The Boy Can't Help It

 Yesterday, as I was out taking my daily exercise, a sweaty stroll along the Newtownards Road, I discovered something about myself: I'm Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can't Help It. 

It sounds unlikely, but that can be the only explanation to a phenomenon I've noticed in Northern Ireland for many years. If you're not familiar with the 1956 literal jukebox musical, in the opening scenes the unlikely peroxide protagonist bumps and grinds her way down down a New York sidewalk, and all hell breaks loose. A seven year old newspaper-boy wolf whistles. A man unloading a block of ice melts it with his bare hands as she shimmies past, steam rising, water seeping over the tail-gate of his truck. A shaky milkman's pint ejaculates in what John Waters called "the first cinematic money shot". The glasses of an elderly downstairs-neighbor crack even as he looks at Jayne. The men can't help it, she's like a galleon in full sail. They are but seagulls following in her wake. With their tongues hanging out. 

Me, yesterday

And, without blushing, I'm Jayne Mansfield. I didn't ask for this awesome power, nor does it feel like a gift. Yesterday, as I walked down the Newtownards Road - one of the main arterial roads leading into the city from the country - fully five cars beeped, shouted at me, or both, as I innocently strolled down the road. 

A couple of disclosures: the first one didn't count - I knew them. And that's okay. I gave a smile and a wave. The next four were strangers, all men of varying ages, some shouting, some not, one offering a thumbs up for unspecified, disquieting reasons. 

I was a middle-aged man, in jeans and a t-shirt, walking along the street. I don't get the interest. I wasn't even looking my best. Equally, I wasn't looking so abysmal I thought it worthy of comment. I was carrying an envelope, so my walking even had a practical function. It is odd to see anyone of driving age walking anywhere in Belfast. Jogging yes. Accompanied by a canine friend, of course. But out for a walk for the sake of having a walk, no. 

So, what is my magic? I have a limp, which lends me a jaunty gait. But I didn't think it was so pronounced I might cause traffic accidents. I've piled on the pounds, sure, but I'm NOTHING in Belfast, where people eat-takeaways in their cars on a nightly basis. I'm not comically obese - there was no one behind me playing a satirical tuba as I waddled along the pavement, aided by my belly-wheel. 

I'm at a loss. Is it my hair? My glasses? My outrageous t-shirt and jeans combo? What is this siren song I don't know I'm singing, but which dashes feckless White Van Men onto the rocks? It's been happening for over a decade now, and my powers, in this area at least, haven't waned. Is it really that there's a bloke just walking down the street without a dog? Surely not. Surely not.