This is not a superstition,
But in the dissection of male self-image,
As a Christopher,
I face an inordinate amount of competition,
I fucked off to Vienna for a bit,
Enjoying beery-schnitzelly toils,
And before I left I looked like
Chris Bloody Hemsworth;
Now I look like Chris Moyles.
I used to have a jawline to rival Chris Pine’s;
Now I’m just Christopher Walking
To the front of the buffet line.
Sometimes I struggle to feel desirable;
It’s undeniable that I’m quite sizeable
A fact I apply to my recent finding
That pretty much any food
And it’s not like I don’t like
Parts of my body, since I’m stuck with it;
I think my face is nearly perfect
There’s just a bit too much of it
And that sucks a bit,
But the crux of it is that
I quite like looking like a trucker
Who’s a sucker for bargain buckets
So, fuck it!
The best thing about self-love
Is that it hurts exactly no-one –
With the exception of
Those people who hate people
Who enjoy themselves.
And to those cunts I’d like to say:
Oi! Cunts! I enjoy myself!
I enjoy myself at least three times a day.
Contrary to popular belief,
This isn’t all about me.
It’s about a culturally toxic snapshot
Of cure-alls sold in health shops;
The solution to your body
Being the solution to your self-love,
That’s pretty shitty innit?
You can’t get a DATE!
And I’m like: mate.
(Admittedly the last bit is accurate)
But when did polemic become the discourse of the day?
In November, I became an Uncle.
And to my nephew
I aim to imbue
At least one piece of advice:
You’re just fine.
It doesn’t matter
If you get fatter
Or your jeans get a bit tight,
Or if you inherit your father’s
It’s always been more important to be
More generally, to you,
The assembled hoi and polloi,
There’s one final thing to proclaim:
OI! YOU LOT! LOVE YOURSELVES!
I love myself at least three times a day!