Those who failed to catch The Choir of Man at the Theatre Royal during the preceding week missed something genuinely exceptional. I had seen this production on a couple of occasions previously, yet I invariably leave with new perspectives.
For those unaware of this production, it unfolds within a traditional British pub setting called The Jungle, where nine male artists assemble. Through a blend of musical performances, spoken passages, and playful banter, they delve into concepts of camaraderie, solitude, love, and acceptance. The show incorporates works from artists including Queen, The Proclaimers, and Adele, with each character recounting their personal story in a lively fashion characterised by wit, audience participation, some voluntary, and an actual working bar situated on the stage. Yes, that is correct. This particular performance I attended alongside my daughter, Niamh, who obtained the tickets as a Christmas present. It was striking how many familiar faces I noticed among the spectators, many of whom, like me, had previously experienced this production.
What distinguishes this show is not merely the remarkable abilities of its cast or the superb musical arrangements—it is the deep effect it has on one’s inner self through its messages about companionship, acceptance, and human bonds. For me, though, its most noteworthy element lies in its exploration of damaging expectations placed on men. Similarly, I have recently viewed the BBC drama series called Babies. Across six episodes, the programme follows Lisa and Stephen as they endure the heartbreak of multiple pregnancy losses. While ordinary life—with all its subtle intricacies concerning work, relationships, and family—continues around them, this couple must contend with their persistent, profound grief. That serves as the main focus, and what attracted me to the programme. My wife Julie and I did not suffer miscarriage, though we did endure the pain of extended infertility until IVF provided us with our magnificent triplets. Yet Babies contained a secondary theme—much like The Choir of Man—concerned with harmful masculine stereotypes. Stephen comes from an extremely conventional patriarchal family, and his circle of companions share comparable backgrounds. Consequently, when another pregnancy terminates in loss, he finds himself unable to discover appropriate words or locate a sympathetic ear to express his sorrow and heartbreak. His typical response to any enquiry about his wellbeing consists of responses like everything is fine or staying optimistic and progressing. Even when Lisa’s relatives extend their sympathy regarding his loss, he replies with forced levity, jesting about what he might have misplaced—his keys, perhaps his phone—and insisting all is well. Numerous touching scenes portray his desperate longing to confide in his father or closest friend, yet he retreats to the safety of his manufactured positivity.
The notion of toxic masculinity does not mean men are toxic—instead, it describes specific societal expectations encompassing emotional restraint, dominance and control, aggression interpreted as strength, and self-reliance extending to the point of seclusion. Research undertaken during 2025–2026 identified a significant link between toxic masculinity and what researchers call restrictive emotionality, difficulties in expressing feelings. Men who adhere to these standards more readily suppress emotional discussion and experience trouble identifying their own emotions. This leads to shunning assistance, alongside depression, anxiety, and persistent stress, and connects with thoughts of suicide. We are all aware of what the statistics indicate regarding male suicide rates.
None of these traits constitute innate tendencies; they are cultural norms absorbed and reinforced through upbringing, friendships, leisure activities, and occupational settings. We all acknowledge this. Show me a man who does not struggle with his emotions, who wishes to communicate but cannot or will not, or who feels uneasy displaying vulnerability publicly, and I will show you a statue.
Sayings that maintain this harmful mindset include phrases like toughen up, boys don’t cry, handle it like a man, and nobody cares, just cope. Each discourages individuals from seeking help, nurturing friendships, or simply a sympathetic ear. Furthermore, each further secures the lid on the emotional pressure cooker that societal conditioning has taught many men to contain their feelings within, and each places another stone on the path toward mental illness.
The lessons conveyed through storytelling—whether by nine companions in a tavern or a couple facing the devastation of pregnancy loss—are lessons we should all absorb. Disregard others’ expectations concerning how you should behave. Disregard the stiff upper lip and persistent stoicism. Express yourself genuinely, reveal your emotions, and become the compassionate listener you might never have experienced. By releasing these constraints, you might not merely preserve your own mental health or that of another individual—you could save lives.
Graham Bartlett, former police chief for Brighton and Hove, writes the Brighton-based Jo Howe crime series and offers consultation to writers and television productions regarding authentic crime and policing narratives.