Yes... I am a man. But a when friend emailed Farrar's note this morning I wasn't all that shocked. The last time this mistake was made it was on a feminist site somewhere, which obviously says something about my natural sensitivity. Or maybe the woman in question didn’t know who Che Guevara is either.
And no, I don't eat granola. I do however eat that Pams-brand muesli stuff from Pak N’ Save because it has very little sugar, and I know what I don’t like. I don’t like too much sugar for example. It makes you fat. And being fat is bad.
OK, so first things first. I am a man. A big man. I am nearly 2 metres tall and weight in at an athletic 90kgs. Except for my gut. Which is not very athletic at all. Unless of course you count the record for holding the most beer. 12 cans of Tui and 6 of Carlsberg Elephant beer on the Tour De Coma at Massey University in 1992.
I fell asleep in Palmie and woke up in my bed in Wellington.
I think the angels may have transported me home, because I don’t remember it myself.
Next, I have all of my own hair up top. So thanks to David Slack for offering to photoshop extra chest hair onto my photo on Island Life to make me seem more manly, but let's not get too carried away.
I also do not have excessive body hair. I have no hair on my back for example, but do sport a very large and at one time painful tattoo from shoulder to shoulder, as befits my status as a intellectuel bogàn.
And, for all those out there who seem to think for some reason that ‘Che’ is a pseudonym, no, you munters.
In 1971 I was called ‘boy’ for 6 months until ‘the man’ made them name me. Pesky damn hippies. They stood around and named me ‘Che’ by consensus.
'Tibby' on the other hand means ‘Ships cat’, and was the name given to one of my ancestors on the crossing to New Zealand in the 1840s. He was the ships boy, and it’s a job I’d never do. Because I am a man. A big man, with big, stinky feet, hands like a lumberjack, a habit of leaving everything I own on the floor, and a passion for Xbox.
But, if you’d prefer to think of me as a woman, well, bloody good on you. It ain’t going to happen, but if it cranks your handle, imagine away.