thanks to the attentions of Hurley he says that he has lost 22lb and feels better than he has in years. He appears to have had his eyebrows reshaped and has even admitted to using moisturising cream, defiantly proclaiming: “Yes, I’m still a man”.

Warne, nosing into middle-age at 41, is a latecomer to the metrosexual party, but he appears to be making up for lost time. For what it’s worth, I’m not sure his look is exactly working for me, but it seems to be working for him and that’s rather more important. After all, he ‘feels better than he has in years’.

But note how this is all ‘at the hands of’ Hurley. How he is ‘being styled on a cross between James Bond and a Ken Doll.’ Hurley in other words is playing dressy-uppy with her new boy toy. Who might proclaim he’s ‘still a man’, but we know he’s been tamed, and spayed and turned all girly by Hurley.

We’ve been here before. A similar sort of thing was said about David Beckham when he married Posh Spice (and not just by Sir Alex Ferguson). The wicked witch had ensnared the fresh-faced Manchester United footballer and then, with the help of her gay chums, had drugged him with hairspray and turned him into the sarong-wearing sissy that paraded in front of the world’s media.

A decade on, I think now most people accept that Becks is the way he is because Becks wants to be the way he is. He chose Posh as much as she chose him — probably because he wanted to be the biggest Spice Girl in the world. If so, he succeeded.

Warne isn’t going to challenge Becks for his metro crown any time soon, but he has obviously decided to prettify himself considerably. So much so that to some retrosexual die-hards it must almost look like a sex change (‘Yes, I’m still a man.’).

But Warne seems to enjoy feeling pretty. Maybe Hurley appealed to him precisely because she knew all the right stylists. So he could become the beautiful metrosexual butterfly the roly-poly cricketer was trying to turn into all along.

Being a blokey bloke isn’t necessarily about being carefree. It can be about caring much too much what other blokey blokes might say. Perhaps this new glamorous, svelte Shane Warne is the ‘real’ one, rather than an inauthentic, Girly-Hurley-confected fake that The Telegraph et al suggest he is.

In the end, contrary to the way the media often likes to present it, metrosexuality isn’t so much about men submissively pleasing women as men pleasing themselves.

Which, it seems, is the scary part.

 

England’s cricketers in snogging shocker!

daily_mirror.jpg

Yesterday’s Daily Mirror, Britain’s second most popular newspaper, and supposedly the ‘progressive’ tab compared to The Sun, carried a special treat for its readers. On the front page of thisfamily paper was a picture of hunky England cricketers Jon Lewis and Jimmy Anderson moving in for a tasty tongue sandwich.

The huge headline shrieked ‘CAUGHT‘ while the tantalising bold strapline below the image announced with historic signficance: ‘England World Cup Cricketers’ night of shame.’

This just gets hotter and hotter! God Bless the British tabs! They really know how to work up a man-love story.

So, pulse quickening, upper lip moistening, I flicked hurriedly to pages 4 and 5 for the ‘AMAZING EXCLUSIVE PICTURES AND FULL STORY’.

STREWTH! Imagine a nation’s disappointment! All the sods offered was a b/w snap of Anderson planting a wet one on Lewis’ cheek and some other snaps of bog-standard drunken lads behaviour, some involving random bimbos. WOT A FLOP!! England’s recent poor peformance on the pitch is as nothing compared to this.

Things were so bad I had to resort to reading the copy:

ENGLAND’s boozed-up cricket stars shamed themselves during an eight-hour bender just 24 hours before their World Cup match against Canada.

Fans watched appalled as Jimmy Anderson, Jon Lewis, Liam Plunkett and Ian Bell downed endless spirits and bottles of Piton beer, shouted and screamed, serenaded tourists and drunkenly kissed each other.

The disgraceful antics led to the four players being fined and Freddie Flintoff – who had to be rescued at sea after capsizing a pedalo – being stripped of the vice-captaincy.

Flintoff said last night: “To my team mates and the England supporters I’m extremely sorry.” Yesterday England put up a feeble performance against Canada, one of the weakest teams in the tournament.

No doubt the ‘feeble performance’ was down to all that snogging one another.

andrewflintoffheadshoulders.jpgFreddie, stripped or not, was not seen in the ‘appalling’ and ‘disgraceful’ antics which most preoccupied The Mirror. Which is a shame, because he looks like a good man-snogger to me.

Whether or not Freddie & Co. deserved to be punished for getting pissed up on a school night I can’t say, but I think the editor of the Mirror should definitely be fined for being such a shameless and ‘appalling’ pricktease.

I’m sure they must have snaps of the England cricketers snogging properly and manfully with tongues and everything, but they didn’t print them. (And if they didn’t snog one another properly then England really is in trouble.) Perhaps they were considered ‘too shocking’ for Mirror readers. But then, the same paper had no problems with printing colour pictures of Madonna implanting an Alien baby in Britney’s chest cavity at the MTV Awards.

Young English straight men can’t stop snogging one another when they get bladdered. It’s one of the main reasons for getting bladdered in the first place. Trust me, I’ve made a study of these things. I have stood in a bar watching rugby teams French kissing one another in a way that puts the heavy petting in gay bars to shame and wondering when I was going to self-combust. I’ve regularly seen battle-hardened squaddies snog one another in pubs in garrison towns, eyes closed, for longer than I can hold my breath, often in front of their bored girlfriends.

Next time, I’m taking pictures of these shameful antics so you too can be appalled.