Real Men

Mary Malone writes:
Like Bonnie Tyler, sometimes I ask myself, where have all the real men gone? Where are all the strong men? Where are all the good men, the self sacrificing, honourable men who would give up their seat in the life boat for me?
How nice it is, I think, when a man opens a door for me. I know his eyes are fixed on my behind as I walk ahead of him. He only wants to serve me.
Too many men these days justify their selfishness by hiding behind the notion of equality. They justify themselves by claiming that to serve a woman is sexist.
Stupid women let them get away with it.
Amongst the overseer class you are unlikely to find any real men at all. Equality, sexism, diversity and such rot, right on attitudes to justify consuming and being consumed, rights that are enforced by Big Mother are what they consider ethics.
These are the ethics of the emasculated.
This is the morality of the sick, men who have lost their personhood. These are the passive homoerotic values of the overseer class. 
Little better than the overseers are the degraded proletariat, the passive takers of the homoerotic hierarchy.
Real men with true values are only found amongst the peasantry, the self-employed, those who strive for independence.
The true peasant man does not claim, he works.
The true peasant man is not the taker. He gives to his women and his children. He works hard for his woman, protects her anyway he can, serves her like the bull serves the cow!
The true peasant man believes in the virtues of courage, service, charity, hospitality, thankfulness, effort, creativity.
He is not forever looking over his shoulder, categorising according to race or income.
When Franz Fanon went to France as a very young man to help liberate the motherland from the German invader, he was shocked by the indifference of the peasants he had come to save.
A real man does not don a uniform and march up and down on the parade ground and murder some stranger at some other stranger's behest.
A real man is a peasant, a man who sees to his own and knows the joy of ploughing his own furrow.