I’m currently in training.

Some sport, you ask? No.

To lose weight? No.

To improve your chances of pulling females? No.

It’s because this weekend is the monthly meeting of the megalomaniac triad of writers who exercise tyrannous control over the What Men Do Movement.

Dimly, I have a memory of a Previous Life when I used to attend something called a ‘committee meeting’. Tea and cakes were enjoyed, and it provided a pleasant opportunity to resolve any outstanding matters of common interest.

Our meetings are more of a scrum, one without rules, an ugly scene of gladiatorial terror, one which uses pads and pencils instead of swords, supplemented with verbal menaces, some loud and hot, others whispered and of a coldness beyond any known temperature.

To be involved with the hope of coming out of it with your manhood and self respect intact requires a thorough knowledge of the guide, an ability to Play both chess and poker to a reasonably high standard plus the basic blocking skills of karate.

When absolutely necessary you have to be willing to eat humble pie, your previous avowed opinions and any principles by which means you are attempting to live, plus a promise not to return to your previous attempt at cannibalism of the other two.

My opinions have varied as to which of them offers the greater danger though I’m beginning to settle on the quiet one. It’s not that he’s actually quiet, you understand; he’s just quiet-er than the noisy one. He wears loose fitting clothing and never wears socks – ever.

I always wear tight fitting clothing – I like the constant reminder of what’s mine – and I always wear socks except when I’m having a shag. For me, socks and sex don’t go together. If that sounds ridiculous to you, well fine – so I’m a freak.

On the few occasions that it appears, this quiet one has a great smile, though I’d be insane to relax my guard. When it appears I move straight to his eyes. Please don’t remind me about those eyes; I’ve been inside them a couple of times and the potential cruelty I’ve seen, well, I know if I was ever the victim, castration would be a relief.

(Additionally, my throat has warned me it suspects

he has unusually strong hands.)

The other one, he who shouts the loudest and is big with the threats, he always dresses smart. I reckon his T-shirts cost a bob or two and his jeans are even tighter than mine.

The one thing we have in common, sartorially speaking, is that we both wear Speedos at the beach. We both take a medium.

At the commencement of our get-togethers –

I hesitate to bless it with the word meeting – he dispenses with any attempt at a welcome hug and goes straight for the blood. This usually takes the form of a vicious attack on me or the quiet one concerning, say, a rejection of one his proposed blogs, or that he’s been kept out of the loop on some major matter, or that he’s been forced to settle for ‘only’ a phone call, or an email, when a face-to-facer was obviously called for.

Words like ‘conspiracy’, ‘deviousness’, ‘disloyalty’ are much in evidence plus occasionally ‘treachery’ and ‘revenge’. If I’m the one he’s chosen to attack, I defend myself by pointing out he’s spouting utter shit and needs to ‘up’ his shagging.

When he shows indications of appreciating the wisdom of my words I come in quick that we should take a short break whilst I make us some coffee. That usually goes down well.

I’m not always defending my own corner. At least a third of these crude events has me playing a calming Benvolio separating an incensed Tybalt from a recklessly goading Mercutio (Romeo & Juliet, Act III scene 1, if my memory serves).

From time to time when the level of their abuse has reached beyond human level of tolerance I’ve had to restrain myself from poppin em one, just so they’re reminded what kind of guy I am beneath this sweet exterior.

Admittedly they’re bigger, faster and fitter than me, so if it got serious I’d get a hammering. Still, Self Respect is a key element at stake, and what’s a broken nose between friends?

It’s amazing isn’t it, Friendship? Sometimes when I have to sit through some monotonous blather I’m forced to endure elsewhere I wonder how I’d get through it without these monthly encounters with these guys who brings me fully alive. I just love em to bits.