I don’t need men in my life, despite being one myself
4 November 2026 · first published in The i Paper
I grew up in Newcastle, where men, as the saying goes, were… well, men.
My parents had bike shops, none of them in the most salubrious of areas, which meant the other main feature of the shop, after the huge blue and gold signage, was its security: steel roller shutters, six deadlocks on the front door, eight on the back. It didn’t stop the break-ins, and even as a boy I felt vulnerable.
I learned early to be wary of men and understood which type to watch out for, to avoid. Never the muscle-bound ones; always the wiry, pale men with face tattoos and a wide-eyed stare.
At 12, my newly, and relatively, wealthy parents moved me from the local comp to an all-boys private school, and I felt out of place the moment we lads were separated into “houses”. I found my place closer to the naughty, fighty kids than the quiet, soulful boys, and yet even then I was starkly aware that I fitted in with neither. Between the two, I came away with an odd view of masculinity that has shaped my relationships with men (and women) ever since.