Growing up, I always looked upon Clint Eastwood as the measure of all that was manly.
Clint didn’t bother with moisturiser or hairstyles. He maybe bathed once a month and the only reason Dirty Harry didn’t sport a grizzly was because he had a job that required he shave.
As a cowboy he could wear a dress and if anyone took the piss he’d bust a bullet through their brains.
His eyes were squinty (in a way, I believe, women found sexy) and his voice was gruff and intimidating. The dangerous eyes and gravel-throat was in no small part due to the massive amounts of tobacco the Man With No Name imbibed, but the threat of lung cancer is meaningless when Lee Van Cleef is gunning for you.
I always aspired to be as masculine as Mr Eastwood, and this morning – for the first time in history – I managed to hand-roll a decent cigarette!
Yes, it’s a big thing. To paraphrase Pinocchio, “I’m a real cowboy now!”
As much as the Marlboro Man might disagree, a pack a smokes is for pussies. Real cowboys smoke rollies.
And until this morning my attempts had been mostly bad and downright ugly, but today Lucy remarked that I’d gotten “pretty good”.
The humble rollie lost some of its coolness due to the general retardedness of stoners – who mumbled and fumbled it away from the gunslinger – but now it’s back in the hands of… well… guys too broke to buy Dunhill from the pub’s cigarette machine.
But the image of the rollie-smoker is set to change from ‘a bit dodgy’ to ‘modern day vaquero’.
The other day while practicing in a pub – a hair’s breadth from perfecting my skill – a little lady leaned over and asked, “Ooh, could you roll me one of those?”
I obliged, and I’m sure the look of disappointment on her face was because when I handed it to her she clocked my wedding band and knew that a Real Cowboy was always faithful to his woman.
Now all that’s left is to buy a pair of shitkickers and learn to ride a horse.
Yeeha!
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