Real men cry. There, I’ve said it. Not only that, but they’re not embarrassed by it. Gone are the days when men would be expected to keep a stiff upper lip and hide their emotions. Gone are the days when I would feel I’d let the side down if I showed any sign of lachrymose vulnerability.
I shed a tear or get moist-eyed about something most days – an emotional scene on TV, reading a sad story in a newspaper, while doomscrolling dog videos on the train home at night. Literally anything will set me off.
A few weeks ago I was watching an Instagram reel on the 22.26 from Charing Cross to Tonbridge when a lady put her hand on my knee and asked if I was alright. Tears had been running down my face while I watched a woman on Instagram talk about her dog that had just died. As a West Ham fan, I cried when I walked out of Upton Park for the last time. I shed a tear watching Theresa May do the same as she departed Downing Street.
I’ve just published my autobiography, and when I was reading the audiobook it struck me how often I mentioned the word “tear” or “cry”. Instead of titling it Have I Said Too Much, I should have called it Tears on my Pillow. Those words occur more than 60 times in the book.
